Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Ah yes—

The whole tragic socio-political edifice was currently hanging — like a badly mounted stuffed elk — on Gaffar’s family resemblance, terror, and the faultless cut of his Yves Saint Laurent.

Sergio?

Man—

What am I on?!

He finally located a box of matches (tucked down the side of the sofa), lit his cigarette and returned his full attention back to the brown envelope. He inspected the seal–

Not glued, just—

He kept his smoke dangling loosely from his lip as he popped out the flap. He peered inside — inhaled — and saw a thickish sheath of photocopied papers. He exhaled–

Hmmn

— and gently removed them.

It was a very old book — forty pages long — badly reproduced and slightly blurry (although the frontispiece was in bolder type and so marginally more legible than the rest). It was written in Old English–

Well, oldish…

Some (but not all) of the ’s’s were ’f’s.

SCOGIN’S JESTS;

he read:

Full of witty Mirth and

pleafant Shifts;

done by him in FRANCE

and other places.

BEING

A Prefervative against Melancholy.

Then underneath that:

Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.

This was followed by a whole ream of publishing guff.

Kane casually opened to the first page. He stiffened. On the blank, inner leaf, in pencil, somebody had written:–

So Beede—

There’s a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs’ funny-men, although I didn’t get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that — I saw at least two editions of this one — the earlier called Scoggin’s Jests by an Andrew Boord–1626–and this one, in which the spelling’s more familiar, from 1796–that’s a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher…)

Kane returned to the front page again:–

Printed for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.

He stared at this, blankly, for a while, removing his cigarette from his mouth (looking around for an ashtray, but not finding one, so tapping off the ash on to the knee of his jeans and patting it into the fabric), then turned back to the inside leaf and picked up where he’d left off:–

The information enclosed isn’t considered especially reliable, though. This book was written years after John Scogin’s death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (would’ve been considered ‘tabloid’, even at the time of its publication).

The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler, who seems like a rather dodgy character—‘physician to Henry VIII ’, apparently) features in R.H. Hill’s Tales of the Jesters, 1934 (and I wouldn’t have a clue what his sources were), but — believe it or not — the text was registered unavailable (read as ‘some miserable bastard stole it’).

The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section (who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called A Nest of Ninnies by Robert Armin (He’s writing a book about comedy and is very interested in jesters’, she said).

I tracked him down to the Music Section. He was a little hostile at first (you know how territorial these people can be), but after a brief conversation he admitted that he actually had his very own copy of Tales of the Jesters at home which he’d ‘found’ in a second-hand bookshop in Rye (this might’ve just been sheer bravura on his part — that whole ‘journalists v academics’ hornets’ nest. Or maybe not).

The last section (in brackets) had been hurriedly crossed out.

Anyhow,

Kane continued reading:

I asked if I might borrow it some time (or even just make a copy of the relevant chapters) but he got a little prickly at this point and said he was still in the middle of using it, but that he would definitely call me when he was done (I gave him my number, although I won’t be holding my breath). Then he told me some stuff over coffee (I bought the Madeira cake — it was a little dry) which you might find interesting. Will inform you in person.

The quality of the copy is poor (at best). This is because it was reproduced from a microfile. But I think you’ll get the basic gist…

W.

PS If you need anything else — anything at all — you know you can always reach me on my mobile…

A number followed.

Kane cocked his head for a while — as if deep in thought — his eye returning, repeatedly, to the phrase ‘I bought the Madeira cake — it was a little dry,’ and then to the signature (‘W’).

Eventually — but somewhat hesitantly — he moved on to the text, proper. ‘W’ was right: the quality of the copy was very poor. And it was written in an ornate typescript (real migraine territory), which made the letters look like so many black ants dancing a woozy conga. After several minutes he succeeded in battling his way through The Prologue (his eye lingering, for a while, on a small rhyme at the bottom of the page):–

I Have heard fay that Scogin did come of an honeft ftock, no kindred, and his friends did fet him to fchool at Oxford, where he did continue until the time he was made Mafter of Art,

where he made this jeft,

A Master of Art is not worth a fart,

Except he be in Schools,

A Batchelour of Law, is not worth a Straw,

Except he be among fools.

Kane’s brows rose slightly. He closed the manuscript and reopened the envelope. He peered inside, then smiled and shoved in his hand, pulling out another (smaller) sheet of paper which he hadn’t noticed there before. This was a receipt from The British Library, and detailed the costs of the photocopying. At the bottom of the receipt he observed — with a small start — the credit card details of one Winifred Shilling–

I knew it

The fucking Madeira cake—

Damn her

‘Why?’

Kane jerked out of his reverie. Gaffar had twisted around on his chair and was now staring at him, quizzically.

‘Sorry?’

Kane hurriedly shoved the manuscript and the receipt back into the envelope, licking the seal this time and pressing it shut.

’A look of thunder,’ Gaffar exclaimed, helpfully providing both vocal (and visual) dramatisation of his words.

‘ Oh …’ Kane’s face rapidly showcased a disparate mish-mash of emotions (Picasso’s cubist masterpiece Woman Crying seemed like traditional portraiture by comparison). He struggled to get a handle on the play of his features. ‘It’s…uh… nothing, ’ he almost ticked.

‘Okay.’ Gaffar nodded (registering Kane’s inner turmoil, but taking it all with a pinch of salt: I mean, how hard could life be for this spoiled, flabby, Western pup?).

‘I lost something,’ Kane muttered, suddenly pulling himself to his feet (his hair falling across his face), ‘that’s all.’ He glanced around him (through the lank mop of his fringe), not entirely certain what he was searching for–

Beede?

‘Is lid?’ Gaffar asked patiently, a small chipolata suspended delicately between his mouth and his bowl.