The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

  Brian Aldiss

  The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

  Part of the Brian Aldiss Collection

  The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy comprises:

  The Hand-Reared Boy

  A Soldier Erect

  A Rude Awakening

  Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction to The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

  1. The Hand-Reared Boy

  2. A Soldier Erect

  3. A Rude Awakening

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION TO THE HORATIO STUBBS TRILOGY

  This trio of volumes was published between 1970 and 1978. Its use of coarse language, masturbation, prostitution and sexual intercourse marks it out as a work appearing after – perhaps, only able to appear after – the famous trial of D. H. Laurence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover in the 1960’s.

  I had tried to deal with some of this tropical material before the Chatterley trial, in a novel I entitled Hunter Leaves the Herd. In this novel, a British soldier in Sumatra is offered a woman and a comfortable life in a kampong in exchange for deserting the army and joining the opposing side, bringing with him rifles and a load of ammunition. A similar event occurred while I was serving in Sumatra. However, I was unable to proceed with the story because it was too full of ‘obscenities’. My soldiers were not permitted to talk as real soldiers talked. I had to shelve the project.

  All three Stubbs volumes were well received, although A Rude Awakening appeared rather tardily after the two earlier volumes. Of the volumes, A Rude Awakening is possibly my favourite. The humour is better grounded than in the others. As a writer I had become more experienced.

  My closest interests at the time of writing these books included history, particularly contemporary history, as well as the science and science fiction for which I was better known. Later would come Walcot, a large one-volume story of the war against Nazi Germany and what followed.

  My life in Sumatra was unlike Stubbs’s. I was given a theatre to manage and to decorate with large cartoon murals. Two sepoys helped me to keep the place clean. I had a charming Chinese lover, and life could hardly have been better. Indeed, when I returned to England and demobilisation I found life to be considerably worse!

  Ah, how those of us exiled in the hardships, real or imaginary, of the East felt…

  We were stationed in Madras, preparing for an assault on Japanese-held Malaya, when a sergeant came along and said simply, ‘Right, you men. War in Europe’s over. Break off for a smoke…’

  All told, then, these three volumes stand as a kind of memorial, both to my writing life and, rather more importantly, to that distressing period when the British Empire was having to close its doors for business.

  Brian Aldiss,

  Oxford 2012

  BRIAN ALDISS

  The Hand-Reared Boy

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Hand-Reared Boy

  Introduction

  I was once travelling on a London bus. The young woman sitting opposite me was reading a book. It took me some time to realise it was my novel she had in her dainty hands!

  Such occurrences are rare – rare and startling. You are never sure that real people will read your books. On another occasion, I was travelling with my children on a ferry to Gothenburg in Sweden. The boys discovered there was a chap with his girlfriend sitting on the upper deck reading Hothouse. The girl kept talking to him, breaking his concentration. My sons were genuinely cross with her!

  This girl on the bus was about to get off the bus. I followed her and tried to strike up what one might call an acquaintance. She would have nothing to do with it. All the same, I realised the connection between real people, the real world, and the books I wrote.

  … Later, I met a young woman who preferred masturbation to actual intercourse.

  Although I have received many abusive – if not self-abusive – letters from readers, I felt and still feel I had hit upon a popular and real hobby in The Hand-Reared Boy.

  Recently an American reader remarked that ‘If God had not wanted us to masturbate, he would have given us shorter arms.’

  ‘Extremely funny, genuinely erotic.’ was the verdict of the TLS to The Hand-Reared Boy. With that, I tended to rest my case.

  The protagonist is key, and the name Horatio Stubbs held resonance for me. Was it quintessentially English? Horatio, fine – as in Horatio Nelson. As for Stubbs, Professor Stubbs was the editor of many old English charters, while one of the painters I most admired was George Stubbs, the 18th-century artist with a preference for painting horses.

  Who could be more English than that?

