The Fortunes of Fingel Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Fortunes of Fingel

  First published in 1976

  © Estate of Simon Raven; House of Stratus 1976-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Simon Raven to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842321900 9781842321904 Print

  0755129806 9780755129805 Kindle

  0755129962 9780755129966 Epub

  075515391X 9780755153916 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in 1927 into a middle class household, Simon Raven became both an outrageous figure and an acclaimed writer and novelist. His father inherited a hosiery business and did not have to work, his mother was an internationally successful athlete. The young Simon, however, viewed the household as ‘respectable, prying, puritanical, penny-pinching, and joyless’.

  Initial education was through attending Cordwalles Preparatory School, near Camberley, Surrey, where he later claimed to have been ‘deftly and very agreeably’ seduced by the games master. From there he went on to Charterhouse, but was eventually expelled in 1945 for serial homosexuality. Nonetheless, he still managed to wangle his way into King’s College, Cambridge, to read classics, after a two year gap to complete his national service in the Parachute Regiment.

  Raven had loved classics from an early age and read daily in the original, often translating from Latin to Greek to English, or any combination thereof.

  At Cambridge, he probably felt completely at home for the first time in his life. In his own words, ‘nobody minded what you did in bed, or what you said about God’. This was civilised to his mind and he was also later to write, in a somewhat fatalistic manner: ‘we aren’t here for long, and when we do go, that’s that. Finish. So, for God’s sake, enjoy yourself now - and sod anyone who tries to stop you.’ Despite revelling in Cambridge life, or perhaps because of it, Raven fell heavily into debt for the first time whilst there and also faced his first real responsibility. Susan Kilner, a fellow undergraduate was expecting his child and in 1951 they married. He took little interest in the marriage, however, and they were divorced some six years later.

  He also failed to submit a thesis needed to support an offered fellowship, so fled both Cambridge and his marriage for the army, where he was commissioned into the King’s Own Shropshire Light Infantry. After service in Germany and Kenya, during which time he set up a brothel for his men to use, he was posted to regimental headquarters in Shropshire. It was here that debt once again forced a change in direction after he lost considerable sums at the local racetrack.

  Resigning his commission so as to avoid being court-martialled, he turned to writing having won over a publisher who agreed to pay him weekly in cash, and also pick up bills for sustenance and drink. Moving to Deal in Kent he embarked upon producing a prodigious array of works which over the years included novels, essays, reviews; film scripts, radio and television plays and the scripts for television series, notably The Pallisers and Edward and Mrs Simpson. He lived in modest surroundings within rented accommodation and confined many of his excesses to London visits where his earning were dissipated quickly on food, drink and gambling – not forgetting sex which continued to feature as a major indulgence. He once wrote that the major advantage of belonging to the Reform Club in London was the presence opposite of a first class massage parlour.

  In all, Simon Raven produced over twenty five novels and hundreds of other pieces, his finest achievements being reckoned to be a ten volume saga of English upper-class life, entitled Alms for Oblivion, from 1959-76 and the First Born of Egypt Series from 1984-92.

  He was a conundrum; being both sophisticated and reckless; talented in the extreme yet regarding himself as not being particularly creative; but not applying this modesty (if that’s what it was) to his general behaviour, which was sometimes immodest beyond all reasonable bounds. He was exceedingly generous towards his friends; yet didn’t think twice about the position of creditors when getting into debt; was jovial, loyal and good company, but was unable to sustain a family life. He would drink like an advanced alcoholic in the evenings, but was ready to resume work promptly the following morning. He was sexually indiscriminate, but generally preferred the company of men. As a youth he possessed good looks, but a general abuse of his body in adulthood soon saw that wain.

  Simon Raven died in 2001, his legacy being his writing which during his lifetime received high praise from critics and readers alike. He was a ‘one-off’, whose works will continue to delight readers for generations to come.

  Acknowledgement

  Some of these stories were first published in the New Statesman, and the author acknowledges with thanks the permission of the Editor to print them here.

  Contents

  The Phantom Bawdy House

  Hot Chocolate

  Fingel’s Artillery

  Fingel in the Field

  Fingel Adjutans

  Fort Fingel

  Fingel’s Benefit

  Fingel’s Penitence

  Fingel’s Heritage

  Pandora’s Trunk

  Fingel on Tour

  Fingerella

  Colonel Fingel

  Fingel’s Aunt

  The Passing of Fingel

  Fingle me, oh fingle me,

  My patacake baby, come fingle me.

  West Indian song

  The Phantom Bawdy House

  “Bloody marvellous it was,” said Fingel to the group of subalterns round him, as we all waited for the Colonel to arrive. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I should never have believed it. And I wouldn’t expect you to believe it if I hadn’t got Raven here as a witness.”

  I smirked and looked knowing.

