The Collected Novels Volume Four: Little Bits of Baby, Facing the Tank, and Tree Surgery for Beginners

by Patrick Gale

Overview

Three keenly observant and profoundly moving novels from an international bestselling British writer “with heart, soul, and a dark and a naughty wit” (The Observer).
 
“Patrick Gale writes with the understated fluency that is the hallmark of contemporary British fiction, and with the irony that usually accompanies it.” In the three novels collected here, the author of the international bestseller Notes from an Exhibition explores the complexities and ironies of men who have removed themselves from society and painful situations, only to find there’s no escaping their inner turmoil as they follow individual journeys of growth (Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post).
 
Little Bits of Baby: Robin retreated to a remote island monastery after his childhood playmate, Candida, became engaged to Jake, their irresistibly sexy mutual friend. Now Candida is a mother, and she wants her long-lost friend to be the child’s godfather. When he returns to London after his five-year exile, Robin finds the city overwhelming and unfamiliar, but he must fight through his feelings if he is to conclude the unfinished business that originally caused him to flee, and take his place in the world once again.
 
“[A] blithe, original, engaging satire.” —The New York Times
 
Facing the Tank: For American academic Evan Kirby, the English city of Barrowcester—pronounced “Brewster”—is a welcome escape from the US and his brutal divorce. A historian of angels and demons, he has come to explore the cathedral library, but he will find there are no angels in this peculiar little village. From the agnostic bishop and his cannabis cookie–addicted mother to the sex-mad cardinal and the schoolboy with a very unusual relationship with his spaniel, every Barrower has a secret, each more shocking than the last.
 
“[A] ridiculously crazy tour de force . . . If E. F. Benson, Iris Murdoch and Fay Weldon were to produce a story in some mad collusion, the result might be something like this.” —Publishers Weekly
 
Tree Surgery for Beginners: Armistead Maupin has said of Patrick Gale: “There’s really no one he can’t inhabit, understand, and forgive.” That certainly applies to the arborist Lawrence Frost in this epic redemptive novel, who is forced into a journey of self-searching after being accused of killing his wife. Following Frost’s pilgrimage to the Caribbean and eventually to the redwoods of northern California, Gale compassionately chronicles the healing of “a man whose work as a tree surgeon is a metaphor for the growth of his soul and family” (Publishers Weekly).
 
“Playful and wise. In prose of sparkling precision, Gale serves up misadventures—satirical, farcical and tragic.” —The New York Times

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504055444
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	08/14/2018
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	1245
File size:	5 MB

About the Author

Patrick Gale was born on the Isle of Wight. He spent his infancy at Wandsworth Prison, which his father governed, then grew up in Winchester, before attending Oxford University. He now lives on a farm near Land’s End. One of the United Kingdom’s best-loved novelists, his recent works include A Perfectly Good Man, The Whole Day Through, and the Richard & Judy Book Club bestseller Notes from an Exhibition. His latest novel, A Place Called Winter, was shortlisted for the Costa Novel Prize, the Walter Scott Prize, and the Independent Booksellers’ Novel of the Year award. To find out more about Patrick and his work, visit www.galewarning.org.
 Patrick Gale was born on the Isle of Wight. He spent his infancy at Wandsworth Prison, which his father governed, then grew up in Winchester, before attending Oxford University. He now lives on a farm near Land’s End. One of the United Kingdom’s best-loved novelists, his recent works include A Perfectly Good Man, The Whole Day Through, and the Richard & Judy Book Club bestseller Notes from an Exhibition. His latest novel, A Place Called Winter, was shortlisted for the Costa Novel Prize, the Walter Scott Prize, and the Independent Booksellers’ Novel of the Year award. To find out more about Patrick and his work, visit www.galewarning.org.
 
 

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

'Jasper, will you be still!'

'It's OK, Ms Thackeray, we won't be ready for a while yet.'

'Jake?'

'Mmh?'

'Why's he calling Mummy "Thackeray" when we're called Browne?'

'Ssh.'