  Brian Aldiss,

  Oxford 2012

  The Hand-Reared Boy

  ON the one occasion that Sister Traven came to tea with us we were all in confusion beforehand, and my mother was the organizer of the confusion.

  She darted here and flounced there, using what she called The Light Touch to bring me or Beatrice to heel – that is, saying in a Tone of Charm something more acceptable delivered in an ordinary voice. ‘No, Beatrice, dear, I think we won’t have our ordinary serviettes, if you don’t mind. Let’s have some of the special ones, shall we, the paper ones, out of the bottom drawer of the sideboard. Or I’ll get them, shall I? I’d better get them!’

  Beatrice was not ruffled. She had been our maid for several years and was used to Mother’s ways. She was now married and no longer ‘living in’, but she still came in the mornings, when an older married sister looked after her increasing number of children. Today she was obliging and coming in the afternoon also, as she did on these special occasions. Among the alarms of setting the tea table I watched her with interest. A rather ordinary girl – not bad!

  How faithful I am, I thought. Here I’m seventeen and she’s got two awful brats and must be at least twenty-five, and I still fancy her a bit!

  ‘Darling, have your found your tie? You’d better hurry up, or she’ll be here, won’t she?’

  ‘Do you think she’ll mind if I haven’t got my tie on, Mum, really?’

  She surveyed me, smiling hard. ‘She must have seen lots of little boys without ties, and without more than that, Horatio! But, after all, she is your guest, and I think you might try and help me just a little.’

  The ‘little boy’ grated as much as she must have known it would.

  ‘You wanted her round here, Mum – I didn’t!’

  ‘Sweetie, try not to be too aggravating just at this moment when I’m trying to help you and Beatrice and Ann. You know we’ve asked her for your sake. She’s your friend, isn’t she? And perhaps one day she’ll ask us up to Traven House to have tea with her, and her family.’

  As I sneaked upstairs to look for my tie, I passed my sister going down.

  ‘That’s all she thinks about – that Sister Traven will ask us all out to her place to tea.’

  ‘I’m not going. I can’t find my dratted shoes,’ Ann said. She was then thirteen, one of the classic shoe-losing ages.

  Even when I was in my bedroom I could hear her shouting at Mother. She was far more vociferous than I.

  When I was dressed, tie and all, I sat on the edge of my bed, tentatively reading a magazine. Thus Mother found me when she came upstairs.

  ‘Ready, darling? Well, why don’t you go downstairs and be prepared for your guest? Wouldn’t that be nicest? I’m going to do my hair again – I must look like nothing on earth! I feel absolutely exhausted before she’s even arrived. I do hope she isn’t too fussy! I wish Daddy’d been able to fix the blackout properly in that room.’

  ‘You look fine, Mum.’

  ‘Thank you, d
arling.’ She came nearer to me and hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re a good boy, darling, a very good boy. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up, will you? Let me just put your tie a bit straighter. So glad you found it. I wish I’d borrowed Auntie Nell’s tea service.’

  ‘Why? Is ours broken?’

  ‘You know how cracked and chipped it is.’ She stepped back and surveyed my tie critically. ‘Your collars never look right. I bet they have really lovely tea services at Traven House, don’t you? You did say her father was an admiral, didn’t you?’

  ‘Rear-admiral.’

  ‘Good. Now you go downstairs, darling, and I’ll just tidy my hair and be down in a minute. And, Horatio …’

  ‘Yes, Mummy?’

  ‘Do try not to talk too Leicestershire!’

  ‘I’ll try, Mummy.’

  ‘Watch those long “u”s then.’

  Rolling the magazine and cramming one end into my pocket, I went downstairs and glumly joined my sister. We sat one either end of the sofa. She did not blame me for our present constraints, for which I was grateful. She was playing chess with herself, as Father had taught her.

  Like me, Ann was munching a cachou. Mother ladled them out to us on such nerve-racking occasions as the present, when we were about to be presented to someone of importance. Perhaps they effectively heightened our charms, though I have no recollection that our breaths needed sweetening.