  “As soon as we came through the door,” said Fingel, “we were offered champagne by a girl who was bare down to her midriff – and wearing only black stockings and garters below it. She led us through to a kind of seraglio…”

  And so the tale went on. It had been Fingel’s idea; it always was. Göttingen in 1952 was a charming place in which to be stationed, but, being a respectable university town, was definitely short on casual sex. So let us make their eyes goggle, Fingel had said to me one day, by inventing a sumptuous brothel. They’d want to believe in it so desperately that they’d lap it up. Fingel and I could then issue detailed instructions how to get there, and sit back to enjoy the subsequent annoyance.

  “And another thing,” Fingel was saying now, “some of those girls couldn’t have been a day over eighteen…” In fact, he deposed, many of them must have been several years under it. What was more, Fingel inferred, they were blithely prepared to operate in groups, to organise unusual spectacles, and to cater for curious whimsy. He’s overdoing it, I thought. Some of his audience were beginning to look sceptical; they had
been had by Fingel before. But Fingel was master of the situation. And then the bugles sounded for dinner. Fingel’s work was done. I could see it in their eyes. “They’re going to bite,” said Fingel in my ear, as we walked along the corridor, down a line of drummers drumming, to the dining–room.

  And bite they did. After dinner they came in twos and threes, rather drunk now, wanting to know how to get there. Fingel gave them the instructions which he and I had worked out on the ground the previous evening, instructions which would eventually bring his victims to a particularly loathsome public urinal somewhere miles beyond the railway station. Carefully the subalterns listened, doomed men; and then, furtively euphoric, set out into the night.

  The next morning at breakfast, Fingel and I were rewarded by the sight of row on row of frustrated and scowling faces. Fingel had done it again.

  “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves,” he said.

  “Yes,” said an unexpected voice, “I did; and thank you for the tip.”

  The speaker was the newest joined National Service second lieutenant, who was called Dave Jones, refused to answer to the more passable “David”, and was not considered to be “the sort of chap we want in the mess”.

  “Lovely it was,” said Jones. He gave a long and circumstantial account of what he had done in Fingel’s bordello (“Can’t think how the rest of you missed it, I found it easily enough”) and concluded with the boastful claim that the girl had let him off at half-price, as she herself had enjoyed it quite as much as Jones had.

  “We can’t let him get away with that,” said Fingel later in the morning, as we sat by the fire in his Platoon Office. “Horrid little National Service man with spots and specs and Brylcream, finessing me and showing off like that. We must teach him a lesson.”

  The next morning at breakfast there were more cross faces. Encouraged by Jones’ story, several subalterns had set out yet once more to find Fingel’s paradise, with, of course, the same lugubrious and squalid journey’s end at the public urinal.

  “Raven and I went last night,” announced the beaming Fingel. “Didn’t we, Simon?” I nodded.

  “Can’t think how all you other fellows keep failing to spot the place.”

  “I didn’t fail, the time I went,” Jones said smugly.

  “Which reminds me,” said Fingel. “The Madame sent a message up for you, Dave. ‘Tell that little chap who was here last night,’ she said, ‘that Herr Doktor came round inspecting this morning and found that the girl he went with’ – your girl, Dave – ‘has got clap.’ The Madame’s very sorry, and hopes you’ll be lucky.”

  Dead silence. Now, it had been Fingel’s intention to subject the wretched Jones to several minutes’ horrified and humiliating scrutiny from his brother officers, and then finally and publicly to demolish his whole fantasy, thus revealing that Jones, while he couldn’t possibly have clap because there was nowhere he could have caught it, was nevertheless and by the same token a nasty, bragging little fibber. We had expected Jones to exhibit anger or embarrassment when the fictitious Madame’s fictitious message was delivered: what we had not expected was that he should turn ashen with shock and start sweating with terror.

  “Come outside,” he gibbered at me and Fingel. And once outside: “Jesus Christ. Clap you said. Whatever can I do?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Fingel said. “You know as well as I do that neither the place nor the girl exists.”

  “But they do exist,” wailed Dave Jones.

  And then he told us how, more patient than the others, he had lingered in a street near the urinal; how at last a door had opened, a hand had come out and beckoned… “It wasn’t as grand as you’d described it,” said Jones, “but then I always thought you were playing that side up a bit, and it wasn’t too bad at that. My girl certainly wasn’t as young as eighteen, but she wasn’t that old either, and she was pretty good at it. And of course that was a lie about her letting me off cheap, but I did go there, Fingel, and I did do what I did and now you say the Madame says that I’ve probably caught clap.”

  “I tell you,” said Fingel, “that my place doesn’t exist and neither does my Madame. Your place must be another place – a real place which by some coincidence is near my imaginary one. So of course you haven’t got clap, Davy boy. That’s all made up. But,” added Fingel, “it seems my creative instinct was right. There is a cathouse in that area, and you’ve been there, and now you’re going to tell us all about it.”

