Robert Rankin - Knees Up Mother Earth
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TITLE: Knees Up Mother Earth
AUTHOR: Robert Rankin
PUBLISHER: Gollancz
COPYRIGHT: ©2004
ISBN: 0 575 07315 2
ABEB Version: 3.0
Created: 2004/9/26 @ 20:48
An mdf Scan & Proofread.
Knees Up Mother Earth
Robert Rankin
For
Jo Fletcher
With love and laughs
1
It was only yesterday and the weather, it seemed, was good.
Mahatma Campbell put his best foot forward.
This foot, the left, was bandaged somewhat about the second toe and
encased within an argyle sock, darned at the heel by the mother who loved
him. Foot and bandage, sock and what-have-you lurked within a boot of the
seven-league persuasion.
On his right foot the Campbell wore a slipper.
The knees of the Campbell were naked, as indeed were his arms. The loins,
trunk and chest of him were clothed respectively in a kilt with ample sporran
and a vest with room for improvement. The face of the Campbell was redly
bearded, the head of him heavily turbaned.
Had he not been so unevenly shod, the Campbell would most certainly
have strode, but given the inequilibrium of his footwear, this was an
impossibility. And so Mahatma Campbell limped. And as he limped, he sang a
song of lochs and byres and bonny banks and braes. And when his memory
failed him, he whistled the refrain.
Mahatma Campbell limped the streets of Brentford.
The time was six-fifteen of the early morning clock, the day was a
Wednesday, bright and sunny, but with that ever-present fear of precipitation
the Campbell had come to live with.
The month was that nippy one known as November.
Mahatma Campbell limped along Moby Dick Terrace, Victorian artisans’
cottages sheltering beneath slate roofs to the left and to the right of him, a
post box to his rear, a pub rejoicing in the name The Four Horsemen in the
near distance before him. Clipped box hedges confined fussy front gardens,
hanging baskets of Babylon hung and a tomcat snored on a windowsill. And
the Campbell, in song and in whistle, limped on.
As he reached the Ealing Road the Campbell turned left and limped past
Bob the Bookie’s and Peg’s Paper Shop.
Norman Hartnel1, husband of the abundant Peg, numbered the daily
papers, a sprightly whistle issuing between his lips. He viewed the Campbell’s
passing through the shop’s front window, which was sorely in need of a clean.
Norman momentarily ceased his whistling and crossed himself at the
Campbell’s passing, for Norman feared the Campbell as surely as the
Campbell feared precipitation, but Norman had not yet come to live with his
fear. Upon this particular November morning, Norman wore a shirt that was
in need of an iron, a shop coat that was in need of throwing away, trousers
that were in need of a crease and a pair of black brogues that were never in
need of a polish. Because Norman had once been in the Navy, and those who
have once been in the Navy always polish their shoes.
When the Campbell’s passing had passed Norman by, Norman took once
more to his sprightly whistling, and once more to the numbering of papers –
although now incorrectly, and in a less steady hand.
“Norman,” came the voice of Peg, bounding from the kitchenette and
striking the shopkeeper in palpable waves that travelled through his wig and
rattled the back of his head. “Norman, have you finished yet?”
“No, my dear, not yet.” Norman chewed upon his bottom lip. She hated
him, that woman, Norman knew that she did. But Norman didn’t hate her in
return. He still loved his Peg, his little Peg, his pretty little Peg. But she was no
longer the Peg of old, with whom he’d shared kisses and more down beside the
canal. She was no longer little, and nor was she pretty. But her Norman still
loved her. In his way.
“Get a move-on, you lazy sod.” Further sound waves struck the shopkeeper
and Norman got a move-on.
Norman always enjoyed the numbering-up of the papers. He enjoyed
being the first in the borough to read the news of the day. He enjoyed the
responsibility of sending Zorro the paperboy forth into the borough, bag upon
his shoulder and bicycle saddle beneath his bum, to spread the daily news.
Most of all, Norman enjoyed the numbers of the numbering-up. Norman
had a preoccupation with numbers. Numbers were Norman’s current
obsession.
“Everything,” Norman had told Neville, the part-time barman of The
Flying Swan, during a recent lunchtime session when Norman should have
been at the cash-and-carry purchasing bulls’ eyes, mint imperials and party
packs of Fisherman’s Friends, “everything is dependent upon numbers.
