Jonathan Buckley - The Great Concert of the Night

It’s ridiculous how little Francesca is earning at the moment, Emma protests to me. It’s insulting. ‘She’d be better off working in one of our shops,’ she says. Francesca shouldn’t have to be working at Christmas. Nicholas has to do a few hours, of course, but that’s to be expected: his company depends on him; he’s well paid, as he should be. ‘It’s a waste of her intelligence,’ she tells me.

‘She enjoys what she does. Many people can’t say that,’ I answer.

‘She could enjoy what she does and get paid properly,’ Emma counters. The discussion follows its customary course, to resignation. ‘My daughter is an economic invalid, and it’s your fault,’ says Emma, administering a whack with a towel. The course of Francesca’s life, my sister pretends, was diverted into its present unlucrative channel by my influence. ‘All those afternoons with you in the British Museum,’ she says. ‘You and Mr Martin,’ she curses, clamping her teeth on the name of the teacher who had escorted young Francesca around Pompeii, turning the girl’s head, while her classmates improved their tans.

Emma and Nicholas at work in the kitchen all morning, preparing the two Christmas feasts: one for the meat-eating seniors, and one for Francesca and her husband and their child. Every now and then, Emma tells me, her daughter makes some sort of attempt to convert her to the cause of virtuous eating, but not with the zeal of earlier years. The turkey is no longer lamented as the ‘murdered bird’. Today is a domestic carnival; all tribulations are set aside. Emma will make no mention of the current state of the retail environment, nor will her husband refer to the impact of recent political developments on his company’s business; Francesca’s dwindling income will not be a topic; likewise the closure of the museum. We are fortunate people. The food is sumptuous, and the wine is special – and, I am sure, unconscionably expensive.

We withdraw to the living room. A corner has been set aside as Jack’s play area; assisted by his father, he assembles a wooden train track. Emma’s gift from Francesca is a set of nature documentaries, her favourite genre. When she needs to unwind, she gives herself up to the spectacle of the natural world. In keeping with the season, she selects a winter-themed programme. We follow an Arctic fox on the hunt, then a polar bear. The camerawork is remarkable, as is the definition of the new TV set. Crystals of snow glint like diamonds on the fox’s whiskers. After fifteen minutes we’re off to the Southern Hemisphere, to observe a flotilla of penguins endeavouring to ride ashore on the waves. Geraint brings Jack over to watch the comical birds as they skid on the ice; they waddle through blizzards in their thousands. When things take a violent turn – seals ambushed by killer whales – Jack is carried back to his trains. The black water, the luminous ice, the spray of blood – the colours are sumptuous. State of the art, as the blurb on the box proclaims. Back in the Arctic, a polar bear waits at a breathing hole. It has been waiting for hours; sooner or later, a seal will put its head up. The tension is high. Emma, anxious for the seals, takes her husband’s hand; they have been married for more than thirty years, and still they hold hands. Contentment and prosperity; there is a vein of envy in my affection.

When the programme is over, Emma takes Jack in her lap to read to him. With one hand she turns the pages, and with the other she holds her grandson; her fingers are spread on his chest, and he places his hands over them, as if to secure their protection. ‘Giraffe,’ says my sister, and Jack tilts forward to touch the page. ‘That’s right,’ says Emma; she kisses the top of his head. ‘Gorilla,’ she says, and again Jack puts a finger on the book. ‘Very good,’ she says, and she angles her head so that he can see her smile of praise, which becomes a gaze of adoration, which is returned. At risk of embarrassing myself, I withdraw to the kitchen. Pans have to be scoured.

Geraint has brought a sample of the material with which he’s working: a tangerine-coloured square of sponge, a quarter of an inch thick. Inserted into clothing, it will protect people whose occupations entail a risk of severe impacts – oil rigs, demolition, motorbike racing. Non-Newtonian fluids are the key to the technology, he tells us. On Francesca’s laptop we watch a video of students messing around in a pool of cornstarch and water. Two of them run across the surface of the mixture again and again. Their footprints vanish within seconds. Then one of them stops running, halfway across, whereupon he slowly sinks. It’s the same principle, Geraint explains. Emma inspects the fabric, turning it over three or four times, as if checking a magician’s prop; she crushes the square in her palms. ‘Sweetheart, if you’d be so good,’ says Geraint, and Francesca passes the mallet to him, then places her hand on the table, forming a fist. He lays the square over the back of her hand. ‘Ready?’ he says, and at Francesca’s nod he brings the mallet down. It bounces off, as if it had struck wood. ‘Nothing,’ Francesca assures us. The demonstration is repeated. ‘Can I have a go?’ asks Emma. She invites me to place my fist on the table. She puts some effort into her second blow, like a medieval agent of the law maiming the hand of a thief.

Scenes from Devotion have been put online. Beatrice’s therapeutic orgasm, of course. Would be a lot better if she wuz nekkid, someone has remarked. In those days did people do sex with all there clothes on? someone else enquires. The death of Beatrice has also been excerpted. Whats wrong with that fucken baby??? Looks like a squid or something. The most frequently viewed scene, and the one that has attracted most comments, is the discovery of Beatrice’s body, many years after her death. The corpse has the appearance of Beatrice alive, asleep. The flesh is pallid but pliant, as if death had occurred that very hour. The doctor draws the scalpel across the skin of the forearm, releasing a flow of clear and oily liquid, like glycerin – the embalming fluid concocted by Julius Preston, a compound of unknown composition. Some are not wholly impressed by the fakery:

So obvious it’s a rubber arm.

Lame effects, lame movie – not horror, not anything. Ninety minutes of boredom and a pickled chick. YAWN. Dont waste your time.

Further comments:

Never heard of this movie before. Some mad shit. Cool.

Wow, this made me get very emotional. She was perfect for that roll.

If you like Frankenstein you will like this.

Frankenstien is classic. This is bollox.

Sooooooo slow. An hour and half of my life I wont get back.

Did they make up the story or is it real?

The movie is OK. Interesting and not to graphic.

What’s the song??? Love it. So sad.

Victorians were sick. Show’s how wrong we are in what we think about history. Darkness everywhere, in every one.

There is some place in italy with a girl who died 100 years ago and it looks like she is asleep. They have put her on the bed in the church and you can go and look at her. I think that is where they got the idea.

Does the dude take her out the box to bone her or what?

your a retard

She is cute I would do her dead or alive. I’m an animaaaaaal.