Of Hare Course

By K.R. Cohen

What kind of a man is Rolf Rote? Well, for a start, he is most definitely not a loafer. Nor is he a glutton. Or for that matter a tactless bore. In point of fact, and simply because he himself proclaims these things, he is an artist, an architect, and of course, an aesthete. And while he hasn't had any paid work in the last ten years, what's most important is that a stipend from his late mother's estate allows him the freedom to work on his personal projects. Projects which will, assuredly, and in due time, startle and astonish the world.
And yet, as the autumn of his youth is approaching, a number of spanners are appearing in his works which have absolutely no business being there. It is becoming clear that he must use his more than meagre talents and far from rudimentary social skills to remove these encumbrances.
Join him on the helter-skelter and bask in the splendour of eighty diverting illustrations!

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.R. Cohen
• Release date: Jun 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301249619

Book preview

Chapter I

It has been my intention for some time to write a treatise on the subject of existence. I know it has been done before, but it must surely be, by its very essence, an on-going project. We can hardly say that the definitive work has been written when we continue to exist. There are new lessons to draw from our modern lives. My modern life? Yes, my life. I cannot write with authority upon anyone else's (even if the result of my efforts would be most illuminating). I present myself as an exemplar.

I live in a city. It doesn't matter where, although it happens to be London. I wake up every morning and wait to be fed. And when no-one does it I make my own breakfast! I have the same things every day. Tomato juice, Kornvita and marmalade. I live alone, of course. I am temperamental, I know, and I choose not to inflict it on others. In the past, I have been called moody and unpredictable. This was when I lived with others as a student of architecture. I am not in touch with these people now, but I noted their comments, naturally.

After breakfast I read my mail. Today, I receive an invitation from an old school chum to attend his wedding. Someone I did not expect to persuade anyone to marry him. He is, I think he will admit, far uglier than I and yet I remain unattached. By choice? I am not afraid to use a question mark. I will think about it. I did not like this man much. I wonder how he got my address. Perhaps, my father. I will ask him. I do not want these letters from erstwhile colleagues arriving willy-nilly on my desk. I will not go to this wedding. I do not want to see these people.

The other letter is from my father. He asks me to visit him (though not for any reason so far as I can see). I will think about this also, but he lives some way away and it will take some time to get there. Although I have not been back for eight, nine months now, I believe that the old man will wait. There is little else for him to do. To go down the social club with all the other blue rinses (my father's hair is grey, uncoloured) or the co-op for his fish fingers or whatever he buys. I think he loves this life. Truly, I do.

After the post - only two letters (write more, receive more) - I dress. Today I am wearing my polo neck pullover, trousers and suede desert boots. All black. My hair is red enough to make up for the lack of any other colour. Ready for the day. But before I start anything I smoke my cigar. Reid kindly gave me this last week. He says it is a Dominican. Really very good cigar, he tells me. I smoke it and it is good, but I ask myself: would I know if it were not? All I do know is that the room stinks of the bloody smoke afterwards. I won't mention this to Reid, however. He can smell it himself when he comes tonight!

Meanwhile, my projects beckon, so I take out my workbooks. But the trouble is that I have a mental block. For weeks now it has been the same. Rushing around, trying to clear my head, but still I am distracted. Why, I don't know. Other ideas constantly floating through my head. Bloody swimming with them. It is no use, and I decide to pay a visit to the local library.

It happens that I am no stranger there. I go there often to keep abreast of developments in various professional periodicals. I don't subscribe. I will not pay to read that bloody rubbish! But as a break from other areas of my life, it is pleasant. And it happens that a very handsome lady librarian works there, who I have, in the past, engaged in conversation.

Today, I make straight for the newspapers. I must keep up with current affairs, and the TV is inadequate for my purposes (I rarely turn the blessed thing on, as it happens). I select the Sentinel, Post and Larrikin to get the full range of opinion. The Sentinel is all very well, but also very boring.

