Ten Tales Tall and True (10 page)

He walks very far before finding the door. A man of his own sort sits on a bench in front of it staring morosely at the floor between his shoes. He does not look up when our man sits beside him. A long time passes. Our man grows impatient. The corridor is so narrow that his knees are not much more than a foot from the door he faces. There is nothing to look at but brown paintwork. At length he murmurs sarcastically, “So this is our new world.”

His neighbour glances at him briefly with quick little shake of the head. An equally long time passes before our man says, almost explosively,
“They promised me more room! Where is it? Where is it?”

The door opens, an empty metal trolley is pushed obliquely through and smashes hard into our man's legs. With a scream he staggers to his feet and hobbles backward away from the trolley, which is pushed by someone in a khaki dust-coat who is so big that his shoulders brush the walls on each side and also the ceiling: the low ceiling makes the trolley-pusher bend his head so far forward that our man, retreating sideways now and stammering words of pain and entreaty, stares up not at a face but at a bloated bald scalp. He cannot see if his pursuer is brutally herding him or merely pushing a trolley. In sheer panic our man is about to yell for help when a voice says, “What's happening here? Leave the man alone Henry!” and his hand is seized in a comforting grip. The pain in his legs vanishes at once, or is forgotten.

His hand is held by another man of his own type, but a sympathetic and competent one who is leading him away from the trolley-man. Our man, not yet recovered from a brutal assault of a kind he has only experienced in childhood, is childishly grateful for the pressure of the friendly hand.

“I'm sure you were doing nothing wrong,” says the stranger pleasantly, “You were probably just complaining. Henry gets cross when he hears one of our sort complain. Class prejudice is the root of it. What were you complaining about? Lack of
space, perhaps?”

Our man looks into the friendly, guileless face beside him and, after a moment, nods: which may be the worst mistake of his life, but for a while he does not notice this. The comforting handclasp, the increasing distance from Henry who falls farther behind with each brisk step they take, is accompanied by a feeling that the corridors are becoming spacious, the walls farther apart, the ceiling higher. His companion also seems larger and for a while this too is a comfort, a return to a time when he could be protected from bullies by bigger people who liked him. But he is shrinking, and the smaller he gets the more desperately he clutches the hand which is reducing his human stature. At last, when his arm is dragged so straight above his head that in another moment it will swing him clear of the floor, his companion releases him, smiles down at him, wags a kindly forefinger and says, “Now you have all the space you need. But remember, God is trapped in you! He will not let you rest until you amount to more than this.'

The stranger goes through a door, closing it carefully after him. Our man stares up at a knob which is now and forever out of his reach.

Come in, come in, Mrs Chigwell. Sit down. My partner is sorry he cannot attend to you, as arranged, but there will be no complications. His wife was unexpectedly struck down by something this morning and though (thank goodness) she is not exactly at death's door he would find it hard to concentrate on your (thank goodness) smaller problem. His mind might wander, his hand tremble, so you are safer with me. His X-rays indicate two fillings, one of them a wee toaty tiddler of a job, and I am so sure of my skill that I promise you will feel no pain if I work without anaesthetic. But maybe you are nervous and want it, even so? No? Splendid. I am starting
the motor – which lowers and tilts the chair – so easily and smoothly that your heart and semi-circular canals have suffered no shock or disturbance. The Trendelenburg Position – that is what we call the position you are in, Mrs Chigwell. This chair gets you into it, and out of it, in a manner which ensures you cannot possibly faint. I wonder who Trendelenburg is.

Or was. Rinse your mouth. Let me – keek – inside. Oho! And if you want to sneeze, gargle, hiccup or blow your nose just raise a finger of your left hand and I will stop what I am doing almost at once but here goes. Chigwell. Chigwell. An English name. Yes there are a lot of your kind in Scotland nowadays, but you'll never hear me complain. Do I bother you, talking away like this? No? Good. You probably realize I do it to stop your imagination wandering, as it would tend to do if I worked in perfect silence. There is, let us face it, something inherently sinister in lying absolutely passive while a stranger in a white coat – no matter how highly qualified – does things you cannot see to this hole in your head – between your jaw and your brain; inside this wee toaty cavity – I am opening – in a bone of your skull. Even the presence of Miss Mackenzie, my assistant here, might not stop your subconscious mind cooking up weird fantasies if we dentists, like barbers, had not a professional tendency to gossip. Which reminds me of a cartoon I saw in a bound volume
of old Punch magazines : a barber says, “How would you like your hair cut sir?” to a bored-looking aristocratic type slumped in his chair who says, “In a silence broken only by the busy snipsnap of the scissors.” Sometimes I hear myself saying ridiculous things, utterly absurd things, just to avoid that deathly silence, but if you prefer silence just raise two fingers of your right hand and silent I will be. But you like the chatter? Good, rinse your mouth again.

No, my worst enemy could never accuse me of being a Scottish Nationalist. I don't approve of Scotland or Ireland – both Irelands – or England, Argentina, Pakistan, Bosnia et cetera. In my opinion nations, like religions and political institutions, have been rendered obsolete by modern technology. As Margaret Thatcher once so wisely said, “There is no such thing as society,” and what is a nation but a great big example of our non-existent society? Margaret had the right idea – DENATIONALIZE! PRIVATIZE! When all our national institutions are privatized the British Isles will no longer be a political entity, and good riddance say I. The USSR has vanished. I hope the USA and the UK follow its example. Last week (a little wider please) a man said to me, “If you refuse to call yourself a Scot – or a Briton – or a Tory – or a Socialist – or a Christian what DO you call yourself? What do you believe in?”

“I am a Partick Thistle supporter,” I told him, “and
I believe in Virtual Reality.”

