As the saying goes, it was “curiosity that killed the cat,” and it almost killed me in my teenage years. I was climbing a rock-face bare handed, when I came unstuck, crouched
on an uneven sanded ledge beneath an overhanging rock. I was in trouble, and knew it. At first I tried to go back the way I had come, but unable to secure a footing, (and perilous though it was,) I had no choice but to clamber
back on to the ledge. “You need to stay calm,” I kept telling myself, and “find some way of drawing attention to your predicament.” So with great care I removed a shoe, the intention being to drop it
when the next lot of people came clambering over the rocks below. But fortunately, a man some distance out in a boat, spotted that I was in trouble, and managed to get the attention of those on the top of the cliff, and those
who were clambering over the rocks below. Between them, and with no little skill and imagination, I was hauled up between one of the rescuers who had come up from below, and the overhanging rock-face
to safety. Many times in the past I had clambered over those same boulders of rock, that is, until it occurred to me that climbing bare-handed to the top of Ramore Head, would be more interesting; so I did, successfully,
only to be caught out at the second attempt. And fortunately, when it came to the rescue, the overhanging boulder was just below the surface.
Now as to whether or not divine providence played a part in my rescue on this occasion, I have no means of knowing, But, when on holiday in Havana, (Cuba,) the divine intervention was self
evident.
We were on an early morning visit to one of several old fortresses, in this instance, Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, or, (Castle of the Three Kings of Morro). When it came to getting
off the coach, I stepped back, allowing Jenny, who had the inside seat to go first; a gesture that prompted many other passengers to take advantage and scramble off ahead of me, so that by the time I stepped off the coach
quite a little crowd had gathered. Stepping forward, and feeling a hand on my shoulder, I stopped, and looking back, saw Jenny’s outstretched arm; she had her back to me, and was talking to the bus driver, so no words
passed between us; but, the outstretched arm and hand on my shoulder, was sufficient to alert me to the danger: the sun was so bright, and the water clear, and we were parked so close to the waters edge, that without what
seemed like an instinctive action on Jenny’s part, I would have walked over the edge of the causeway. But for me, there was nothing instinctive about it, it was divine intervention: for God, who keeps His word, would
not allow that I should drown in Havana. And the more remarkable the intervention, because Jenny, so to speak, is not, “among the believers.”
Be that as it may, I am 78 and still going, minus my appendix, gall bladder and benefiting from some positive refurbishments: plastic surgery on my nose, triple heart bypass surgery, and
a new lens, and a prosthesis, fitted around the Iris, with the same to follow sometime soon in the other eye. And I have just taken delivery of some sturdy household scaffolding, with variable work platforms, a tools shelf,
and wheels that lock. There is nothing as tiring, or as uncertain as working from a ladder, especially when it comes to trimming hedges on uneven ground. So from here on in, the emphasis is on comfort and safety. But that’s
not all.
Very recently, and somewhat reluctantly, I have come to the conclusion that the time has arrived for a second cull of books, the first occurring when we moved house a few years ago. So the
questions that arise are, What to keep, and what to let go? and Why? And is it possible in this digital age, that I won’t find a home for a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, leather bound and gilded, and for the children’s
18 volume equivalent, in bright red hardback, gilded and catching the eye on the shelf.? Will the parents of Oliver, our recently arrived grandson, (again, in the context of this digital age,) be interested? Or is it a sad
truth that these and many other such items will end up in the recycle bin. But, even before I get going, some things I know will survive: anything that has to do with philosophy, theology, astronomy and mythology, religion,
and evolution; and little of anything from my collection of poets and poetry, will disappear. And of course, when it comes to history and politics, biography and autobiography, each book will have to be considered on its merits,
a task that might be more taxing in the context of things Irish. But here, by way of example, are a few that readily come to mind, and will be staying: Hitler And Stalin: Parallel Lives, by the acclaimed and late historian Alan Bullock. And a no less accomplished biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, by Eberhard Bethge, and the writings of Ernest Hemingway, whose path we trod in Cuba, and lastly a man who, night after night during “the troubles,”
made the same nasal sounds as myself, when reporting from Parliament for the BBC, John Cole, who titled his memoirs, As It Seemed to Me: From Harold Macmillan to John Major. And I am also well disposed to keeping the many, expensive, travel brochures that we have collected over the years.
And lastly, the Children’s Encyclopedia by Arthur Mee, that I purchased, second hand, for reasons of sentiment. It was part of the fabric of home, and will survive the cull. At one period in his life, our father, going literally from door to door, negotiated a sale, and was once heard to remark, that he had never called at a house ashamed of what it was that he represented: for he had both the education and experience in life, to know its worth. Well I purchased it, not because our father sold
it, but because in my formative years the best I could do with it was to look at the pictures; so in today’s parlance, I am, shape aware, having, all those years ago, absorbed so many buildings, sculptures, monuments,
insects, birds, costumes, flags, locomotives ,etc., etc., and the innards of the industrial revolution. And in particular, I readily recall the sculpted image of a man bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, whom I now know, in Greek mythology, was the Titan Atlas. And so in my evolving understanding of the world, and limited though it was, Arthur Mee had a god like status, which brings me nicely to Fleet Street.
I used to work in Fleet Street, for five years to be exact, for Reuters. It was before the printing presses (with much acrimony) were moved out to Wapping. So I know where all the watering
holes used to be: Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, The Cartoonist, and, the Tipperary, all, along with many others, on Fleet Street. And when, for reasons of space, we moved to the London International Press Centre, at the top of Ludgate Hill,
there, in a state of dwarfism beside it, was The Printer's Devil. And when, yet again, we moved back across Fleet Street and beyond to John Carpenter House, in John Carpenter Street, the Ludgate Cellars were close bye.
Understandably, things around Fleet Street are not what they once were; but, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, (that in 1667) was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, is still in business, as is the four hundred year old Tipperary, of which a reviewer, giving it five, (green) stars, recently wrote:
“Great wee pub,
Right in Fleet Street.
This is a proper Irish Pub in the middle of London serving excellent Guinness and Tayto cheese.”
Well, when some time ago I was reading a Biography of Arthur Mee, “writer, journalist, and educator,” I made an unexpected, quirky, but none the less pleasing discovery, that
this great man had worked at his desk, in my very own place of employment - John Carpenter House.
__________
© Cormac E. McCloskey
"among the believers" : the title of a book by VS Naipaul
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