I glean those facts unobtainable in the other publications and move swiftly on. The Post. The housewife's choice! Reading this is like listening to that grindingly dreary Mrs Mopp character on the first floor of my flats. Ingenious, of course. Give them what they want, and rake in the profits. Truly, I would like a share of the pot! And last comes The Larrikin. 'Tits and toss' as Reid would say. He is right, I know, but still I find myself leafing through its pages longer than I spend on the other papers. It has a certain grotesque charm. Whilst reading, I chance to look up to the issue desk and see that the handsome lady librarian is looking at me. Of course, I am mortified: appalled to think that she might infer that I would read the Larrikin as a matter of choice. I put the papers away and on my route past the desk make sure I ask her if the latest CAB (Consolidated Architectural Board) journal is available. It hasn't come in, she tells me (without looking up from her duties, if you please) and it is good because I have corrected her misapprehension of my reading habits, and more is the better, probably without her conscious knowledge. Clever Rolf, I think, but say only that I will look in again when it has been received.

Back outside I wonder if it is too early for lunch. 11.30. Yes. Well, possibly. But just right for a pre-prandial glass. I stop by the pub which is called the Lord Derby, named after that famous British Prime Minister (Lord Derby). A very great man, and I like his house exceedingly much! I go in and ask the man behind the bar (is it the noble lord's gamekeeper, I wonder?), for a pint of stout and a bag of spicy nuts to gravel the runway, so to speak. I take a seat by the window and watch people walk to and fro on the high street. Very dreary, dirty people. Today they are all wearing their mackintoshes and carrying umbrellas. It is a very rainy day but, like a fool, I came out without protection. No matter. I will simply wait out the deluge and order another half, if necessary. I notice as I resolve this, a particularly undainty individual pass by the window with his pre-war raincoat and lady's tartan shopping trolley. I see that he is coming into the pub and should not be surprised if he shakes himself off like a dog when he is inside. I laugh at my good joke! He orders his drink, meanwhile (a quart of liquid tripe and bile or some such), and then, horror of horrors, he comes in my direction. He says to me:

May I?...

This man, I should say, has a beard, which so far as I can tell, is not only uncombed and unkempt but completely and utterly unwaxed!

No, you bloody well may not, thank you very much. I tell him with commendable directness.

Unfazed, he looks around at the empty seats, then turns back.

Why? Is it taken?

No, but...

And before I have finished my sentence he sits down at my table.

Free country, isn't it?

Is it? I don't appear to be free to enjoy my drink on my own.

"Well, you could move, couldn't you? There are plenty of empty pews if you want to be unsociable."

This man's effrontery stoppers my gob for some seconds, and of course I am thinking to sweep his ignoble mess into my dustpan with some raw wit, but I must be out of sorts because all I do say is:

I was here first, and this isn't a bloody church.

Well, you're the one dressed like a ruddy vicar. All you need is the white collar, and you can wear a dress on Sunday and not get arrested.

At this, a wheezy chortle emerges from his mouth and he tips up his glass and drinks, the froth of his beer washing up onto the shore of his moustache like the Thames spume onto Shadwell stair. I have more than the right of reply, but just then the barman/gamekeeper tells me that the old man has been sitting at this table for twenty years, and if he doesn't mind me stopping there, I shouldn't mind him. This is a nominally defensible point but I will not bring myself to follow the logic through. What about my rights to set out my individual stall? What of those? I drain the stout and leave.

On the way back to the flat, stepping through the puddles drinking into my suede shoes, I remember Reid is coming for din-dins this evening. I am in an ill mood thanks to the incident in the Lord Derby public house, but as I am passing the delicatessen I pop in to stock up. I buy some curried eggs, pickled herring and some jam roly-poly. I know that Reid has a sweet tooth and I am very much a fan of curried eggs and pickled herring. Bags of protein in the eggs, and fish oil for a glossy coat. I must say that shopping puts me in a fairer temper and by the time I arrive home I have recovered my equilibrium. It is just about lunch time and luckily I have sufficient provisions for a foretaste of tonight's delights.

