The starter for the quarter mile race is Mr Prendergast, a clergyman beset with doubts. Normally a diffident man, on this occasion he has been to the pub for a glass of whisky, which has revealed a previously hidden exuberance.
‘On your marks … Go,’ says Mr Prendergast and he fires the starting pistol.
‘Clearly,’ observes the author, ‘Tangent was not going to win; he was sitting on the grass crying because he had been wounded in the foot by Mr Prendergast’s bullet.’
‘ ‘First blood to me,’ said Mr Prendergast gleefully.’
Tangent is carried off to the refreshment tent where his foot is found to have been slightly grazed.
Shortly afterwards another mother asks Lady Circumference how her son has fared in the sports.
‘ ‘My boy has been injured in the foot,’ said Lady Circumference.
‘ ‘Dear me! Not badly, I hope? Did he twist his ankle in the jumping?’
‘ ‘No,’ said Lady Circumference, ‘he was shot at by one of the assistant masters. But it is kind of you to enquire.’
I have read it a hundred times but it still makes me laugh. The snobbery. The hauteur. The disdain. The ironic courtesy. It is the sort of line we would all like to deliver but never do, for few of us are Lady Circumference. We don’t quite say what we mean for fear of consequences. We hedge our words, we shrink from honesty. But not all of us and not always. Enter Doug.
Last week I went to see two kids’ shows at the Lyttelton Arts Factory. Between shows was a half-hour break. Like Mr Prendergast I nipped to the pub. Shiraz in hand I wandered into the backyard of the Civil and Naval where I can normally rely on finding someone I know and I found Doug. Doug and I are not intimate but I enjoy his company. He is forthright, life-battered and independent of mind, all of which qualities add up to a man who makes me laugh.
He was sitting with someone who turned out to be something in the visual arts. Within minutes we were arguing about Mondrian. He had the advantage of knowing stuff, but I like to think I was holding my own, though there’s a difference between liking to think and it being true. I certainly didn’t deliver any knock-out one-liners (though I may try to rattle some up for next time. Mondrian is ripe for one-linerdom).
After a while, Mr Visual Arts goes off to the bar to fetch more drink. “So,” I say, turning to Doug who has contributed little to the discussion, “what’s been keeping you busy?”
It’s an anodyne line, an idly baited hook dropped into the waters of conversation just to see what might be about.
Doug went straight for it. “My wife’s lover’s unexpected death,” he said.
Do I need to explain why it’s superb? Do I need to point out how it arouses such interest? Do I need to illustrate how it is disarming? No I don’t think I do. It is so trenchant, fresh, tragicomic. There is almost nothing one can say in reply. And I said it. “Go on,” I said.
