When the dwarfs appear everything is at an end. All you ever fixed. The lot. All gone. On the Thursday night they are there. The process of rapid disintegration then follows. Until that point problems do not exist. Problems? what are they at all! no such things. Afterwards there is nothing else.
Dwarfs never have anything fixed, plans have not been laid down, there are no “eventualities.” They have nothing whatsoever. Yet they come and they take over. And they look at each other as though joined at the nose, while the feet are being cawed from the very ground you walk on. Nothing can remain the same. Tents will have started collapsing. Those previously occupied are mysteriously empty. Dustbins have been overspilling their contents into the long grass. Television sets explode without causal explanation. And the swimming pool is become infested by insects and wee dods of animal shite. Moles. Moles are burrowing beneath groundsheets apparently. All the things, they all stop working. Continual reports of blocked toilet bowls and sinks; and a pile of pots has been found behind the kitchen area, these pots used to be fine but are now food-encrusted beyond repair; and the smells, all the smells, now encroaching throughout the walking area. And into this same walking area come farm animals, bleating. And the site shop seems to have ceased trading: the wee woman from the village no longer arrives first thing in the morning—that great wee woman who always gave you the cheery nod and allowed you the couple of grocery items plus tobacco on tick till wagesday no problem if the coast was clear.
All gone. All of it.
Yet though holidaymakers may grumble the dwarfs will remain silent. Dwarfs dont grumble. They just smile, are humble, are thoughtful to others. They go dashing around endeavoring to help, ostensibly existing for your especial convenience whereas the reality: you are being set fair for a corner wherein the possibility of laying down your life is advancing. Do not believe in their smile. It is not happy-go-lucky. They have arrived in the pub on Thursday evening because tomorrow you get your wages. When first you bear witness to the voices your puzzled but immediate response is to fuck off home to the tent. This you will not do, having some vague notion that by remaining aloof you must influence events; thus you stand there, awaiting the barman, gradually becoming aware that a cloud of staggering proportions has settled above your head. It is all over. Chance could have reaped a future as secure as this. Aye, of course your defenses were down. A Thursday evening. You are tired out, just managed to tap Pierre for the price of a couple of pints, enough to see you through the evening in a quiet way.
With determined nonchalance you will carry your pint to the domino table to sit on the fringe of the onlookers. But the nodded greeting to such as Emil or Jaques was perfunctory, you are totally preoccupied by something you arent quite able to grasp. Then you are amazed to realize that some sort of inflection of the voices at the bar was giving you to understand that you were supposed to be charging across the room crying: Welcome dwarfs welcome! It is incredible. You lean forwards, place your pint on the ledge beneath the table, rest your elbows on your knees, attempting to devote your complete attention to the game of dominoes. But this is not the weekend, it is Thursday evening and the bar is not full to bursting with exuberant holidaymakers. Voices echo. The dwarfs know fine well you can hear them. It is what they intend. They intend that you hear them, that their voices can and must be heard. At this stage you are not quite admitting your quandary and are willing to indulge in such internal asides as: Am I hearing things! hoping against hope that the consequent ironic smile about your mouth will be noticed. But so what if it is? And why are you in this position in the first place? Is there anybody there to answer such questions? How come you are having to ask them? What the fuck is it? What is going on? Maybe you are hearing things after all. Thursday night, you’ve been tired out, too knackered even to cook yourself a proper meal, you just washed and came straight down the pub; maybe you’re fucking hallucinating. No matter, for by this time you are unable to contain the pressure—your belly, it has been churning—the beer giving you heartburn, the tobacco maybe, burning your lips and causing that dryness in the mouth and you’re having to tighten your lips and close your eyelids, trying to suppress the rage. It is rage; you are raging, you have lifted your pint but your hand is shaking and you slam the pint glass down onto the table and jump to your feet and go marching across to deliver the most bitter diatribe ever heard in the pub. But the dwarfs are just sitting there, occasionally drawing their noses together. Are they naive? Is that all it is? How can you tell? You cannot tell. There is no surefire way of knowing. And you are sitting at their table. Here you are on a chair adjacent to theirs. And the questions are coming at you from all angles