The fish and eggs go down very well as I watch the news. And the weather, of course. More rain due. Blast! I won't be able to go out again. My boots are out for the count in front of the radiator at least until tomorrow morning. No matter. I will simply use the time to get on with activities which demand my attention in the homestead.

Chapter II

It is a funny thing, but when Reid comes to see me in the evening I am ambivalent about preparing dinner. And I have almost nothing to do!

What's for dinner, mate? Reid says.

By this time I have collapsed on the divan in front of the television.

Oh, do you like pickled herring?

I really cannot be bothered to turn away from the television screen where I am watching Shepherd's Delight. The truth is that it has been a taxing afternoon.

No sooner have I dispatched my boots to the drying iron than I pull out one of my canvases. It is an ongoing project which I have neglected in recent times and, erect on my easel I blow the dust off and contemplate the next road to take. But then of course the telephone rings. I consider letting it bell fruitlessly, but eventually resolve to answer it.

Yes?

Hello? Rolf?

I heave a deep and audible sigh.

Hello.

Did you get my letter, Rolf?

Yes.

Well?

Well. Yes. How is life?

Rolf, I want you to come home.

I am thinking that that is exactly where I am, although I don't say it.

Yes, yes, Father. I will come and see you very soon. I have a few projects...

No, Rolf, please, I would like you to come this weekend.

This weekend?

Yes. Can you make it?

I am not sure. You know, I have a few things...

Can you put them off?

Well, possibly...

Please, Rolf.

Ah...

I will expect you then, yes?

Yes. Yes, of course.

I more or less slam the bloody receiver on to its cradle. This old monster brow-beats me, and I am expected to take it like a good boy slurping his syrup of figs from the ladle. He is unbelievable. Apparently, I do not have my own life unless it is liable at short notice to be put on hold for a wizened old man's caprices. I will not stand for it. For blazes sake, now I am completely incapable of understanding my painting, let alone developing it. He is like the bloody spectre at the feast, warbling like a harpy every time I want to charge my mouth with creative food. No matter. No matter. And so I collapse in despair on to the leather divan and remain so until Reid arrives with pink-cheeked good intentions.

Hello, Reid.

Hello, mate. I brought some tins.

Good show. I say, re-collapsing on to the divan. This is when he asks me what is for dinner and I tell him.

Great!

Well, Reid. Do you want to help yourself?

Aren't we going to sit down at the table?

Must we be so formal?

Well no, but I don't want to watch a bloody dog show.

I turn off the TV grudgingly, but I don't let Reid know because he is my guest.

That cigar you gave me reeks. Can you smell it?

Didn't you like it?

Yes. Yes, I liked it. Very good, but it turns the walls brown.

That is a bloody good cigar that, mate. What are we having with the herring?

Nothing. They are a nutritious meal in themselves. Best unadulterated, do you not think?

What about some bread?

No, no. No bread and dripping with pickled herring, Reid. Acid and fat won't mix in your tummy. Best follow my example.

He bridles at my sauce, and the thought of sauce reminds me of the curried eggs.

Ah, Reid. I remember now that I also have some curried eggs. Would you like some with the herring?

Oh, Rolf. I'm not sure they'll mix in my tummy.

Nonsense, my mate. They are a fine complement. Please don't disappoint me. I bought them especially.

Go on, then.

Very good. We can't have you wasting away.

I go to the fridge and take out the eggs and fish, and dole them out.

A beer each?

Of course. says Reid.

We tuck in to the feast and really do not look up as we cram the food into our ravenous cake-holes. I pause for a siphon of lager and say to Reid (or rather to the top of his head):

Oh, Reid. I hope you will not mind, but I have got jam roly-poly for dessert.

Of course I don't mind. I bloody love jam roly-poly. Have you got any custard?

No, no. I have no custard.

You're joking.

Reid's mouth in a silent, curry-edged 'O'.

Why should I joke? No custard. Very sorry.

I can't eat it without, Rolf.

I think you will manage, my friend.