Everything can be explained numerically. Everything can be reduced to a
numerical equivalent.”
“Everything?” Neville cast Norman a quizzical glance with his good eye
and continued his polishing of an already dazzling pint glass. “Surely not every
single thing?”
“You name it,” said the numerate shopkeeper, “and there will be a number
to its rear somewhere about.”
“Cheese,” said Neville, as he so often did when stuck for something
sensible to say (which wasn’t so often as it might have been, as Neville was
noted for the wisdom of his words).
“That’s too easy,” Norman said. “The entire cheese-making process,
indeed the very protocols of cheese-making – formulated, if my memory fails
me not, by the Elders of Zion way back in the year known as dot – depend
upon numbers. It’s all weights and measures and time-spans, not to mention
the number of holes.”
Neville chose, upon this occasion, to heed Norman’s words and not
mention the number of holes.
“Chickens, then,” said Jim Pooley, who had once owned a chicken, having
been tricked into purchasing it by a gypsy who had assured him that it was a
goose. And one that laid golden eggs. Sporadically.
“Chickens, eh?” said Norman, who knew the gypsy in question and had
briefly considered running away to join the Romanys for a life of romance and
rheumatism. “Chickens are a prime example.”
“Steak is a prime example,” said Old Pete, whose half-terrier Chips was
rumoured to have once been an accountant named Trevor before he had been
transformed into a dog by a gypsy curse. “Prime rump steak. You’ll never get a
decent steak out of a chicken.”
“Doesn’t matter what,” said Norman, “feathered fowl or four-legged
friend. The numbers are there in the DNA. It’s all been worked out by
mathematicians on computers. The entire universe is one big mathematical
equation.”
“How big?” Pooley asked.
“Very,” said Norman. “Same again, Neville.”
“So, what is the point?” Pooley now asked.
“It’s a kind of mathematical full stop,” said Norman, informatively. “Its
technical term is the decimal point.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Pooley made to sup ale but found his glass
empty. “Same again for me, Neville,” he said. “Norman’s in the chair. His
number just came up.”
“It didn’t,” said Norman.
“It did,” said Jim. “I’ve been counting. But what I’m asking you is this:
what is the point of trying to reduce the universe to a mathematical equation?”
“For the thrill of it,” said Norman, and he meant what he said.
“You can see that he means what he says,” said Old Pete.
“I do,” said Norman.
“Then tell me this,” said Old Pete, “can you reduce to a mathematical
equation the beauty of young girl’s eyes filled with the first light of love?”
“Well—” said Norman.
“Or a baby’s smile?” continued Old Pete. “Or the scent of a rose with
spring dew upon it? Or—”
“Stop,” said Norman, “you’re giving me a crinkly mouth.” And he dabbed a
tear from his eye.
As did Jim Pooley. “Golly, Pete,” said Jim, “I never knew you had such
feelings in you.”
“I don’t,” said the oldster, amidst immoderate chucklings. “I’m just
winding up this buffoon.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Norman. “But numbers are everything and I firmly
believe that everything can be reduced to mathematics. Everything.”
“Life, the universe, and everything?” said Jim. “The number you’re looking
for is forty-two, is it not?”
“Don’t you start,” said Norman. “But I repeat: I sincerely believe that there
is a mathematical formula behind everything. And whoever discovers this BIG
FIGURE would not only know everything, he’d be able to do everything also
and I’ll prove it to you one day.”
“How?” Jim asked.
“From small beginnings come great things,” said Norman, who favoured a
proverb. “But the lion never roars until he’s eaten.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Jim.
Norman got a round in. “I will succeed,” he told the assembled company of
doubters and he raised his glass in toast. “As surely as one and one make two
for most of the time, I will.”
And indeed Norman would – well, he almost would – and with the most
alarming consequences.
But Norman’s quest would not be an easy one. Mathematics had moved
beyond the blackboard and the abacus. These were the days of the computer.
And Norman did not possess a computer. He had considered purchasing one,
but even the cheap ones were, in his opinion, expensive … which was why he
had decided to construct his own.
Norman was no stranger to the do-it-yourself kit. He had purchased more
than a few in the past, before it had dawned upon him that it was hardly “do-
it-yourself” if all the pieces had been pre-constructed by someone else. Real
do-it-yourselfmg was really doing-it-yourself, from the ground up.