'It's my working name. Now Jasper do come and sit still. You'll make her cry.'

'She's called Perdita Margaux Browne.'

'I know.'

'Then don't call her "her". It's rude.'

'Jasper?'

'Yes?'

'Sit.'

Candida Thackeray had just come home to her house in Stockwell with her new baby, Perdita Browne, and was being photographed on a sofa with husband Jake and six-year-old Jasper. In fact she had come back, baby in arms, three days ago. For the sake of Radio Times, Woman's Realm and the Daily Mail, however, Candida had pulled back on her hospital-leaving coat and, when the time arrived, would dandle Perdita proudly on her knee with father and brother looking on, fresh welcome in their smiles. An empty overnight bag lay suggestively at their feet.

With a wilful glance at his mother, Jasper walked out of tableau briefly, to return with a painted wooden train which, having clambered back onto the sofa, he cradled with an uncanny sense of his own appeal. Candida gave him a guarded smile.

'Good boy.'

With split-second timing, Jasper looked up into her eyes and beamed just as a photographer took an 'informal' shot.

'Great, Jasper,' shouted the photographer. 'And again.'

Jasper smiled again, the camera flashed two more times and Perdita awoke in bilious mood. Candida sighed and tidied her son's fine blond hair as Jake scooped up an armful of blankets and new daughter.

It was far too soon to tell if Perdita would be attractive. She was bald and, when roused, her small, creased face turned an alarming puce. Not prepossessing as yet, she at least had her complement of limbs and external organs and was all theirs.

'You're all ours,' Jake murmured to her. She bellowed in his ear and spat on his favourite shirt. He rubbed her back and told her to hush but she roared.

'Wants her milk bar,' said Candida.

'I want a Milky Bar,' said Jasper.

'They're bad for your teeth,' she told him, taking the baby.

'No. I mean I want a nipple. I want your nipple.'

'Ssh.'

'Nipple!'

Jake tickled his son deftly with one large hand, rendering him incomprehensible. A camera flashed as Jasper squirmed.

'I'll take her next door,' she murmured.

'Why not do it here?'

'Jake!'

'Well, you could. No one minds.'

'If your nipples looked like Bath buns ...,' she began, rising.

'Nipple!' hooted Jasper. 'I'm coming too.'

'No. You stay here and amuse everyone. Won't be a second,' she added to the photographers over Perdita's yells.

Released from the sofa, Jasper jumped to the floor and began to chase his train, glancing up occasionally in the hope of catching a camera's eye. Jake followed his wife to the kitchen where she had quickly unbuttoned the top of her blouse and presented Perdita with a bloodshot nipple through a trap-door affair in her bra.

'I think it's too early for you to be going back to work,' he said.

'I've got to. I promised them I'd be back tomorrow so I shall be.'

'Well, call them. Trish can do it for a few more days, can't she?'

'No. Well. Hang on. Have you got a hanky?'

'Yes. Here.'

'Thanks.' Candida mopped Perdita's cheek with his handkerchief, then tucked it into her pocket. 'Yes, of course Trish could, but I can't stand getting up every morning seeing Jasper watching her do my job. It'll undermine his confidence in me.'

'Rubbish. He understands. I think he's far more excited about your production of a sister than watching you on the box.'

'Anyone can produce a baby.'

'I can't.'

'You lent your part.'

Jake leaned on the sink beside her stool, kissed his wife's ear and watched their greedy child with an element of envy.

'I did my best,' he said. 'She is rather fine.'

As Candida changed nipples, Perdita peered up, pig-eyed and breathless with gluttony.

'She's outstanding.'

Perdita belched then returned to her meal. Jake stroked his wife's cheek and grunted assent.

'We should get back soon,' he added.

'Samantha'll be back any minute. She can make them all coffee or tea or something. Jake, I've been thinking.'

'What?'

'I'd er ... I'd like to have Perdy christened.'

'But you haven't been to church since I met you.'

'Yes, I have. Sometimes.'

'When?' He laughed, incredulous.