and if you dont put a stop immediately you are seconds away from giving a moment by moment account of all, all the things. Those pauses occurring in the conversation. Aye, you were about to speak. You must be alert, you have to sit there saying nothing, turning pauses into longer pauses. Or questions into questions: you can turn questions into questions. Tax them on their existence, on their experience, their expectations—above all else their expectations. What precisely is it they are demanding of you? What is it that you are to be having done? Well for starters: consider the things you never classed as problems because of your studied attention to possible eventualities—the things you classified under the banner “impossible.” Not only have the dwarfs encountered such things as problems, they have surmounted them. Apparently without having realized it. They havent even realized those things were problems, they just fucking went ahead and got beyond them. And they are gaping at you, at your irritation. They have no comprehension of its cause, and will look to each other as though joined at the nose. Meanwhile you do not feel a mug. Somehow you are given to understand that you yourself are the one individual present who genuinely is aware of the central ins and outs. Only you know the truth, that you are a fucking mug, that you have never known anything, nothing, nothing whatsoever. It is odd. You will sit for a moment, gazing into space, then jump up and rush to the domino table to collect your pint and your tobacco and matches, and back with the dwarfs you… Back with the dwarfs? Aye, exactly, of your own volition. It really is fucking incredible. You will look at them for signs of guilt but why should diere be? Do they have cause for guilt? It was you returned to sit beside them. You stare at them, and discover that the pint you are holding contains a fresh quantity of beer; it’s not the same pint at all—you swallowed the remains of your first in a gulp and the dwarfs have bought you a new one. There is no deceit. Everything is out in the open and being accomplished fairly. They are actually insisting that they dont want a drink in return. They dont want one. They maybe know you are skint because it’s a Thursday evening and are quite rightly opposed to you letting yourself in for taking favors from the barman. He’s a taciturn old bastard and you hate having to ask for credit even though it’s in his own interest, which is why you prefer tapping Pierre although it means that extra 20 percent on the loan, but there you are, and across at the bar a few folk are waiting to be served—unusual in itself considering the day of the week it is—which makes it difficult to signal the old cunt and when finally you do he comes over and will make it necessary to raise your voice so that almost every customer in the fucking place is now aware you’ve been asking for tick, and for that reason alone you’re somehow obliged to add to your order at the last minute; you call for whiskies as well as the beer. Now obviously the dwarfs didnt want any fucking whisky and neither did you and there is no satisfactory explanation as to why you will have done it, but you will have fucking done it and that’s that. Down on the table you thrust the drinks, right under the dwarfs’ noses, not able to say a word. If you so much as glance at them you will end up having to punch them, you will kick fuck out them, you will smash a bottle across their bastarn skulls. What you do is settle on your chair and stare at the whisky, eventually shuddering in anticipation of that horrible boke ahead, when the first drop of whisky hits at your tastebuds, all the time knowing how the dwarfs will gulp at theirs and express an honest relish of the flavor. Moments later you have invited them back to the site.
The possibility of spare tents. Who was mentioning that in an absentminded manner? The very question must send you into a reverie on the nature of dualism. Meanwhile, the dwarfs are trying to stop themselves bounding up and down on their chairs. Their studied, unclamorous display of thanks cannot be properly described. Yet you will recognize its truth. The dwarfs mean no harm. Nor is there any side to them. They make their feelings manifest in the only way they know. You attempt to lay the blame on their shoulders but know fine well that it is all down to you. It is a total waste of time. It is a fraud. Everything is a fraud. Every last thing is a fraud. And on you go for the next few minutes inventing different ways of saying the same thing, till finally your head develops its own release and suddenly the noises of the pub bring you back to reality: you leap up off your chair and shout it is time to be going! if you dont leave at once the tents must no longer be available! The dwarfs will look at each other behind your back, indicating the drinks on the table and whether they swallow what remains or not can never be known for you are already outside the door, gasping at die fresh air, clawing for the stillness of the evening, those quiet, distant sounds of the countryside after dusk.