  On these occasions Mother always took a cachou herself, as she distributed them out of a tiny cardboard box. I loved their meretricious perfumed taste, even if they were associated with nerves and straightened ties.

  My mother was a tall thin woman, several inches taller than my portly father. He was ponderous where she was bird-like. His reputation (somewhat unearned) was for never giving way to excitement; she (more justly) was known to be nervous. Our doctor had recommended fresh air as a restorative for my mother’s nerves and at this period of my life she was always out walking in the streets or the nearby countryside, sometimes with Ann and, less often, with me and Father lagging somewhere behind.

  ‘You’re too slow to catch a funeral!’ she would call back. Father, with an elaborate display of dumb humour, would stare about, searching highway and hedgerow for sight of the hearse.

  The guest whose appearance we were now so anxiously awaiting behind our perfumed defences was the nursing sister of my school, Miss Virginia Traven. I say ‘my school’, but by this date I had determined that school was over and done with as far as I was concerned.

  Several reasons existed for this determination, chief among them that I was finding my manhood, and that this was a good time to find it. The time was mid-September 1939, when Great Britain had been at war with Nazi Germany for something under a fortnight. My older brother, Nelson, had already disappeared into the Army, and was – according to the one letter we had received from him – messing about in a barracks in Aldershot. Beatrice’s husband, a husky young man who cleaned our car once a week, was reported to be training with the infantry somewhere on Salisbury Plain. My father was going through agonies of indecision about whether he should volunteer or not, and what the bank would say if he did. And I was sitting there on the sofa, picking calluses formed on my hands by the shovelling of great piles of soil on top of our air-raid shelter in the garden.

  The doorbell rang. My mother cried from above, ‘There she is now!’

  Beatrice went to the front door. Against instructions, I followed. I wanted to get a private word in first.

  Sister came lightly in, wearing her worn but tidy light tweed coat. She smiled at me with her head held slightly on one side, and quickly put her small hand into mine. Something lit in her face at the sight of mine lighting.

  ‘Hope you won’t be too bored,’ I whispered. Mother was already bearing down the stairs, making little sort of preliminary tuning-up sounds. I stood back for the overture.

  Meals have changed since then. They changed almost at that precise moment in time, as far as the Stubbs family was concerned. Perhaps that was the last of the rather lavish teas that my mother liked to give for her friends, sitting at the top of the table, with the teapot and its accessories by her side on a separate folding table, talking amiably to all and sundry, addressing each of her guests in turn so that none should feel left out, pausing now and then to give low-voiced instructions to Beatrice.

  My poor mama! She was always happiest in the past, and this present spread was an attempt as much to stop the clock as to impress the visitor. In the recent declaration of war, boys of my age had already smelt change, and trembled; my mother’s generation doubtless did the same – but their tremblings were far less pleasurable than ours.

  Perhaps for this reason she decided to address Sister as if the two of them were of the same generation. I must admit now that there can have been less than ten years between them, but that gulf appeared to be infinite at the time.

  Over the jelly and cream, the dainty slices of brown bread and butter, the jams in their glass dishes inside silver holders, the sponge and fruit cakes, the buns and biscuits and chocolate éclairs that were there mainly for Ann’s benefit, Mother cheerfully talked of Sister’s future, about which she knew even less than I.

  ‘I must say, I think it’s jolly brave of you to throw up a safe job and join the war effort! You’ll have a wonderful time, lots of boy friends and admirers! Oh, I know!’

  ‘I’m hoping to get posted to France,’ said Sister.

  ‘Lovely, what fun! Go to Paris! Such a beautiful city. Notre-Dame! The boulevards! Robert and I love Paris, especially in the spring …’

  ‘You were only there one day, Mummy!’ Ann said.