'Sometimes. Not with you.'

'But why christen her? You don't think it makes any difference?'

'Well ... I ...'

'And it'll make Jasper terribly jealous. We'd have to get him done too, which means finding twice the godparents. Unless they'd double up. Do you think they would?'

'No need. He doesn't want to be done. I asked him about it and he said "God's all crap, Mummy".'

'I knew that play-school was the right choice.'

'And I asked him if he'd mind my getting Perdy done and he said no just as long as a) Samantha was kept on to look after him as well as Perdy, b) that he could be allowed to stay up until eight occasionally and c) that I buy him a Cacharel jersey like Flora Cairns's.'

'Solves the birthday present problem. When is his birthday?'

Candida passed him Perdita while she buttoned her Bath buns away.

'Next month. I ...' She broke off shyly.

'What?'

'I've already bought it.'

'Well. That's all settled then.'

'You're not cross?'

'Let's go in and get these pictures over with. I must be in by ten-thirty.'

'Jake?'

''Course I'm not cross.' He gave her a squeeze as he opened the kitchen door. 'I'd love a good Christian daughter.'

'Mummy!' Jasper ran from a conversation with a heavily stubbled photography assistant to hurl himself at Candida's thighs and walk backwards with his chin resting on her pelvis.

'Hello, Jasper,' she said and the four of them returned to the sofa. 'Sorry about that,' she called to the photographers. 'At least she'll be affable now. We're all yours.'

For a few minutes, Jake and his wife said nothing to each other as they were photographed, re-arranged, photographed, asked to brighten smiles, photographed, made to swop children and photographed again. Then, in a lull as she recovered her face from the onslaught of lights, he quietly asked.

'Have you got any candidates for her godparents?'

'As a matter of fact I have.'

'What for?' asked Jasper.

'Who?' asked Jake.

'And look out again if you wouldn't mind,' asked Woman's Realm.

'Your sis. I thought that would be nice. And then Dob,' said Candida, smiling outwards.

'Robin Maitland?'

'Who else? I think he'd be perfect.'

'He's got God I suppose but, Christ ...' Jake looked away and ran a hand through his hair. 'Wouldn't that be a mite insensitive?'

'Who's Dob?' asked Jasper.

'An old friend of Jake's,' Candida told him.

'This way, please, Jasper. Once more.'

Jasper smiled perfunctorily for the Daily Mail then turned back.

'No, but who is he really?'

'Here's Samantha. Are you going to help her make coffee for everyone?'

'Oh. All right.'

Jasper slid off the sofa and made a passable show of joy at seeing his young nanny again, which quickly turned to genuine pleasure as she slung him onto her shoulders and piggy-backed him briskly to the kitchen, her arms stretched with shopping.

'And just a few of Ms Thackeray and Perdita alone now, please.'

Jake stood aside and stared nervously at Candida who beamed complacently as she held her daughter's nose close to her own.

Perdita was turning boss-eyed with exhaustion and began to whimper at the approaching lights.

'See you eight-thirtyish?' Candida asked from the corner of her mouth.

'Yup,' said Jake. 'Say goodbye to Jasper for me,' and he took up his briefcase, shook his car keys and left.

CHAPTER 2

Robin was up an apple-tree. Through the crackling canopy of leaves he could see most of the tiny island's coastline and, in the distance, the thin anaemic scar of England. There was nothing else on Whelm besides the monastery and a cottage on the South shore where fishermen from the mainland sometimes slept.

A word or two about this place that absorbed eight of his precious years. The last Lord Whelm, a virgin mystic, had founded the order in the late 1800s and bequeathed it his island and house in perpetuity. Fundamentally Protestant in outlook, though still unrecognised by the established churches on the mainland, Whelm's peculiar marriage of discipline and informality was reflected in its relationship with a sister order on the nearby island of Corry. Ever since a childhood sweetheart and lifetime apostle of Lord Whelm's had risen to be Abbess there, the two orders had celebrated the harvest festival with a picnic. One year the nuns would cross to Whelm, the next, they would play host to the monks. Despite rich conjecture from the fishermen, free to pass from island to island all year, nothing untoward ever occurred. The ritual welcoming of one sex by another and the joint service which followed in a chapel filled with the sheen and rustle of the year's produce certainly bore more than a hint of fertility rite about them, but any such effect was undercut by the frank, housekeeperly exchange of the honey, mead and candles of Corry for the fruit, flour, and cider of Whelm.

