aka The Monkey's Paw
Have you ever read
W.W. Jacobs' story, "The Monkey's Paw"* ? Very briefly, it's the tale of a couple who got three wishes granted and the unpleasant consequences that could happen to such folk as them, who seek to interfere with the ordained course of events, as laid down by you know who.
All of us are guilty, some time or other, of trying to
shape our destiny by various means, and it's mostly by wishing. No amount of threats of eternal damnation from the clergy or the moralists put us off doing so. We all wish for something we ain't got, or somebody else
has. The poor want money, the rich want more. The barren want kids, the poor unfortunate who can't unbutton his flies without his wife, clicks again, prays for a vasectomy.
I know a lady, who, apart from being a widow, has
pretty nigh everything a woman could wish for. A nice house, paid for, a full social life, two sons in extremely good jobs, who think the world of her and see that she wants for nothing. Not long ago they shared in a large win on the pools, but does her cup runneth over ? Not so likely. She wants to be a granny, but as her lads have decided that the round of golf, cricket and world travel, enlivened with the occasional bit of crumpet to keep their complexions clear, is better than marital bliss, she can't see any way of hearing the patter of tiny feet around the house, unless they get mice. But she still keeps wishing, and you know who up there, probably clicks the tongue, and wonders why he bothered.
I have no desire to alter, in any way, my pre-destined
path through life. Even when I win the pools, I won't let it change my way of living in any way. That's what
all the winners say, isn't it ? But there's one thing that will be different, and that is the passage in our house. It will be enriched by the presence of a grandfather clock ! That's what I have always wished for.
You can't turn a council house into a stately home, as
a lot of tenants try, by putting up a wrought iron gate in the front, or by hanging a front door covered in iron nails and little windows like bottle bottoms. It's like sticking a diamond tiara on a clippie and calling her duchess. But you can give a touch of the old Woburn Abbeys with a ten foot grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. Might be a bit dodgy getting past it to get up the stairs, especially if you're in a hurry to get to the throne room, but it would be compensated by hearing the sonorous tick-tock of the works and the resounding 'Boing-ng-ng' as it struck the hours, making the cups jump about on the saucers and the cat dive under the sideboard. There is something fascinating about a great clock, I can't explain what it is, perhaps it is the feeling of permanence and security that it seems to impart as it ticks away saying, 'take your time, take your time'.
I did know a bloke
who had one, and the first time I went into his place, it was the first thing that caught my eye. There it stood in the corner of the hallway, towering above the surrounding decor, a veritable interior Everest of a time piece, A wonderful enscrolled face surmounting an exquisitely panelled body, looked down at me as if to say, "Aren't I beautiful"?, as it spread its two golden hands in mute appeal. I felt if only I had this for my home to ease away the stress of the rat race, life would be fulfilled. Then I noticed that there was no tick, dead quiet, The owner must have sensed my unspoken question, as he said "I had the works taken out, couldn't stand the bloody row it made, banging away all night and tick-tocking above the telly, drove me round the twist". I said something about it being rather large to have as just an ornament, he said "Oh I dunno, comes in handy" and opened the door on the front of the clock. Do you know what he was using it for ? A broom cupboard. I realised then what the mute appeal of big grandad was. It was "Help"!
Goes to show that things are only what the mind of the onlooker sees, and what you might wish for, ain't everybody's pigeon, and could turn out to be unpleasant for yourself in the long run.
A fellow worker capitalised on this once, by taking a
lump of polystyrene, burning bits out of it, until it assumed a peculiar shape, then after rolling it in wet cement, he stuck it on a frame and entered it into the Arts and Crafts section of the Harrow Show with the word 'ISSADM' printed on the background. The judges saw all sorts of hidden meanings in it, as a lot of people do when looking at Picasso's efforts or the pile of bricks whatsisname flogged to the Tate Gallery**, and awarded him first prize and a quid prize money.
Afterwards, I asked him what the word 'ISSADM' meant, as the unknown name had a vaguely familiar sound about it, reminding me of Rudolph Valentino's romantic sheikh portrayals, and torrid passion in the Arabian desert, and this is what obviously influenced the judges in their choice. He said that was his feeling after he had made the shape, being a sensible bloke with creative genius just bursting to get out. He had been so elated with his creation that he had rushed round to a neighbour to show him and explain the mysteries that emanated from this distorted lump of cement coated polystyrene. After listening
patiently to my mate's ravings about his Immaculate Conception, this chappie, who was a stolid, down to earth type who had been in a varied career, a gully cleaner and a copper, took him firmly into the kitchen, made him a strong cup of tea, and said "I Should See A Doctor,
Mate". It obviously had the
desired effect, cos my pal saw immediately what he had to do. To gratify the wishes of the people who would be judging his entry, he had to add to that air of mystery his creation had. Give it a name that they didn't understand.
So he did, and they
still didn't. But you and I do, I hope.
Notes:
** Equivalent VIII by Carl Andre https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equivalent_VIII
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