You needed certain components, of course; you couldn’t be expected to
mill every piece of metal and hand-carve every screw … which was why God
had granted man the ability to create the Meccano set. And with the Meccano
set Norman had proved, time and time again, that all things – well, nearly all
things – were possible.
And if you happened to pick up a few other little bits and bobs from here
and there along the way, well, that wasn’t really cheating.
So, upon this bright and early morning, Norman continued with his incorrect
numberings of the daily papers and, once done, he sighed a certain sigh and
took to leafing through the uppermost Brentford Mercury on the pile.
A pre-leaf perusal of the front page found Norman viewing the day’s
banner headline: COUNCIL TO VOTE ON CLUB’S FUTURE. Norman knew
the tale behind this well enough – the sad and sorry saga of Brentford’s
football club. From its golden years in the 1920s, when Brentford had twice
won the FA Cup, and Jack Lane, the now-octogenarian landlord of The Four
Horsemen, had captained the glory boys and hammered home the winning
goals on both occasions. Through the many years of hurt, with the team
slipping down and down the divisions, until this very day.
With the team having so far failed to win a single match this season, the
club in debt to the tune of millions and property developers circling like horrid
sharks seeking to snap up the ground, tear down the stands, rip up the sacred
turf and build executive homes upon the site.
Norman shuddered. It was a tragedy. A piece of the borough’s precious
history would be wiped from the map. It made Norman sick at heart.
“It is an outrage,” cried Norman, with fire in his voice. “An outrage and an
abomination.”
“What was that?” Another sonic shockwave struck the shopkeeper’s head,
this time nearly dislodging his wig.
“Nothing, dear,” said Norman. “And I’m almost done with the
numbering.”
The numbering.
Norman viewed the figure upon the front page of the Brentford Mercury.
The figure of the debt. The millions owed by Brentford United Football Club –
surely such a sum could be raised if everyone in Brentford dug into their
pockets. They’d only need to fork out … Norman’s Biro moved about upon the
blank area of newssheet where the theatre review would have been had the
Mercury’s inebriate critic, “Badger” Beaumont, got around to filing his report.
Norman’s Biro moved and many figures were written (many, too, were
crossed out and rewritten). Many more were also crossed out. Norman, for all
his love of numbers, wasn’t much of a hand at sums. He really did need a
computer. Norman flung the now defunct Biro aside.
And Norman took to leafing again.
Page two had little to offer Norman, other than an advert announcing the
arrival of Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique, presently pitching its big top
upon nearby Ealing Common. This at least had Norman doing so-so
movements with his head, for he harboured some fondness for the circus.
There was also an article penned by local guru and self-styled Perfect
Master Hugo Rune, extolling the virtues of Runesthetics, a spiritual exercise
programme of his own conception that promised, for a fee, to enlarge that
certain part of the male anatomy which teenage boys generally sought to
enlarge through methods of their own, sometimes with the aid of tapes rented
from the video section of Peg’s Paper Shop.
Norman raised an eyebrow to Runesthetics and then lowered it again. He
had once invented a system of his own to further that particular end. It had
involved Meccano. And, later, several jars of Savlon.
Norman leafed on. It was, as ever it was, and ever it most probably ever
would be, the same old, tired old news for the most part. And for the most part
Norman took as ever he had, and probably ever would take, a certain pleasure
and comfort in its same old, tired old sameness. Flower shows, fêtes, functions
and funerals. And car-boot sales.
And Norman leafed on until he came to the page before last. And there for
a while he dwelt, amidst the small ads.
And there Norman’s right forefinger, its nail sorely in need of a nailbrush,
travelled down column after column …
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TITLE:KneesUpMotherEarthAUTHOR:RobertRankinPUBLISHER:GollanczCOPYRIGHT:©2004ISBN:0575073152ABEBVersion:3.0Created:2004/9/26@20:48AnmdfScan&Proofread.KneesUpMotherEarthRobertRankinForJoFletcherWithloveandlaughs1Itwasonlyyesterdayandtheweather,itseemed,wasgood.MahatmaCampbellputhisbestfootforward.This...
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分类：外语学习
价格：5.9玖币
属性：273 页
大小：598.35KB
格式：PDF
时间：2024-12-02
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