The doors bang open, and click shut; the dwarfs are beside you, waiting in silence, gazing over the fields in the direction of the site, enjoying the scene, its tranquillity. Now you will tell them the tent can be theirs for one night and one night only because as far as authority is concerned yours is less than fuck all if truth be told and you are really only doing this as a favor for some reason or another you’re not quite sure except that you cannot take any chances because the camping site proprietor is a funny kind of cunt who takes instant dislikes to people for no apparent reason. And come morning they must bolt the course at all costs—either that or they’ll have to seek an interview with the man himself because you’ll have nothing more to do with it. Sorry, but that’s that. You carry on talking like this, any kind of rubbish will do, just so long as it offers the slim possibility of them deciding against the site. And without warning you march off down the lane, clattering your boots to keep from hearing their footsteps behind you. And what about their fucking goods and chattels you’re thinking. Surely they’ve fucking brought somediing with them! Are they just going to come straight down the lane after you without even having to stop off and collect a bundle of suitcases from beneath a fucking bush! What is it with these dwarfs you’re thinking. What in the name of christ is it all about? The went-befores! This is what you’re looking for. But there arent any went-befores. Nor is it a simple matter of faith in you as the kind of total stranger who doesnt mind putting oneself about on behalf of a fellow human being. Not at all. What is it then? Fuck knows, you dont have an earthly. Maybe they are Christians you think, who can tell with dwarfs. And then, as though wafting on the breeze one matter-of-fact voice is remarking to another on some remote question such as the itness of the stars and since you will have come in at the end and not really heard you’ll toss out some sort of daft comment such as the funny thing about stars is you never hear anybody remarking on them in a specific sense but only as some kind of vaguely collective unity viz O look at the stars—but never O look at that particular star up there to the right-hand side of the bastarn moon. And then the reply, the reply you receive. Have you never heard of the Pole? Or the Plowe? What about the Plowe? The Plowe by christ! But you have been so tightly, so tightly, so—knotted, so tightly knotted up inside that you havent a fucking clue about the Plowe at all until they spell it out as p-1-o-u-g-h and then you remember all about the fucking thing but in so exasperated a fashion you will demand to know why it is called the sPlough and not just plain ordinary plough plural since there is a fucking cluster of the bastards—jesus christ you’re shouting why do they not simply say there’s Plough instead of fucking the Plough. And before you know where you are you’re off and charging home to the tent. Home to the tent. What a fraud. This tent was never home. You only labeled it home for some fanciful notion you had about watering holes and final resting places. In fact, this tent in which you are currently dwelling is situated on a camping site you have yet to admit is falling down about your ears. Aye, precisely, the camping site has been disintegrating: you were ignoring it, probably hoping the problem would go away. But the very presence of the dwarfs is enough to establish the reality. And for some reason you will now go off at a tangent, raving at the dwarfs on the subject of necessities; of the need to keep tents clean, of not smoking under canvas, of rolling up one’s walls in the morning to let in the fresh air because everybody knows there’s nothing worse than stuffy tents at the height of summer. Not so bad if you are on your tod as the likes of yourself but hopeless when there’s more than one sharing. And what about the needs of the third party. On a camping site a great many people live and all it requires is one bad apple and the whole place takes a nosedive. Consider for example tidiness: it isnt a question of being fucking neat, it all has to do with hygiene. If you forget to clean your fucking pots and pans you wind up getting mice and rats and christ knows what else. The same applies to the swimming pool. You go walking about all day in the middle of fields in your bare feet and then jump in for a swim and what happens? fucking obvious. And holidaymaking weans just run about here, there and everywhere, and there’s no point telling the parents cause they just fucking look at you, and the same applies to chucking food away into the long grass, as if it’s going to disappear. That is the kind of thing that happens. This is why you have to be tidy. The chores must be done. It is necessary. You glance at the dwarfs to see whether they are appreciating the point. They will be walking beside you—not exactly parallel because they dont like being forward, a couple of steps to the rear they will be. And they pause significantly while you unbolt the fence into the walking area. At this point you know you’ve been talking a load of rubbish. They will enjoy doing the chores. Chores shall be done without a grumble. It isnt that dwarfs enjoy chores. In fact they do not do chores because chores do not exist. Chores? what are they at all! They just see themselves as performing a lot of wee actions. They perform this list of wee actions they see as necessary if ever they are to become fully fledged campers. Jesus christ. And now you glimpse your tent, away to the rear of the field, where you had figured isolation a certainty until the day the first holidaymaking family had arrived and pitched their tent next door, under the misapprehension some sort of prearranged order had been given. Behind you the hinges of the gate creak as the dwarfs footer around, letting you hear that they are well up on country matters and are bolting the lock on the fucking fence. The door of the