Whelm possessed no television or radio set. There was one telephone, which rarely rung and was used even less, locked out of temptation's way in a box in the Abbot's study. There was a music room with an eclectic record collection and, while there was no control of reading matter beyond a proscribed passage of Scripture or divine writing for each day, most found that the library fulfilled their needs. Post, supplies, visitors and the Abbot's weekly newspaper were delivered by fishermen. Monks had two visiting days a year, novices four and Robin, as many as he cared for, (and he had cared for none). The air of pastoral isolation was furthered by the island's lying away from any major flight path or shipping route. Robin's emergence from a state of collapse to something approaching control, if not exactly mental health, was the passing from a nightmare without hours to a peace kept in motion only by the gentle nudging of a daily schedule of reading and tasks.

Luke, a novice and the nearest one could have to a friend in a place where every man was friendly, was working at the foot of the tree. They had a routine. Robin would pass him a small basket of apples in exchange for an empty one. As Robin filled the second, Luke would sort the first. The perfect apples he wrapped in squares of tissue paper and laid in smoke-blue moulded trays. The damaged ones he set in a larger basket for immediate pickling or bottling or, if they showed too many signs of life, for pressing into the brown juice that would make cider.

Robin liked being up the tree. The fragrant crumble of the bark against his hands and bare feet released draughts of childhood. He used to spend hours with a best friend up a beech tree in Clapham, wolfing handfuls of pilfered dried fruit and rehearsing the downfall of adults they secretly loved. He liked the weight of the new apples in his hand and the smell of seashore on the autumn wind when it came to rattle the leaves. He also liked Luke's company. Luke had the gift of knowing when to talk and when to listen. He listened a lot since he was an adept at leading questions; conversational pinpricks that released pent-up poison for his sympathy to wash away.

'I suppose,' Robin told him, arching up to a pair of apples that bobbed behind his head, 'I suppose that you're my nurse, really.'

'I'm your friend,' Luke corrected him.

'Well, yes. If you say so. But you're my nurse first and then you're my friend.'

'Hardly. I don't know the first thing about nursing. I trained as a structural engineer.'

'Apples for you.'

'Thanks. We can move trees in a second and I'll give you a turn on the ground.'

'No. I like it up here.'

'So do I. I had a childhood too.'

'All right. Damn!'

Robin dropped an apple.

'It's OK.'

Luke caught it and Robin carried on.

'But you do tell Jonathan everything I tell you, don't you?'

'I did to start with, to let him know how you were opening up, but not any more. Not for about five months.'

'Why not?'

'It's not his business any more.'

'Who said so?'

'He did.'

'So you were prepared to carry on reporting back?'

'Not really. I'd already started leaving things out; things I thought you were telling me as friend rather than nurse.'

'But he guessed and let you off the hook.'

'Yes. For a kind man, he's a perceptive one.'

'Mmm.'

There was a pause then Luke noticed that Robin had stopped picking.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'Nothing.'

'You're not picking anything.'

'Nothing left to pick.'

'Then come down and we can change trees.'

'But it's nice up here. I can see Dorset.'

'That's uninspired. Why not a small cloud in the shape of a man's hand?'

'Very funny. Mind your head then, Elijah.'

'Do you want a hand?'

'No. Get out of the way or I'll kick you.'

Luke stood back and Robin half leaped, half tumbled from the tree. Robin had his hair tied back with a knotted handkerchief into a kind of pony-tail. As he swept the handkerchief off to wipe the sweat from my face and neck, he caught Luke watching him and his body in a slightly pathetic way he had. After Robin's summer in the garden Luke seemed slight and pale beside him. So Robin took the larger basket from him and they walked to the foot of the next tree.