Do you know about Partick Thistle? It is a non-sectarian Glasgow football club. Rangers FC is overwhelmingly managed and supported by Protestant zealots, Celtic FC by Catholics, but the Partick Thistle supporters anthem goes like this:

We hate Roman Catholics
,

We hate Protestants too
,

We hate Jews and Muslims
,

Partick Thistle we love you
…

My friend Miss Mackenzie is looking distinctly disapproving. I suspect that Miss Mackenzie dislikes my singing voice. Or maybe she's religious. Are you religious Miss Mackenzie? No answer. She's religious.

Fine. Rinse your mouth. Second filling coming up and I insist on giving you a wee jag, but you won't feel it. Did you feel it? Of course not.

My wife disagrees with me. She's a Scottish Nationalist and a Socialist. Can you imagine a more ridiculous combination? She's a worrier, that woman. She's worried about over-population, industrial pollution, nuclear waste, rising unemployment, homelessness, drug abuse, crime, the sea level, the hole in the ozone layer.

“Only a democratic government responsive to the will of the majority can tackle these problems,” she says.

“How will it do that?” say I.

“By seizing the big companies who are polluting and impoverishing and unemploying us,” says she, “and using the profits on public work, education and health care.”

“You'll never get that,” I tell her, “because prosperous people don't want it and poor people can't imagine it. Only a few in-betweeners like you believe in such nonsense.” (You have probably guessed she is a school teacher.) “By the year 2000,” I tell her, “these problems will have been solved by the right kind of head gear. Even a modern hat of the broad-brimmed sort worn by Australians and Texans and Mexicans will protect you from skin cancer. Hatters should advertise them on television. TO HELL WITH THE OZONE LAYER — WEAR A HAT!”

Hats, Mrs Chigwell, hats. At the start of this century everybody wore them : toppers for upper-class and professional men, bowlers for the middling people, cloth caps for the workers. Bare headed folk were almost thought as shocking as nudists because their place in the social scale was not immediately obvious. I suspect that hats became unfashionable because we passed through a liberty, equality and fraternity phase – or imagined we were in one. But we're coming out of it again, and by the end of the century everybody will have head gear. Their sanity will depend on if. Am I boring you? Shall I change the
subject? Would you like to suggest another topic of conversation? No? Rinse your mouth out all the same.

The hat of the future – in my opinion – will be a broad-brimmed safety helmet with hinged ear-flaps and a mouth-piece which can be folded down to work as a mobile telephone. It will also have a visor like old suits of armour or modern welders have, but when pulled down over your face the inside works as a telly screen. The energy needed to drive these sets could be tapped straight from the action of the viewer's heart – it would use up less energy than walking down a flight of stairs. The difference between one hat and another will be the number of channels you can afford. The wealthy will have no limit to them, but the homeless and unemployed will benefit too. I am not one of these heartless people who despise the unemployed for watching television all day. Without some entertainment they would turn to drugs, crime and suicide even more than they're doing already, but these video helmets will provide richer entertainment than we get nowadays from these old-fashioned box TVs which to my eyes already look prehistoric – relics of the wood and glass age – BVR – Before Virtual Reality. You've heard about virtual reality? Yes? No? It's a helmet of the sort I've just described. You wear it with a kind of overall suit equipped with electronic pressure pads so that you not only
see and hear, but feel you're inside the television world you are watching. Miss Mackenzie is pulling faces at me because she knows what I am going to say and thinks it may shock you since it refers to sex. But I promise that not one bad word will pass my lips. These helmet suits not only give sensations of life and movement in beautiful exciting surroundings. They also, if you desire it, give the visual and sensual experience of an amorous encounter with the partner of your choice. Perhaps Clint Eastwood in your case, Mrs Chigwell. Anna Magnani in mine, although it shows how old I am. Any professional person who remembers Anna Magnani in
Bitter Rice
is obviously on the verge of retirement. Or senility. And so, I am afraid, is she. Not that I ever saw her in
Bitter Rice
– a film for Adults Only. I only encountered the first love of my life through her posters and publicity photos. I wonder what Anna Magnani looks like nowadays?

Excuse me while I wash my hands. We are on the verge of completion. You're still quite comfortable? Good. Here we go again and remember I am talking nonsense, nothing but nonsense.

The hat of tomorrow – an audio-visual helmet with or without the suit – will not only release you into an exciting world of your own choice; it will shut out the dirty, unpleasant future my wife keeps
worrying about. It will give marijuana or heavy drug sensations without damaging the health. Of course intelligent people like you and I, Mrs Chigwell, will use it for more than escapist entertainment. We will use it to talk to friends, and educate ourselves. Children of four will be fitted with helmets giving them the experience of a spacious, friendly classroom where beautiful, wise, playful adults teach them everything their parents want them to know. Schools will become things of the past and teachers too since a few hundred well scripted actors will be able to educate the entire planet. And think of the saving in transport! When the lesson stopped they could take the helmet off and bingo – they're home again. Unless the parents switch them onto a babysitter channel.

“All right!” says my wife after hearing me thus far, “What about homelessness? Your helmets can't shut out foul weather and poisoned air.”

“They can if combined with the right overalls,” I tell her. “In tropical countries, like India, homeless people live and sleep quite comfortably in the streets. Now, it is a widely known fact that our armed forces have warehouses stacked with suits and respirators designed to help them survive on planet Earth after the last great nuclear war has made everybody homeless. But the last great nuclear war has been indefinitely postponed. Why not add Virtual Reality visors and pressure pads to these suits and give them to our paupers? Tune
them into a channel of a warm Samoan beach under the stars with the partner of their choice and they'll happily pass a rainy night in the rubble of a burnt-out housing scheme and please rinse your mouth out. Don't chew anything hard for another couple of hours. The chair – is now restoring you – to a less prone position.