This article is reproduced, with minor changes, from The New Naturalists Book Club newsletter no. 21, January 2004, with the permission of Bob Burrow and the author, John Sykes. The Book Club is run by Mr Robert Burrow at ‘Books and Things’, First Tower, St Helier, Jersey JE2 3LN or telephone 01534 759949, email burrow@itl.net. Club membership costs £5.00 a year, and members receive three or four newsletters a year, with snippets about the series, as well as members’ wants and sales advertisements.
by John Sykes
It was one of those padded November afternoons, cold if you stood still, warm if you took exercise. Heavy, grey clouds lumbered low overhead, and it had seemed like dusk all day: a day for sitting by an open fire with a glass of Hine Antique, flicking desultorily through Grass and Grasslands, and dreaming nostalgically of those idyllic honeymoon days in Swanage reciting chapters of Waders alternately with one’s beloved, as the hot-water bottle struggled to retain its feet.
At 14 St James’s Place the lights too were struggling, struggling to penetrate the smoky atmosphere of the Board Room. Four men were variously engaged in waiting for something to happen. On a large polished table lay scattered a few books in their arresting dust-jackets – The Natural History of Computers by Smith and Markham, Grottoes and Grotto Life, by Alexander Pope, with its foreword by H.H. Swinnerton, who in his youth had been acquainted with the author himself, Blofeld’s Lives of the Saints, and the classic Pond Life by Compton and Edrich.
Of the four men, Huxley was intent on finalizing his Christmas order from his Great Universal Stores mail-order catalogue, while two of the others, Gilmour and Fisher, both had their pipes lit, and were each trying to outdo the other in imitations of the exhaust beat of a Gresley V2-class steam-locomotive. Spasmodically, they discussed the relative merits of Bactrian and Dromedary camel dung in Allbright and Munchausen’s Patent Levantine Shag.
“You know, Fisher,” said Gilmour, “Thesiger tells me that for the best flavour the stuff should strictly be kept in a fresh goat’s bladder for at least three months.”
Before Fisher could reply, a sudden flash of light in the corner of the room caused them to turn round. It was the fourth man, Hosking. There he was, in his tinted goggles, testing grades of magnesium for his next photographic expedition. “Oh bugger!” he cried.
The fifth member of the team was on duty elsewhere. Outside the main entrance Commissionaire Stamp (it was his turn that day) was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had, that very morning, finished writing his fifth book in two months, Tectonic Plates for Lower Form Pupils, and, resplendent in his green buckram uniform and Ellis jacket, was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Billy Collins so that the board meeting could begin. Stamp was rather enjoying himself, for on his transistor radio, which he had placed by the door, the disc-jockey Shakin’ Ed Salisbury was broadcasting a lively selection of Eric Simms’ Greatest Hits, a particular favourite of Stamp’s. In fact, he was still tapping his feet to Simms’ infectious rhythms, when he noticed the familiar tall figure of Collins approaching along the street. But Collins, who generally came alone, was accompanied by a blonde, mysterious and furry lady, who lit up the darkening London street as the awakening sun dispels the dank vapours of the night.
When they reached the entrance steps, Collins was all smiles. “Ah Stamp, so good to see you. Tea and buns in half an hour, old chap?” He slipped Stamp a couple of bob as the latter opened the door for the Glamorous One and Collins himself.
“He’s late again,” said Fisher, interrupting an uneasy quiet that had settled in the room.
“Trying to persuade more of his authors to stop retraining as insurance salesmen,” came Gilmour’s reply.
Suddenly the top sound of high-heeled shoes reverberated from along the corridor. “Collins?!” exclaimed a startled Fisher and Gilmour together. But it was not Billy Collins who strode first through the door. No, surely, it was one of the Shining Ones, an incandescence of pink and silver femininity. Open-mouthed, as if pulled by strings, the editors rose. Hosking, caught on the hop in his goggles, fumbled to remove them as Collins closed the door behind him.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Today I have departed from our usual routine. May I introduce Miss Barbara Cartland?” After an electric hiatus it was Gilmour who grasped the measure of the situation. “THE Barbara Cartland? The Doyenne of Romantic Fiction, the Epitome of the Feminine Force? This is indeed a great honour.” “A great honour,” mumbled the others in humble imitation.
Miss Cartland smiled. “And you must be Mr Gilmour. I have heard so much about you in the best circles.” Collins had meanwhile hung up Miss Cartland’s fur coat on the Guinness Toucan hat-stand and invited her to sit down.
“Gentlemen,” he pronounced, “You all know we have been experiencing a spot of bother finding an author for “Land Molluscs”. And then Dodd disappointed me. He refused to deal with anything but the Knotty Ash subspecies. How lucky, therefore, that last week, behind the W.I. stall at Hemel Hampstead market, I encountered Miss Cartland here. I mentioned my predicament, and at once she offered to jump into the breach. Isn’t that so, Miss Cartland?”