'Well, up you go,' Luke said.

'No. It's your turn,' Robin told him.

'No. Go on.'

'No. You had a childhood too.'

He hesitated, grinning.

'You sure?' Luke checked.

'Go on.'

He swung himself onto the lower branch and half disappeared from view.

'I can see Dorset!' he shouted.

'Ssh.'

'What's the matter? We're allowed to talk.'

'But if you shout, old Snapdragon'll come out and put you on silence which would be very dull.'

Robin watched the wind send a handful of tissue paper wheeling over the grass then thought to put a pebble in the box to stop any more from escaping. That was happening a lot then – a sort of delay between his eye and hand.

'Here.'

Luke handed him the first apples in exchange for the second basket.

'Thanks.' Robin started to wrap them. 'Luke?'

'Yes?'

'Why are you here?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'No. Tell me.'

'The nurse would tell you it's none of your business.'

'How about the friend?'

'He'd say erm and change the subject.'

'I mean, is it a God thing or a human thing?'

'I don't see how you can separate the two.'

'Don't give me that crap,' Robin pursued and felt himself scowl.

'Apples for you.'

'Thanks.'

'Well?' Luke held out his outstretched palm, 'Give me the other basket, then.'

'Not until you tell me.'

'Oh, Robin!'

'Go on.'

'My reasons are no different from anyone else's here, except Jonathan's perhaps. It's a human thing – running away from something till you find the strength to cope with it – and the God thing helps. Some of the time. Most of the time.'

'You don't mean God; you mean the peace helps, and the sea and the old house and having apples to pick and unworldly women to picnic with one day a year.'

'That is God, a part of Him, anyway.'

'That's a lie,' said Robin, quietly emphatic.

'Can we talk about this another time?'

'No.'

'Please, Robin?'

'Why?'

'Because I need to think,' he begged, 'and it's hard to think while dangling between earth and heaven like this.'

'But if it's the truth – if you know why you're here – it should be easy to say. The truth is what comes into your head first. We're born with truth; we learn how to lie.'

'How to Succeed in Comtemplative Society. Rule One: Hold your tongue.'

'Coward. You always joke when you're afraid I'm winning.'

'Basket, please.'

Robin passed Luke the empty basket. He knew he was frowning from the way that Luke smiled at him from a faceful of leaves.

'I'll tell you another time,' Luke said. 'I promise. Better still, I'll show you.'

'I'll keep you to that.'

Robin sat and tossed three maggoty apples into the cider basket.

'Snapdragon's coming our way,' warned Luke. 'He's fairly trotting.'

'Damn. He's probably come to drag you off to Bible class.'

'That's not till this afternoon.'

Snapdragon, proper name Basil, was one of the middle-aged monks, his habit an ungainly contrast to the younger men's lither work-clothes, his complexion a testament to chair-bound decades. He puffed over the stile into the orchard and trundled towards them. His round, schoolboy's face shone with unwonted excitement.

'Here you both are,' he said. 'Luke, I'm afraid you'll have to manage on your own; there's someone on the telephone for Robin. They're calling from London.'

That was the first time Robin had truly run since he came there. Unless, that is, he ran in his madness. He could never be sure; Luke tried to spare him so much. Reaching the stile, he found an apple in his hand and hurled it into Luke's tree. Then he sprinted across the upper lawn to the terrace outside Jonathan's study. The Abbot had his back to the open windows and was talking into the telephone. Robin tapped on the glass and made him turn.

'Ah. Here he is. I'll hand you over,' Jonathan said as Robin climbed over the sill and crossed the room, rubbing his hands clean on his trousers. 'I'll be next door, Robin. Come and talk when you've finished.' He handed over the receiver and left the room.

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "The Collected Novels Volume Four"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Table of Contents

LITTLE BITS OF BABY,
FACING THE TANK,
TREE SURGERY FOR BEGINNERS,
About the Author,