Let's go and get some custard, mate.

Oh, I see that my jam roly-poly is not quite good enough for you as it is. Correct?

No. It's just the job, but it'll be even better with some yellow treacle on it.

***

We venture out, warm with beer and food, to the supermarket (I am wearing my plimsolls, in case you are wondering). I suggest we go into the local pub on the way to the shop. I have a yen for a pint of ale, and it just so happens that we are passing a favoured house which caters for my desire (in this direction at least!). Reid, of course, is easily persuaded, although his eyes sport custard irises.

In a gentle while the beer and smoke calms us from within and without. Reid has an essential, beatific presence. He is like the arch angel Gabriel tapping his cigarillo on a china brewery ashtray.

I will warm the roly-poly before we eat it, of course, do you not think?

Yes, I think so. Although the custard will be warm. A custard overcoat, perhaps? A lazy man's oven? What do you think?

I will warm it up. I say finally.

Of course, I am like a new man with my beer, and in a mood to attend to my standards.

This pub (it is called 'The Fruit Garden') has a varied clientèle. The bar is central and circular. The barman is one of these snotty student types, and wears the latest designer offal. Droning to his pal rather than serving me is his preference, I fear. I don't take offence because I have been coming to this pub for years and the bar staff are like mobile wallpaper. And I love the change of scenery! Much private mirth I have at this youth's expense, just at the thought of it.

We're trying to get a show together, and Nancy reckons we can both rent really cheap studio space from a friend of her uncle's, which will be invaluable. Silas (the guy I'm renting with?) is driving me up the bloody wall for Chrissakes. The man has absolutely no idea. Still, what do you expect? Hold on a sec, Chris... Hi.

Ah, hello. Two pints of Embon Point bitter beer, please. You are a student of fine art, yes?

Oh, yah. That'll be Girmble pounds firthty.

"Expensive, but good. Yes?

Oh, yeah.

You know, I could not help overhearing that you are looking for a studio.

Oh, well, actually we've probably found one, so...

I see. I was going to say that I have a very large studio in Long Shanks. Breezy Effolk, you know. It is cold, yes. The wind comes across from the Urals without hindrance. Bitter weather. Bitter in winter. I should know because I grew up (in the later stages of youth, I should say) in the broader environs.

Really?

Yes, yes, of course. The light. Yes, the light is very luminous indeed. You would appreciate that, as an artist.

Well, I'm more of a conceptual artist, but...

I am myself a student, a former student I should say, of architecture. I paint my canvases in stone. In the street, you see? For everyone to witness. No restrictions to middle class sensibilities. One rises and falls on Colonel Public's gaze. I am happy with that.

The dolt's eyes have glazed over, I can see. Too much for his minuscule brain and smaller imagination to contemplate.

Yes, well, as I say, I've probably sorted studio space, thanks.

Quite so.

I wander back to Reid.

Cheers, mate. Your very good health.

He raises his glass and casts his piggy eyes across its yeasty top before he swigs.

All right, soldier?

Of course.

I glug more down, like a trooper.

I have plans to go to Long Shanks this weekend.

To see your old man?

Yes. Duty calls. I will bring you back a barrel-load of cockles for your tea.

Mmm. Sounds nice. A whole barrel-load. I can't wait.

Chapter III

I find myself lost in Liverpool Street station. My dimensions do not suit the morning stampede and I arrive long after, but still the gnomons criss-cross the concourse blocking my path from every direction. I did not come direct to the station. I travelled to Moorgate underground and turned the corner into Finsbury circus and walked through the gardens and the bowling green. I aim to catch the one o' clock and change at Norwich. A fine city. Perhaps I will stop off at the castle museum and chirrup to the stuffed birds. In many ways I am like a canary. But I sing a different song, and placing a cover over my cage will not silence me. Thus, I flutter gracefully to the empty train, hopping playfully from seat to seat until I am quite comfortable. I have my books (one fiction, one fact), my sketch pad (and pencil) and my tape recorder.

