could recognize ‘imself if ‘e met ‘imself in the street—and people spend most o’ their time looking at themselves, but seeing themselves in reverse, mind you.... No, it wouldn’t matter what you read, it’s all a fairy tale. A dream, get me? I say a dream, and if you believe otherwise, prove it. Time for just one more.”
“A dream you wake up to,” I suggested.
“I ‘ave yet to be convinced that I am not fast asleep,” said Copper Baldwin.
“But you were talking about Sam Yudenow,” I said.
“We were talking about Charles Dickens. Now tell me something—why do you read a load of tripe like Martin Chuzzlewit? Why can’t you put that crappy book down? Because you’re interested in what ‘appens to the ‘ero? That twerp? No. Because you’re interested in Pecksniff, the ‘ypocrite, and Jonas, and Tigg, the bucket-shop keeper, and that dirty filthy drunken old stinking midwife, Sairey Gamp. You’ve got to see those bastards get what’s coming to ‘em. Ain’t that so? Life is like that, too, son. The ‘eroes, the ‘eroes are fabricated. They read themselves up in books, or saw themselves on the stage. It’s the villains that grip you, cocko—black bloody villainy, that’s the salt of life, that’s what keeps you guessing, that’s what keeps you turning the pages! ‘Ate pulls the strings that make you jump, my boy—’ate keeps you going. You know, you’ve got to be in at the death. Well, I’ve got to be in at the death of Sam Yudenow.”
“You said he was dangerous.”
“That’s right. Look, there’s millions unemployed, but I can always get a good job anywhere in the world, because there’s nothing I can’t do with these two Oliver Twists. I got a few quid put away. I could go to Canada, or anywhere in the world, and get a good living too. So why am I ‘ere in Fowlers End, which is the sink of the bloody universe? ‘Ave I got leprosy? No. Am I wanted by the police? No. Sam Yudenow’s got me, that’s what. You know what I mean? I’d never be able to rest in peace unless I got to the finish of ‘im. ‘Ate, it’s the spice of life, sonny.”
I said, “I don’t know; I never managed to hate anybody, and I find life tasty enough.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “Up to a point, a bellyful of warm milk and your thumb to suck is all you need to keep you ‘appy. But as soon as you learn to crawl you want to get your teeth into something. You’ll get weaned ‘ere, my boy. Likewise, up to a point you’re quite ‘appy to listen to the tick-tick. But a ‘uttle later you’re miserable unless you can take it apart and see what makes it go.”
“That doesn’t mean to say that you have to hate the watch,” I said.
“I know. Not necessarily. But what if it’s a dead wrong watch, a deliberately wrong watch, if you can imagine such a thing, and the ‘ole purpose of it is to make you miss your train?”
I said, “I’d keep it as a curiosity. And I’d be very interested to meet the man who designed it.”
“If you found ‘im,” said Copper Baldwin, “you’d kind of meet the Devil, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe so. But in the meantime, as long as I knew how to tell the right time I wouldn’t let it worry me.”
“Okay. But what if that watchmaker made a practice of going about at night and altering the clocks all over the place so that they told the wrong time?”
“Depends what you mean by wrong time,” I said. “If all the clocks tell the wrong time at the same time, that’s the right time.” I never can resist a bit of metaphysics. “At a certain hour on a certain day of the year, the Government says, ‘Every clock and watch in the country must henceforward be an hour wrong.’And after that, if your watch isn’t wrong it isn’t right.”
“All right, all right, all right! But what if every watch was different?’ said Copper Baldwin.
“You’d still eat when you were hungry, if you had the price of a meal,” I said. And, really, I am
“A dream you wake up to,” I suggested.
“I ‘ave yet to be convinced that I am not fast asleep,” said Copper Baldwin.
“But you were talking about Sam Yudenow,” I said.
“We were talking about Charles Dickens. Now tell me something—why do you read a load of tripe like Martin Chuzzlewit? Why can’t you put that crappy book down? Because you’re interested in what ‘appens to the ‘ero? That twerp? No. Because you’re interested in Pecksniff, the ‘ypocrite, and Jonas, and Tigg, the bucket-shop keeper, and that dirty filthy drunken old stinking midwife, Sairey Gamp. You’ve got to see those bastards get what’s coming to ‘em. Ain’t that so? Life is like that, too, son. The ‘eroes, the ‘eroes are fabricated. They read themselves up in books, or saw themselves on the stage. It’s the villains that grip you, cocko—black bloody villainy, that’s the salt of life, that’s what keeps you guessing, that’s what keeps you turning the pages! ‘Ate pulls the strings that make you jump, my boy—’ate keeps you going. You know, you’ve got to be in at the death. Well, I’ve got to be in at the death of Sam Yudenow.”
“You said he was dangerous.”
“That’s right. Look, there’s millions unemployed, but I can always get a good job anywhere in the world, because there’s nothing I can’t do with these two Oliver Twists. I got a few quid put away. I could go to Canada, or anywhere in the world, and get a good living too. So why am I ‘ere in Fowlers End, which is the sink of the bloody universe? ‘Ave I got leprosy? No. Am I wanted by the police? No. Sam Yudenow’s got me, that’s what. You know what I mean? I’d never be able to rest in peace unless I got to the finish of ‘im. ‘Ate, it’s the spice of life, sonny.”
I said, “I don’t know; I never managed to hate anybody, and I find life tasty enough.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “Up to a point, a bellyful of warm milk and your thumb to suck is all you need to keep you ‘appy. But as soon as you learn to crawl you want to get your teeth into something. You’ll get weaned ‘ere, my boy. Likewise, up to a point you’re quite ‘appy to listen to the tick-tick. But a ‘uttle later you’re miserable unless you can take it apart and see what makes it go.”
“That doesn’t mean to say that you have to hate the watch,” I said.
“I know. Not necessarily. But what if it’s a dead wrong watch, a deliberately wrong watch, if you can imagine such a thing, and the ‘ole purpose of it is to make you miss your train?”
I said, “I’d keep it as a curiosity. And I’d be very interested to meet the man who designed it.”
“If you found ‘im,” said Copper Baldwin, “you’d kind of meet the Devil, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe so. But in the meantime, as long as I knew how to tell the right time I wouldn’t let it worry me.”
“Okay. But what if that watchmaker made a practice of going about at night and altering the clocks all over the place so that they told the wrong time?”
“Depends what you mean by wrong time,” I said. “If all the clocks tell the wrong time at the same time, that’s the right time.” I never can resist a bit of metaphysics. “At a certain hour on a certain day of the year, the Government says, ‘Every clock and watch in the country must henceforward be an hour wrong.’And after that, if your watch isn’t wrong it isn’t right.”
“All right, all right, all right! But what if every watch was different?’ said Copper Baldwin.
“You’d still eat when you were hungry, if you had the price of a meal,” I said. And, really, I am
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