Lathes Washroom opens and out steps a mum. She will be a young mum and this is the end of her second week, she leaves on Saturday morning. She always wears a thin summer dress and goes about barelegged and has taken on a great tan while her husband has remained a peely wally white no matter how often he lies out in the sun on that inflatable rubber mattress. And even so, the most she has ever given you is a nodded good morning or good evening without once saying hello. And here she is bestowing a beaming smile on the dwarfs and all they do is grin idiotically. There’s no fucking point any longer. You pause a minute in case she thinks you’re following her and then wave your arm in the direction of the tents, before leaving the dwarfs to take their pick. And you walk by a roundabout path to your own tent, knowing that come a certain stage they should be unable to see you in the dark. And even if you’re fucking luminous, so what? The dwarfs have arrived and there are empty tents, the game is up. Your part is at an end. From hereon you have become redundant. You are no longer required. They see that you have no authority. They must do as they please, they can come or go and stay or leave. What they do has become their own affair. Aw jesus you think, they’re off my back at last; and inside the tent you bury yourself beneath a pile of blankets and just manage to set the alarm before falling completely asleep. It is Thursday night after all, and you’ve been tired out, up since half five in the morning and out working a 12-hour shift in the fields. Not even the dwarfs can keep you awake.
The next day is very strange indeed. Unfathomable matters are somehow in motion. Things are taking place slightly beyond arm’s reach. It is funny. Out in the field you are smiling to yourself quite frequently. It is no surprise to discover you have had a bad morning. The frenchmen are frowning; you arent picking your fair share of the crop. But there again, your back and shoulders are more knackered than usual and once you’ve had your dinner you’ll make it all up in the afternoon session. But you will find yourself lagging behind yet again. You were in a reverie. What the hell was it about? You cannot remember; it is all hazy, something to do with green fields and blue skies and walking down to a sandy beach, arm in arm with a young woman dressed in a summer dress, a bikini on underneath. Now that you dwell on it you vaguely recollect having listened in on the conversation you both were having. What was it about? It was probably important. Up ahead the lorry has arrived and the frenchmen are carrying the crop across to it—Emil and Jaques are already there and loading. Normally you would be there also. You like to be first and to be seen doing the heavy work. Fuck it you’re thinking, you cannot be bothered today. Yet this is Friday. Glorious Friday. Of all the days this is the day, the one you get weighed in with the wages and see yourself fixed for another week. Even forming the words makes it seem ridiculous. Your trouble is you’re a dreamer. You have been carrying on as though things are remaining the same. But even in the act of admitting this to yourself you are aware of the smile lurking about your mouth. The truth is you dont fucking care, you arent really bothering. If you were bothering why are you here when you could be home guarding your interests? The farmer would have given you the day off if you had asked. In fact, you preferred to come in and spend the day picking spuds; you knew it would allow your brain to take off, it would allow you the opportunity of ignoring the dwarfs—an opportunity which you werent slow to accept. Ah well you’re thinking, that’s it all fucking finished now, and thank christ for that. Aye, precisely, that’s what you are thinking at this very point. You will be doing nothing whatsoever. You will be stuck in the middle of a field doing nothing whatsoever. Meanwhile the frenchmen are nudging each other and wondering what is going on. And meanwhile the dwarfs are on the camping site wreaking their own particular form of havoc. A group of holidaymaking dads is discussing the dreadful condition of the place, the dreadful amenities being offered, the dreadful state of the swimming pool into which their weans are plunging, these bastarn television sets always conking out; supposedly sturdy tents that keep collapsing, a plague of moles and field mice and all the litter abounding among the long grass and hedges surrounding the cooking area. On and on it goes, their list, lengthening; the whole fucking site is a shambles. In the background the dwarfs are nodding deferentially because they are somehow linking you with the carry-on and doing their best to stick up for you, they dont fucking realize you arent the fucking proprietor and it doesnt have anything to do with you in the first place except insofar as you were attempting to be a permanent resident, you were referring to the dump as home, charging around with your head stuck in the grass, lapsing into reveries connected with watering holes and final resting places, while all about you things were disintegrating. The dwarfs were only a reply. And yet, you will say, if they hadnt arrived it wouldnt be happening. They are to blame. While you were at work they’ve been charging around the site sowing seeds of discontent among the holidaymakers. Not by intention—granted, there is no malice, okay, you can accept that but still and all, still and all: they have come and they’ve taken over. They did not know what they were doing. They probably thought they were just being polite when chatting to the dads about the semi-detached villa on the outskirts of Burnley. They couldnt comprehend that this would result in a dialogue, that the holidaymaking parents would wind up getting together, comparing notes on their so-called camping site and its so-called amenities which are rubbish when you consider what is being offered across on the west coast at little or no difference in cost.