“Why yes, Billy darling. To put it bluntly, gentlemen, you need me. My books sell by the million, and you have print-runs of – what? – three or four thousand? It is clear,” – and here she smiled enigmatically at Gilmour – “you need a boost, and that means a new approach. I don’t think even Billy here can see all the possibilities. You lack the human touch – too many facts, facts, facts, and not enough Truth. Cut out the facts, and let the romance flow. Let me show you what I mean.”
Whereupon Miss Cartland took up her voluminous pink-chiffon handbag, opened the gold leopard clasps, and, from among the essentials of a practising Romantic novelist – pots of mascara, pointing trowels and a full set of Harris brushes – drew out what appeared to be a most sumptuous box of chocolates. “Here is your future, gentlemen. Bound by Bayntun in full pink contemporary morocco, stamped on the front in gilt with hearts and cherubs blowing celestial trumpets: this book will sell. It is, I’m afraid, goodbye to buckram.”
Her voice was exultant. Turning to the spine, she read out the crisp gold title lettering: “Slugs and Snails” by Barbara Cartland. Then, deftly undoing the charming pink bow with which the volume was loosely tied, she opened it and read the dedication: “To Billy, with a thousand kisses”.
Collins blushed; but, unable to contain his pleasure, exclaimed: “Why, Babsy, I mean Miss Cartland, it’s stunning! But I only asked for a specimen chapter and a list of contents!”.
“With me, Billy darling, you get the whole thing,” she drawled languorously. “It never takes me more than a week to finish a book.” “Even Stamp’s not that quick,” whispered Hosking to a dazed Fisher.
Miss Cartland handed the volume to Collins, who turned the book over in his hands to catch the angle of the light. He was about to open it, when there was a knock at the door. A clattering of cups, saucers and spoons heralded the appearance of Stamp with the refreshments. “Assam today,” he announced, “with a little Bactrian for Fisher.” As he put the tray down, he noticed The Shining One and stared.
“Ah, Stamp. Splendid!” said Collins. “This is Miss Barbara Cartland, our famous novelist. Miss Cartland, this is Stamp.
“Oh, but I haven’t a spare c-cup,” stuttered Stamp.
“Don’t worry, old chap,” came Gilmour’s calming voice. “Miss Cartland can have mine.” With that, Gilmour, transfigured, gazed serenely at Miss Cartland, as if contemplating an early Italian Madonna.
Stamp poured. “Sugar, Miss Cartland?”
“Thank you.”
“Bun, Miss Cartland?”
“Why certainly, Stamp! I like a good confection.”
“When we’ve had our buns,” resumed Collins, “I shall ask our guest to read us an extract from her wonderful book.”
It was when Fisher turned away from the others to wipe some cream off his glasses that he looked up and noticed there seemed to be something slightly different about the grand portrait behind him on the wall. The painting, by an unknown artist, of Gilberto Bianco di Venderenato, the great Italian diarist and basso profundo, had had to be cleaned the previous year after Gilmour, conjecturing a resemblance to Friedrich Nietzsche, had pencilled in a most opulent moustache. To Fisher now, the features of the face appeared to have hardened to an expression of utter disapproval. Putting it down to the dazzle from The Shining One’s tiara, he resumed his position as Miss Cartland began her reading.
When Miss Cartland had finished and replaced the book in her bag, the Board stood up as one and cheered. For three solid minutes they cheered. “This is it,” shouted Huxley. “This is the future. Miss Cartland, you have made an ageing man very happy. You are sublime!”
You could not, at that instant, have wiped the victorious smile from Billy Collins’ face.
However, in this moment of intoxicating fervour and ecstatic anticipation, there occurred the catastrophic incident that was destined to rob natural history publishing of its most significant development in modern times.
In the confusion that inevitably followed the explosion, the details have, regrettably, become somewhat blurred. It has, nevertheless, been established that Hosking, as he withdrew from his pocket a handkerchief to dry the tears of joy steaming from his remaining eye, neglected to remember that this same handkerchief was holding one of his more virulent grades of magnesium. Inadvertently, he spilled the said substance on to Fisher’s smouldering pipe, which the latter had placed on the table so as to be better able to voice his adulation. One can only be appalled at the consequences of this perilous juxtaposition. Fisher’s Patent Levantine Shag, notorious in smoking circles for its fearsome unpredictability, must have reacted with the magnesium with such deafening ferocity that Miss Cartland’s handbag, cosmetically inflammable as it was, itself was ignited and exploded with horrifying suddenness.
Fortunately, the Board was given just enough time to duck under the table, which received the full force of the blast but afforded sufficient defence against the ensuing shrapnel from Miss Cartland’s exploding accoutrement. Lipstick, mascara, nail-varnish flew everywhere. It was mayhem. Miss Cartland herself, unaccustomed to such behaviour in a boardroom of such standing, was taken completely by surprise. Though shaken and somewhat coloured by the blast, damage to her person was superficial, due in the main to her unparalleled understanding of cosmetic protection. This, and the exemplary presence of mind of the ever-practical Stamp, who administered on-the-spot treatment in the shape of a good washing-down with cold tea and application of several poultices fabricated ex-tempore from unconsumed cream buns, undoubtedly saved Miss Cartland from lasting physical damage.
