Modem Times 2.0

Modem Times 2.0

“My Londons”

“Get the Music Right”
Outspoken Interview with Michael Moorcock

Bibliography

About the Author

A JERRY CORNELIUS STORY

T
HE SMELL OF PINE
and blood and sweet mincemeat, cakes and pies and printing ink, a touch of ice in the air, a golden aura from shops and stalls. Apples and oranges; fresh fruit, chipolata sausages. “Come on, girls, get another turkey for a neighbour. Buy a ten-pounder, get another ten-pounder with it. Give me a fiver. Twenty-five pounds—give us a fiver, love. Come on, ladies, buy a pound and I’ll throw in another pound with it.
Absolutely free.”
Flash business as the hour comes round. No space in the cold room for all that meat. No cold room at all for that fruit and veg. The decorations and fancies have to be gone before the season changes. “Two boxes of crackers, love, look at these fancy paper plates. I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in a tablecloth. Give us a quid for the lot. Give us a quid thank you, sir. Thanks, love. That lady there, Alf. Thank you, love. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.”

“I hate the way they commercialize everything these days.”

“That’s right, love. A couple of chickens, there you go, love—and I’ll tell you what—here’s a pound of chipos fornothing. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Seven-pound sacks. Two bob. No. Two sacks for half a dollar. Half a dollar for two, love. Last you the rest of the year. Stand up, darling. Here, Bob, hold the fort, I’m dying for a slash. Dolly mixtures, two bags for a shilling. Two for a shilling, love. That’s it, darling! Genuine Airfix they are, sir. All the same price. Those little boys are going to wake up laughing when they see what Santa’s brought them. Go on, sir, try it out. I’ll throw in the batteries. Give it a go, sir. No, it’s all right, son. Not your fault. It went off the curb. I saw it happen. Go on, no damage. I’ll tell you what, give me ten bob for the two. Tanner each, missis. You’ll pay three and six for one in Woolworths. I’ll tell you what. Go in and have a look. If I’m wrong I’ll give you both of ‘em free. Hot doughnuts! Hot doughnuts. Watch out, young lady, that fat’s boiling. How many do you want? Don’t do that, lad, if you’re not buying it. Get some cocoa. Over here, Jack. This lady wants some cocoa, don’t you, darling? Brussels. Brussels. Five pounds a shilling. Come on, darling—keep ‘em out on the step. You don’t need a fridge in this weather.”

Now as the sky darkens over the uneven roofs of the road, there’s a touch of silver in the air. It’s rain at first, then sleet, then snow. It
is
snow. Softly falling snow. They lift their heads, warm under hoods and hats, their faces framed by scarves and turned up collars. (Harlequin goes flitting past, dark blue cloak over chequered suit, heading for the Panto and late, dark footprints left behind before they fill up again.) A new murmur. Snow. It’s snow. “Merry Christmas, my love! Merry Christmas.” Deep-chested laughter. Sounds like Santa’s about. The students stop to watch the snow. The men with their children point up into the drawing night. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” It’s a miracle. Proof that all the disappointments of the past year are disappearing and all the promises are really going to be kept. “Happy Christmas, darling. Happy Christmas!” The Salvation Army stops on the corner of Latimer Road. The tuba player takes out his vacuum of tea, sips, blows an experimental blast. Glowing gold flows from the pub and onto the cracked andlittered pavement. A sudden roar before the door closes again. “Merry Christmas!”

A boy of about seven holds his younger sister’s hand, laughing at the flakes falling on their upturned faces. His cheeks are bright from cold and warm grease. His thin face frowns in happy concentration.

“Here you go, darling. Shove it in your oven. Of course it’ll go. Have it for a quid.” All the canny last minute shoppers picking up their bargains, choosing what they can from what’s too big or too small or too much, what’s left over or can’t be sold tomorrow or next week. It has to be sold tonight. “I’ll tell you what, love. Give us a monkey for the lot.”
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas
—sparking toys—little windmills, tanks and miniature artillery—glittering foil, tinsel and trinkets. Clattering, clicking, nattering, chattering, clanking, whizzing, hissing, swishing, splashing the street with cascades of tiny lights. Multicoloured bulbs winking and shivering, red, white, blue, green, and silver.