And now you are aware of why you have not been working properly this morning. Even your reveries were fraudulent. It was always there; you were always thinking about it—your thinking was just at so deeply set-back a stage that you werent aware of it. This is why you lagged behind the frenchmen, the gaffer frowning at you, wondering if you really are up to it after all. You haven’t enjoyed the morning. Normally a Friday is good but today has been terrible, you are suffering; and meanwhile a deputation is being formed by the holidaymaking mums and dads, to march right in and confront the camping site proprietor first thing tomorrow morning. And this camping site proprietor … Camping site proprietor! what a joke. Because he owns a camping site he gets labeled that. He knows next to nothing about camping sites. The whole kit and caboodle would have collapsed weeks ago if you hadnt been dropping hints via the wee woman from the village—between the two of you you kept it going. And now she’s fucked off and left you to it. But what more could be done you’re saying, what more could be done!
That is for you to say. But you will be aware of a peculiar diffidence on the part of the farmer when collecting your wages later. He seems not to want to look at you. And the frenchmen hang back, waiting for you to leave before going to collect theirs, as though they dont want to be tainted by the bad luck surrounding you. Well, maybe that’s a bit strong but such an inference could be drawn. And your face will be red; you’ll want to walk off immediately, preferably without comment although you’ll attempt a matter-of-fact cheerio, before strolling to the side of the barn for a quick wash at the outside tap. You have decided against returning to the site; you’re heading straight for the pub. Fuck it you’re thinking, I feel like a drink. And the way you’ve been suffering you’re entitled to one. The fucking dwarfs! You smile to yourself, amazing how they can come and just take over! Funny. Just when you think you’ve got everything fixed, then bang, finished, all gone, all of it.
You have been walking now. You have been walking for quite a while. You have walked way beyond the pub; a car whizzed by, and as its sound decreased you became aware of it and thus of yourself there, way beyond the pub, you were walking, just walking. Now here you are. What will you do? will you go back to the pub or continue walking; you could be in town in another half hour—even less should a bus appear; on this part of the island buses appear infrequently but more often on Friday nights and the weekend; or you could thumb a lift, or just walk the whole way. It is a nice day, a nice day for walking; also the kind of day you enjoy being on the site, having returned home from work and cooking a few spuds, lazily, not bothering too much; the cries of the weans from the swimming pool and the play area, the holidaymaking parents sitting outside their tents relaxing after the evening meal, music quietly in the background, from the radio or cassette recorder: Friday night. And you will return to the pub; you still have to weigh in Pierre with the couple of quid you borrowed. And anyway, you arent really dressed for town, still being in the working togs—different if you had gone home first and had a decent wash and shave and so on. In fact, this carry-on about going into town, it is familiar. You have been meaning to go into town much more often.
