69 THINGS TO DO WITH A DEAD PRINCESS
Stewart Home was born in South London in 1962. When he was 16 he held down a factory job for a few months, an experience that led him to vow he’d never work again. After dabbling in rock journalism and music, Home switched his attention to the art world in the 1980s and now writes novels as well as cultural commentary.
First published in Great Britain in 2002 by
Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,
Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This edition first published in the United States of America in 2003
This digital edition first published in 2012 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Stewart Home, 2002
The moral right of the author has been asserted
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 1 84195 381 4
eISBN 978 0 85786 761 2
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Hobbity-style map drawn by Charly Murray
‘I regard truth as a divine ventriloquist. I care not from whose mouth the sounds are supposed to proceed, if only the words are audible and intelligible.’
Coleridge, Biographia Literaria.
‘I am a machine condemned to devour books.’
Marx in a letter to his daughter Laura dated
11 April 1868.
CONTENTS
ONE
A MAN who no longer called himself Callum came to Aberdeen intent on ending his life. He wanted to die but not by his own hand. That was where I came in. He wanted me to help him act out his death. A psychodrama. When I met Callum he told me his name was Alan.
It was a cold overcast day. I’d slept late and abandoned my plan to go to the beach. I liked going to the beach. Even in winter. Even at night. But not when it was wet. I went to Union Street. I didn’t have anything better to do. The shops were filled with commodities but they bored me. Books. Records. The Aberdeen merchants didn’t cater for tastes like mine. I relied on secondhand stores, mail order, presents from friends, trips to Edinburgh and London. Things could have been worse. I could have been living in Dundee where the rents were cheaper but the city centre was a pedestrianised shopping nightmare. Aberdeen was better, there was the beach, Union Street and oil money. If Brighton was San Francisco on the South Coast, then Aberdeen was Los Angeles on the North Sea.
It was a dreary mid-week lunchtime and the pubs were unusually empty. I took advantage of this to avoid my friends. I went to The Grill, a very traditional bar. I’d not been to The Grill before despite the place being legendary. The old men who patronised The Grill were reputed to dislike women drinkers. I’d heard the management were endlessly deferring the installation of a ladies’ toilet. This ensured the regulars enjoyed a predominantly male environment.
I walked in to a dozen hostile stares. Alan looked up from a book, waved at me and said afternoon. I misheard what he said, it wasn’t quite 12.30 and I thought Alan was saying my name. Anna Noon. I didn’t recognise Alan but I thought he must know me. I went and sat with him. He got up and bought me a drink. I looked at the book he was reading. However Introduced to the Soles, new poetry from Niall Quinn, Nick Macias and Nic Laight. Alan returned with my gin and a fresh pint of heavy. I asked him to read me his favourite poem in However Introduced to the Soles and he recited the contents page from memory.
I added tonic to the gin and raised the glass to my lips. Old men were swimming before my eyes. A struggle to keep up with the times was written across their blank faces. The town had changed. Oil had changed the town. The old men drank slowly, preserving as best they could their pensions and their memories. Things were different in the old days. Oil had turned their world upside down. House prices had gone through the roof. Their children had moved away. They couldn’t afford to live in the city. Aberdeen had changed. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want Alan to speak. We both had English accents. Neither of us was involved with the rigs.1
I finished my drink and suggested we relocate to one of the pubs near the station. My shout. Alan said we could go back to his place. I didn’t know if this was a suggestion or a threat. He had a bottle of Springbank. I didn’t know what it was. A Campbeltown malt, he explained. Alan also had a bottle of gin. That was good enough for me. It was raining. Neither of us had an umbrella. Alan paid for a taxi to Union Grove. It wasn’t far. East of the big detached houses favoured by the oil men. The door to the tenement needed a new coat of paint. The stairs needed sweeping. Alan’s flat was on the first floor.
We went through the door. I’d never seen anything like it. There were books everywhere. Bookcases, even in the hallway, covered every inch of wall space, from the floor to the ceiling. But there wasn’t enough shelf space for the books. There were piles of books lying all over the floor. Old newspapers too. Alan led me into the living room. It was filled with books. I was surprised by the furniture, carpets and curtains. Brown leather and chrome. Brown shag pile. Blue velvet. Someone had spent money on the flat. Although the colour combinations left a