Stacks of tightly bound trees, already shedding ripples of needles, some rootless, freshly sawn, some still with their roots. The smell of fresh sawdust, of earth … The smell of a distant forest. The boy knows he has to get a big one and it has to have roots. “Five bob, son. That’s bigger than you, that is. Give us four. Six foot if it’s an inch. Beautiful roots. What you going to do with it after? Plant it in the garden? That’ll grow nicely for next year. Never buy another tree. That’ll last you a lifetime, that will.”

Jerry holds his money tight in his fist, shoved down between his woollen glove and his hot flesh. He has his list. He knows what his mum has to have. Some brussels. Some potatoes. Parsnips. Onions. Chipolatas. The biggest turkey they’ll let him have for two quid. Looks like he’ll get a huge one for that. And in his other glove is the tree money. He must buy some more candle-holders if he sees them. And a few decorations if he has anything left over. And some sweets. He knows how to get the bargains. She trusts him, mum does. She knows what Cathy’s like. Cathy, his sister, would hold out the money for the first turkey offered, but Jerry goes up to Portwine’s tothe chuckling ruby-faced giant who fancies his mum. Nothing makes a fat old-fashioned butcher happier than being kind to a kid at Christmas. He looks down over his swollen belly, his bloodied apron. (“Wotcher, young Jerry. What can I do you for?”)
Turkeys! Turkeys! Come on love. Best in the market. Go on, have two
. (“Ten bob to you, Jerry.”)

There’s a row of huge unclaimed turkeys hanging like felons on hooks in the window. Blood red prices slashed. Jerry knows he can come back. Cathy smiles at Mr. Portwine. The little flirt. She’s learning. That smile’s worth a bird all by itself. Down towards Blenheim Crescent. Dewhurst’s doing a good few, too. Down further, on both sides of the road. Plenty of turkeys, chickens, geese, pheasants. “Fowl a-plenty,” he says to himself with relish. Down all the way to Oxford Gardens, to the cheap end where already every vegetable is half the price it is at the top. The snow settles on their heads and shoulders, and through the busy, joyful business of the noisy market comes the syncopated clatter of a barrel organ.
God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, The First Noël, The Holly and the Ivy
cycle out at the same manic pace as the organ-grinder turns his handle and holds out his black velvet bag.

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” His hat is covered in melting snow but his arm moves the crank with the same disciplined regularity it’s turned for forty years or more.
Away in a Manger. Good King Wenceslas. O, Tannenbaum. O, Tannenbaum. Silent Night. Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer
. Cathy puts a halfpenny in his hat for luck, but Jerry’s never known his luck to change one way or another from giving anything to the barrel organ man. He pulls Cathy’s hand for fear her generosity will beggar them. “Come on. We’ll do that butcher right at the top. Then we’ll work our way down.” There’s no such thing as a frozen turkey here. Not in any Portobello butcher’s worth the name, and all the veg is fresh from Covent Garden. All the fruit is there for the handling, though the stall-holders affect shocked disgust when the middle-class women, copying French models, reach to feel. “No need for that, love. It’s all fresh. Don’t worry, darling, it won’t get any harder if you squeeze it.” Dirty laughterdoes the trick. “Ha, ha, ha!” Gin and best bitter add nuance to the innuendo. Panatella smoke drifts from the warm pubs. Chestnuts roast and pop on red-hot oil-drum braziers.

And Jerry looks behind him. “It was all true,” he says. “It really was. Every Christmas after the Blitz.”

“Well, possibly.” Miss Brunner’s attention was on the present. The box was big enough at any rate, in red, gold, and green shining paper and a spotted black and white bow. “Nothing beats Christmas for horrible colour combinations.”

“Of course, it couldn’t last.” Jerry contemplated the best way of opening the present without messing up the wrapping. “The snow, I mean. Turned to sleet almost immediately. By the time we got to our place at eighty-seven Ladbroke Grove, with the turkey, it was pelting down rain. I had to go back for the tree. At least I could hold it over my head on the way home.” He’d opened it. The brown cardboard box was revealed, covered in black and blue printed legends and specifications. Automatically, neatly, he folded the wrapping. He beamed his appreciation, his fingers caressing the familiar sans-serif brand name in bars of red, white, and blue. “Oh,
blimey!
A new Banning.”