You pause, keeping in to the side of the road as a pair of cyclists pass, then you take out your tobacco and sit on the grass by the side of the ditch. Aye, you were meaning to go into town more often. Just the time it takes, getting back to the site and washing and eating and getting yourself ready and then having to hoof it down the lane to the junction and wait for a bus, usually finding you had just missed one or something, so you nearly always stepped across the road and into the pub. It was handy—too handy! You smile wryly; you stop it at once, rising immediately and striding back to the pub. But it is annoying you’re thinking, this not making it into town more often. You’ll need to make more of an effort in future. The local’s all very well but a change is as good as a rest and so on. Seeing the same old faces all the time—especially that cunt of a barman who seems in the wrong job altogether. What is it with him at all the way he serves people? If he doesnt like serving people how come he works in a fucking pub! that superior smile on his face all the time. No wonder you … Jesus christ, that couple of quid you borrowed off him. But it wasnt off him you borrowed it, it was the brewery; he just makes you feel that way, that’s why you hate getting tick in the place. Fucking dwarfs. Fucking bastarn dwarfs, those fucking bastarn dwarfs coming here by christ you’re fucking sick of them. Wee bastards. What is it with them? the way they look at each other all the time, christ—incredible, it really is incredible, the way they come and just take over. And they’re probably out looking for you right now you’re thinking. Of course they are. It’s because they are loyal and thoughtful to others. They want to advise you of the goings-on up by at the site. It isnt a question of them not wanting you to think they’re working behind your back because that never occurs to them because they arent, they are entirely above-board and out in the open. They want to fill you in on what has been happening. Amazing they’ll say, these poor holidaymakers, we never knew it was as bad as it is, really dreadful, Tommy Jackson—he’s from Burnley you know, a nice fellow, lovely wife he’s got and a couple of smashing weans—he was telling us about the amenities, really fucking dreadful so they are, did you know? Did you know! what a joke. What a fucking joke. No you say, I didnt. And they look at each other as though joined at the nose. They are standing by where you are sitting; they have their pints in their hands. One of the holidaymaking dads realized they were skint and offered them a couple of quid till they landed their first job. They didnt ask. And one of the holidaymaking mums has been feeding them all day—after the chores they’ve been getting through she thought they deserved it. They were really going at it hammer and tongs, you should’ve seen them, charging about here, there and everywhere cleaning up the site, mending fuses and getting all sorts of insects out the swimming pool. They even fixed an appointment with the fucking camping site proprietor for tomorrow morning’s deputation. Aye, they just marched right up to the door and chapped it, and the cunt answered. According to rumor he’s about to offer them the job of running the site shop but they will refuse; they’d prefer the wee woman to return and unless he’s any objections they’re going to charge down to the village first thing Monday morning and drag her back if need be. And they seem hopeful; they reckon she must listen to reason. And you know fine well she will listen to reason; not only that but she’ll invite them in for their fucking breakfast. It really is funny. In some ways you have to admire them. Do they have something special? What is it they’ve got? because they’ve definitely got something. There’s Pierre telling a couple of the frenchmen to squeeze up so the dwarfs can sit down next to you and be able to watch the dominoes. And they do want to watch the dominoes. They’re trying not to seem too keen in case you’re offended but back where they come from they used to play the game regularly and aye, when somebody asks if they want to sit in, aye, they will, if nobody’s got any objections.
You have to hand it to the wee bastards. You shake your head, smiling. In fact you’d probably quite like them if you werent so fucking … so fucking—so fucking what? You are frowning; you glance sideways. There they are there right beside you, taking the spectators’ part in the game as energetically as any of the frenchmen, grinning and yapping and gesticulating away, and now smiling at you because you smiled at them but they dont really realize you are smiling at them, they probably think you’re just glad to be alive. And two of the holidaymaking dads have entered and are trying to attract the dwarfs’ attention—Billy and Dan, they’re supposed to be meeting the dwarfs for a pint but now when they spot them here with the locals they feel a bit sheepish and dont want to be pushy although at the same time they’re secretly proud to know them. In a couple of minutes one of them’ll arrive with the pints he has bought them; he’ll walk with determined nonchalance to place them on the shelf beneath the domino table and pause a moment, to study the game. Then, after a decent interval, a dwarf will glance upwards and say: Ta, and return his attention to the next domino being played. Then almost at once he will say: O—how’s your wee boy? is his knee any better? This wee boy cut his knee earlier on; he fell in the long grass, landed on a bit of broken glass or something, a nail maybe. Aw he’s fine now, says the holidaymaker, last I saw he was plunging into the swimming pool. Then he gives them a friendly grin and a brief nod at the game, and returns to his mate at the bar who is waving and smiling. It is all a load of shite you’re wanting to yell across, dont fall for it. But for one reason or another you will not do that. You dont have the energy for a start. But aside from that, aside from that you feel more inclined to burst out laughing. You clear your throat, move your shoulders, you sip at your beer, calming yourself down—it would be pointless doing anything daft. Aye, suddenly you find yourself aware of the possibility. It’s because the place is so crowded you think. There arent even enough seats to go round. Friday night of course, the start of the weekend, and it is always busy. A great many holidaymakers are here, from different parts. Quite a few have stepped off their boats. You spot them immethately by the way they dress but even without that they cant be mistaken, the way they stand there gabbing so loudly just to let everybody know. They seem to think they own the fucking place. The ordinary holidaymakers are fine; it’s these weekend boat sailors you’re opposed to—another reason for making more of an effort to get into town in future. You have turned to the dwarfs and begun telling them about dus. They nod. They are not a hundred percent interested. In fact, they are genuinely interested in the game. You will pause and they dont realize you arent speaking. No wonder; what you were saying is boring, even to yourself. You smile ruefully. Emil smiles back at you. He is one of the players and he thinks you’re smiling because you’ve spotted the bad domino he laid down; his smile is also rueful and he shakes his head and says something in french, all set to lose the game.