When the dust had settled, the worst aspect of the catastrophe came to light: the pink manuscript was no more, save for a few shreds of ribbon on the ceiling and a noticeable smell of burnt sugar pervading the room.
Eventually Miss Cartland gathered herself together sufficiently to address the Board. It is unnecessary to add that she was beside herself.
“…and puppy dogs’ tails!” she snorted. “Never again!”
“Stamp,” sighed Collins, “I think you’d better escort Miss Cartland and call a cab.”
And that was the last the Board ever saw of Miss Barbara Cartland, the Queen of Romantic Fiction.
It may be of interest to some of our readers to know, that years later, after John Gilmour passed away, among his effects was found a tantalising glimpse of what might-have-been. Inside his own copy of “Fossils” there was discovered a pretty pink envelope with a still discernible fragrance of lavender, enclosing two pieces of charred typewritten script. Considering the nature and condition of the material, Gilmour must, it is supposed, have come across it in the debris following the disastrous meeting with Miss Cartland. He had kept and cherished them all these years! I am sure you will agree with me that they constitute two of the most intriguing fragments in the whole of literature and are, in my considered opinion, comparable in quality to the wisps of beauty contained in the few fragments of Sappho’s Odes that have come down to us.
I append the pieces here. In the first, we are blessed indeed to have the page of contents itself.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
| Introduction | p.1 | |
| 1 | A Downtrodden Race? | p.6 |
| 2 | A Question of Breeding: Mollusc Society | p.8 |
| 3. | Famous Molluscs of History | p.15 |
| 4. | Slugs and Snails in Our Great Poets | p.16 |
| 5. | Climate and the British Slug | p.17 |
| 6. | The Slime Factor | p.18 |
| 7. | Snails as Aphrodisiacs | p.19 |
| 8. | From Victual to Romance | p.25 |
| 9. | Courtship and Marriage: The Hermaphrodite Fallacy | p.26 |
| 10. | Competitive Velocity | p.387 |
| 11. | The Enemies of the Nation | p.391 |
| 12. | Appendix: The Value of Honey | p.403 |
| Bibliography | not applicable | |
| Index | not applicable |
The second fragment, from page 381, gives us an unmistakable vision of the depth of knowledge and passion that Miss Cartland brought to bear on her subject.
…dismissed her devoted retainers in their gold lamé tunics and slithered over to where the Marquis was waiting.
“We are alone at last,” she said softly, as a frisson of expectancy rippled through her body. She knew from Archie’s trembling antennae that he felt the same.
“Oh, Serena, my own dear slug, how happy I am that the tumult of the day is over.”
“Yes, the nuptial banquet laid on by His Royal Highness the Prince of Snails was exquisite. The hostas, especially, were divine!”
The red sun had set, but still diffused the thin lines of cloud with pink, apricot and gold. Soon Leo and Virgo would be visible in the southern sky. Serena Slug could not have been happier.
“Look,” said the Marquis, pointing. “As far as the eye can see is the Molluscia Estate, and now it is all yours to share! Over there is where my mother laid me as an egg, and yonder the Little Gem lettuces that were the delight of my youth.” Suddenly he shuddered: he had seen the spot where the hateful Harry Hedgehog had dined on his poor brothers and sisters, one damp summer morning.
Archie kissed her. Serena, the new Marchioness of Molluscia, felt an intense awareness of life in its fullness invade her whole being, the yearning ache of mollusc desire surging through her body like an uncontrollable fire, passion churning inside her. At last she would give herself to her mollusc master, Archie, the Fifth Marquis of Molluscia. As she lay enraptured, their eyes met.
“Oh Serena,” he gasped.
“Oh Archie,” she groaned.
Then, slowly and masterfully, Archie raised his…
Here, unfortunately, the fragment breaks off, but what instantly impresses is the dynamic style, which New Naturalist titles have ever since been endeavouring to recapture, as yet unsuccessfully in my view. It is indeed true that certain passages in “British Warblers” and “The Soil” remind one strongly of Miss Cartland’s heady style and voluptuous language, but it must be deplored that nothing since has been totally free from a stolid factuality and a reprehensible absence of romantic interest.
Yes, with what abject misery we must lament the destruction of that Great Pink Book, an achievement that, had it withstood the assault of magnesium and Levantine Shag, would surely have raised the reputation of its author to a level equal with, if not indeed higher than, the very greatest of the Ancients.
And so I end this chronicle with a plea: a plea for a stylish writer with a love of Romance and a naturalist’s bent to step forward and help re-shape our beloved series. Is there anybody out there?