  ‘A beautiful spring day – eat your bread-and-butter properly, Ann, and sit up straight! You’d like Paris, I know, Sister.’

  ‘Yes, I do, very much. I have connections there.’

  ‘Family connections, no doubt? I expect you know most of the capitals of Europe … I should like to do my bit for the old country, but I’m not as free as you – three children and a husband …’

  ‘You wouldn’t actually call Nelson a child, would you, Mum?’ I asked. ‘He’s in the forces and he’s grown a moustache.’

  Mother smiled at me and held out her hand. ‘Pass your cup nicely if you’d like another cup of tea. Beatrice, I think if we could have some more hot water … Nelson looks so silly with a moustache, Sister! Of course, you’ve never seen him. They’ll soon make him shave it off. He’s at Aldershot; Robert was there in the Great War. He’ll always be my child if he lives to be sixty. I hope he’ll do well in the Army. I believe your family are some of them in the forces, Sister, aren’t they?’

  A small foot kicked me under the table, and Ann made a face at me over her cup; we could almost feel Mother forcing the conversational-tone-improving word ‘Admiral’ to materialize in the air above the table.

  ‘Try and drink more like a lady, Ann,’ said Mother, catching the movement. ‘Aren’t they, Sister?’

  Sister was sitting at table eating demurely, half-smiling in a way she had. She looked, I thought, rather like a dutiful young daughter, except that her face was faintly lined. Her short hair, some strands of which were quite fair, was neat and beautiful. She was so – well, you could see she was the product of upper-class breeding.

  ‘My father and his brother were in the Navy.’

  ‘Oh, the Navy, the senior service! And I expect they were both very successful, weren’t they? Let me cut you a slice of sponge.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say successful. My father’s brother, poor Uncle David, was drowned at sea.’

  ‘You poor thing! I’m so sorry. Horatio never told me!’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘I never heard of Sister’s Uncle David.’

  ‘No, of course, you didn’t,’ Sister said, giving me a little secret smile. ‘It was rather a tragedy. It happened in 1917. I was crazy about my uncle, although I was only a tot. He was so brave and so handsome. His ship was sunk
in the Atlantic by a German U-boat. He was in the water for some incredible time, clinging to a spar. At last a British merchant naval vessel picked him up and – do you know? – he hadn’t been aboard an hour before that ship was also torpedoed by a U-boat. It went straight to the bottom, Uncle with it.’

  ‘War’s a terrible thing,’ Mother said, causing a plate of cake to circulate.

  ‘We’ll soon beat the Germans,’ I said. ‘Their tanks are made of cardboard. The Head said so.’

  There was a pause for silent patriotism and fruit cake.

  ‘But your father’s alive and well still, I hear,’ Mother said.

  Sister nodded. ‘He’s a rear-admiral. Retired, of course. Now he talks about closing down Traven House and getting back into harness, if the Admiralty will have him.’

  We all smiled. Mother said, ‘Rear-admiral … A pity the way our grand old homes have to close.’

  Father had looked up Sister’s home in an old Baedeker the previous evening, and found: ‘3 m. farther NE, Traven House, Georgian, fine Vict. orangery, once the home of Sir Francis Traven, Gov. of Massachusetts Bay, 1771–9.’ We were all delighted, and wondered if Sir Francis’s descendants still grew oranges there.

  ‘Have you got any ghosts?’ Ann asked. ‘I’d be quite terrified! Do you have battlements, with phantom men in armour clanking about?’

  Sister laughed, a very charming little display. ‘No, no ghosts, no battlements.’

  ‘But Horry told me …’

  ‘Eat your cake,’ I said. ‘You’d be terrified of the mere thought of a ghost.’

  ‘Don’t bully her, Horatio, and do just brush your hair out of your eyes. That’s better!’

  ‘Mummy and I would love to come and see you at Traven House,’ Ann said.

  Our visitor looked askance. ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be at home much longer, Ann, otherwise I’d love to show you both round.’