When it ends you go for another pint and ask for a whisky as well, and as an afterthought you get whiskies for the dwarfs because they already have fresh pints lying. The barman looks at you. There is something about the look, a puzzled quality, and not just to do with the additional drinks. For a moment you think you’ve been misjudging the man; maybe he just has that kind of face and he isnt really a taciturn old bastard. How would you like to be cooped up here all day you’re thinking, and having to serve these fucking boat sailors! It’s no joke. When he returns to give you your change you smile and he ignores you and wins again. You are definitely going to start going into town, starting from tomorrow, as soon as you finish your work you’re going straight home for a wash and a shave and a change of clothes. No question. And there can be no excuse either because Saturdays you only work half the day. You glance quickly at him before lifting the tray of drinks: he’s staring into space while pouring a pint for somebody. Even if the job’s as bad as that you’re thinking, it’s useless taking it out on the customers, far better just leaving. If you had a job like that you would just leave, you wouldnt start taking it out on people; one of these days somebody’s going to stick one on the old cunt’s chin and nobody’ll jump in to give him a hand, least of all you—in fact, it’ll probably be you sticking the one on him! The thought makes you grin, then laugh quietly; you clear your throat, but continue grinning. The dwarfs look at you, smiling politely. Aye you say, and begin telling them about a funny thing that happened while picking spuds recently. A lot of funny things happen in the fields and you mention a few of them. They show interest. All in all you say, there’s a lot worse jobs than picking spuds—being out in the fresh air and that, there’s a lot to be said for it. Even if jobs were plentiful you reckon you would probably prefer the one you have. Of course there isnt much of a choice nowadays. There used to be but not now. The dwarfs nod. You’re glad to see they appreciate the point because quite a few folk land on the island thinking the farmers’ll be queuing up to offer them work. The same applies to fixing yourself with a roof. A great many cunts come here thinking it’s straightforward, but it isnt, it’s nowhere near straightforward; it used to be, but not now. If you dont get things fixed then you’re bang in trouble; it’s a question of knowing the ins and outs; you have to consider the eventualities, sort out what is possible and what is not possible. Take yourself for instance: when you came here you had your eyes open, none of that romantic shite about tropical paradises, you knew you would have to graft, that it was down to you to make things work because one thing you’ve learned in life and that is if you want to do something then do it yourself because no cunt’s going to do it for you. That’s a fucking beauty! That could make you laugh aloud. You dont. What you will do is raise your pint glass and sip slowly, gazing at the dwarfs over the rim. And they are gazing back at you. They are next on at the dominoes and are wanting to return their attention to there but are unsure whether they should continue listening to you. And they make their decision; they continue gazing at you. They are expecting something. You are to speak. What are you to say? They are waiting for you to say something. What is it you …
O jesus.
It’ll be a beautiful summers evening outside. One of those where you get that amazing expanse of sky and then when it darkens a shade you see the stars, an infinity of them. It always looks special when you’re on an island and standing looking from the middle of a field; the sky, it’s like a blanket or something. This is what you say to the dwarfs, about the sky at night, it looks like a blanket or something, with thousands and millions of shining stars and each moment you witness the thing another one explodes into life. It is amazing. Yet so many people dont even bother looking at the stars. They come to a place like this and go walking about with their head stuck in the grass. The dwarfs arent like that. They genuinely appreciate the value of things, same as yourself. If you have any criticism to make of them it has to do with their naivety. It isnt so much that they are naive in the ordinary sense—otherwise they wouldnt be here and making a go of things as well as they are—it is more to do with faith or something. The way they look upon you for instance; you can understand why they regard you as highly as they do but all in all you’d advise against it in future.