  So Dave Jones told us all about it. It wasn’t all that grand, as he’d already said, but it was clean and neat inside, and the girls had been quite jolly – round about thirty, most of them must have been – and it had been indicated that he could have two to himself but one had been enough, because although the price was very reasonable a National Service second lieutenant’s pay did not go very far. And so on. No champagne, Jones said, only beer; but comfortable rooms with lots of mirrors which the girl was clever at using – all in all excellent value, he thought, now that he no longer had reason to suppose he’d caught the clap. A thoroughly admirable, if modest, establishment…and here was the address. Just past the celebrated urinal, a turning on the right, about thirty yards down: No. 17.

  “We’ll go and take a look tonight,” said Fingel later in the morning, warming his bottom at the office fire. “What a piece of luck. That Jones creature is good for something after all.”

  So immediately after dinner we set off. A taxi to the station, a tedious walk through labyrinthine back streets, the urinal at last, a turning just past it on the right, thirty yards down…and No. 17. Fingel knocked. The door opened. A pretty woman in her late twenties appeared, looked us up and down, and, smiled pleasantly.

  “Meine Herren?” she said.

  “We’ve come to spend the evening,” said Fingel, whose German was as feeble as my own.

  “Mein Herr?”

  “You know,” said Fingel. “Jig-a-jig. Er…um…Zig-zig. That is…pour faire l’amour.”

  The girl nodded politely. “Moment,” she said.

  She walked back through the hall, and spoke rapidly in German through an open door.

  “Ah,” said Fingel as an old woman waddled into the hall, “this will be the senior bawd. What is the German for ‘I would like three of your girls all at once’?”

  “Drei Mädchen mit mir zusammen?” I suggested tentatively.

  The old woman stopped in front of us. “Jig-a-jig?” she said. “Zig-zig?”

  “Ja,” said Fingel, trying his best. “Drei Mädchen mit mir zusammen, bitte.”

  As the poker descended on Fingel’s head, I fled through the front door.

  “Luckily,” said Fingel, when I went to see him in the sick bay, “I’ve managed to persuade the Colonel it was all a misunderstanding. I was only asking to use her telephone, I told him, to call a taxi. Taxi: zig-zig. They sound a bit the same if you twist your mouth about. I hear he’s got the police to believe it. They still think of us as an occupying power, do you see. Very servile, these Krauts, once they’ve been beaten.”

  “That old woman wasn’t servile.”

  “No. I wonder how Dave Jones could have made that mistake. He seemed so clear, so accurate. No 17, he said.”

  “He swore to me later on that he said No 7.”

  “Oh. Been there yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was it?”

  “I’m lucky,” I said, “not to be lying there next to you. At No 7 it was a flat-iron instead of a poker.”

  “You mean…Jones has been having us on?”

  “Evidently.”

  “I could have sworn he was terrified about the clap. I was sure he’d had a girl somewhere, so of course I believed in his brothel.”

  “So did I. We’ve been out-fingelled, Fingel.”

  Hot Chocolate

  “Annoying scene at the Alte Krone last night,” Fingel said. “The Head Waiter told me I couldn’t have any more credit.”

  “So how did you pay him?”


  “I didn’t. He was prudent enough to make his announcement before I started eating. I had to go on to the Schwarz Hof. Pretty poor grub, but I think I can screw three or four more dinners out of them before they start asking for cash.”

  “What then?” I enquired.

  “You have a point, old bean. I’m rapidly running out of restaurants. But as I was leaving the Alte Krone, the proprietor popped up and told me a very interesting thing. He appreciated my custom, he said, or would do if it could only be put on a more stable basis, and he would like me to consider a suggestion: cocoa.”

  “What?”

  “Cocoa. Although the war’s been over for seven years, that’s a thing they’re still very short of. All the old BAOR markets – whisky, cigarettes, sugar – are as dead as last Friday’s fish, but they are still short of cocoa, and they badly want it to make those glutinous great cakes which Krauts are so fond of. In short, if I find a nice big consignment of cocoa, the proprietor of the Alte Krone will look on my signature with respect for many moons to come.”

  “And just where would you find this consignment?”

  “Company stores. All companies carry a large supply of cocoa for use on training and manoeuvres – the Army Council does not approve of rum issues, these days, and cocoa’s the coming thing instead. So tons of cocoa are sitting in the company stores – and my old chum, Sergeant Sweenie Mack, is sitting on top of the cocoa. They’ve just made him Acting Colour Sergeant while the proper man’s off on a course. I think I shall find Sweenie quite cooperative.”

  “Look,” I said; “the bottom may have dropped out of the old black markets in whisky and so on, but the SIB is still keeping an eye cocked and they know as well as you do that the Krauts are keen on Army cocoa. The penalty for trading in it is to be cashiered and probably imprisoned.”