I whistle a beautiful gas emission from my bewhiskered lips. I haven't had time to shave since earlier in the week, and am reminded that (for a change) I drank strong black coffee and doughnuts for breakfast. I am glad of such a flighty souvenir.

I place my possessions around and above me. I am settled for the excursion. Alone, I think, because it is almost one o'clock, but then the automatic door wheezes open and a gentleman clatters forth. He bundles his paraphernalia into the shelves by the door. And of course, though there are fifty seats for him to take I accept that I am somehow irresistible to such persons.

"Do you mind?

He sticks out his pudgy paw and I notice how wrinkled, dry and brown the back of it is. This because I am shaking the ruddy thing.

Esmond Jarrett. Pleased to meet you. he says.

Yes. All right. Hello.

I've just been to see my publisher.

Publisher? I see. You are an author.

This man has white hair and a moustache like a small, furry dog. Also, his skin is fine with little red rivulets mapping the folding sags of his noble jowly jaws.

Well, it's my first book, actually. It's called Of Hare Course. It's about country sports. Do you get it?

No. I live in the town. No sports at all, in any case.

No, no. The title. Do you see? It's a play on words. The book is a defence, or rather a celebration of various country pastimes, one of which is hare coursing. It's a robust viewpoint. My publisher felt its tone was that of a proud man stating the obvious. Now, do you see? Of course. Of hare course. Very funny, don't you think?

Yes, very clever. Very manly, I think.

Manly?

This little country squire raises one of his eye whiskers in my direction.

Very manly to hunt, I am saying.

Yes. But you know there are plenty of ladies who enjoy the exercise.

I see. You hunt with the Berkshires?

What?

His brows scale higher!

That is the expression, is it not? Or is it the Berkeleys?

I know exactly what you mean, you dirty little cocker spaniel. Cockney rhyming slang, is it? Berkeley hunt, am I? Did you think I wouldn't understand your foul insinuations? I didn't realise the east end extended to the Hun's back yard. And you have the gall to come over here and insult me.

Yes, you are right. I am originally from Dusseldorf, but I have lived in this country ever since I was fourteen years old. That's a long time, in actual fact, and don't worry, old man, I insinuate nothing. You have the wrong end of the stick. I am merely repeating what some friendly cockney person has asked me. Even though I do not hunt at all.

Dusseldorf?!!

Yes. It is a small village on the outskirts of Berlin on the German Riviera. Very fashionable. Perhaps you have holidayed there?

I've only been to Germany once, my friend, and it was not on holiday.

Oh. I think you must go. It is most improving. The river there is crystal clear and the local people make coracles out of industrial rubber piping and paddle about in all weathers. Really very good laugh for all concerned. But, of course, I am based here now for seventeen years. Perhaps this is not good enough for you. Hmmm?

No, it bloody well is not!

He is very rude and old and I treat him with kid gloves, which I can see he cannot abide. No matter. The conversation finishes here. He is like a spent volcano but he broods and eyes me for every twentieth clickety-click the wheels make on the tracks. I can see he would like to move, but he is too stubborn. Lucky for him, he gets off at Colchester, not too much time for him to sustain his bad manners, whilst I get off at Norwich, serene in my imperturbability.

I stop off at the cathedral to eat my sandwiches and inhale this fine city called Norwich. It is easy to forget how fine it is because, as it happens, I have not been back here for some while. Not really since the tender times of my earlier youth, actually, have I investigated it properly. Was using to bunk off school in order to do this and would often begin by patronising the ladies and gents at the market. Would they remember me now? I doubt it. Age has marked my cloth with wear as well as wisdom. Also, I must say that my chief concern was seldom the purchase of provisions, and they could probably tell even as I sauntered up with satchel and rosy cheeks that I was not the personification of good custom. In any case, I sailed around the stalls with their gay striped awnings, absorbed the atmosphere in all its fruitiness, and the last of them cornered, off I would stride to the river or the castle museum.

Museum days were chosen according to my mood but also the weather. The desire to be protected