Christ, you stop talking; you shake your head, there’s a lump in your throat. You stare at your whisky, not wanting to be seen. The dwarfs have coughed and shifted on their chairs so they cannot see you without turning their heads. They are good people. They are thoughtful and they are fucking loyal, you dont care what anybody says. And yet it’s funny how it happens you’re thinking, and you smile then offer them your job. You’re not a hundred percent certain the farmer’ll take them on because there was only one of you but you reckon they could do a lot worse than give it a try, and once he sees how well they get on with the frenchmen … well, you’re sure it’ll be okay. There are other problems—well, not really problems, more to do with irksome chores; things like the deputation. The most important dung to remember is the camping site proprietor himself: whatever you do you must not put the jitters into him. He’s so fucking incompetent and so fucking aware of being incompetent that at the slightest show of being thought incompetent he’ll run for cover, he’ll close down the site and head for the mainland. You’ve seen cunts like him before and so have the dwarfs, there’s no real need to tell them, you just thought you’d mention it. O, and the holidaymakers, there’s quite a bit to be said about them and you start in on that for a time, until gradually the dwarfs are turning their heads from you; the game of dominoes currently in progress is due to finish any minute. And anyway, what you are saying is fairly boring—not completely boring because it must be of some value; but all in all, all in all… And it’s hell of a noisy in this place—Friday night, the jukebox going constantly and the boat sailors seem to have bribed the barman into turning up the volume; a couple of the females are now dancing a bit while the males are sipping at their half pint shandies. It wont be long now till you apply the method. This is it: a dwarf will rise to his feet to go to the bar and while maneuvering his way through he will accidentally rub against one of the dancers and one of the males will pass a comment. One thing leads to another. The upshot is that you, being the tallest member of the present company, will challenge the tallest boat sailor to go to the boxing games. At this a great tumult shall occasion. People are on all sides of you, many of whom you recognize, as though trying to paw at you. They are excited by the prospect ahead. You hear them discuss this that and the next thing with some of the female boat sailors trying to play matters down but the males arent letting them; they want to prove themselves—although they act as if they own the fucking place they are in reality very insecure and hate it when they enter an out-of-the-way pub like this only to receive cheek from taciturn barmen and have their females ogled by the regulars. You can hear what sounds like holidaymaking parents attempting to pacify them but to no avail, and then an indistinct voice is calling for a more sporting contest, something less violent, maybe a swim or some fucking thing. Great you shout, and make a lunge at the tallest boat sailor: Me and you outside in the fucking Ocean ya bastard! And this does the trick. The silence lasts for several moments before the tumult continues—it appears to be a kind of vote. It is a vote. A great cheer goes up when a voice calls: Carried! And then by your side you feel hands tapping your shoulder in a furtive way; it’s the dwarfs; they are attempting to dissuade you. At first this seems a contradiction, a paradox maybe, you arent sure, there isnt time, you look at them. No they cry, you shouldnt be going out swimming on a night like this with all that beer and whisky in your belly. Out my road you shout, out my road. And a couple of holidaymakers are there also, including a young mum in a summer dress who looks very worried, her hand to the side of her mouth, clutching a hankie. For christ sake! Too late, too fucking late you’re shouting, too fucking late. You’re just wanting out there, nothing else matters, nothing. Where’s that fucking boat sailor who insulted your wee pal the dwarf? that’s what you’re wanting to know. He’s waiting outside with his cronies. And you might’ve known, the cunt’s got a pair of swimming trunks. Ah well. And there’s the frenchmen laying bets—Pierre’s making a book—and glancing with interest as you go charging down the beach with the dwarfs scurrying alongside, trying to keep up. The boat sailor’s there already with a couple of his mates; one of them’s testing the temperature for him and he’s saying: Not as cold as when you swam the fucking channel Bertie! Aw good, says the boat sailor, glad to hear it. But you’re straightening your shoulders and marching right past him, way beyond him, and the Ocean’s lapping up by your ankles and you pause a moment to kick off your working boots. You can hear indistinct voices from the shore. Is it cheers you wonder. Who cares you say, and when the water comes up beyond your knees you immethately plunge in and begin a hectic breastroke in a direction sou’ sou’westerly.