Notebook
tk friend has sent me a pamphlet issued by Ile Law Society setting out what its powers e in the unlikely event of a client becom'fng dissatisfied with' his solicitor's per?rinanee. Well, what could the Society do ,nr me? The pamphlet is reasonably candid. The Law Society's powers are not wide,' it d Ys,and there are many things it cannot What can it not do? Among other Ings, it cannot (1) order my solicitor to
me compensation, (2) give me legal
lee, (3) take proceedings on my behalf larnst my solicitor for his negligence or ek of care when doing my work, (4) Investigate complaints about judges, magis,rates or barristers. If, however, I still insist that the Society do something, there are a ilti_rnber of questions I must ask myself. 'jlnong these are (1) Did! give my solicitor !ear instructions to begin with? (2) Have I ren him all the information he has asked theirsinee? (3) Am I quite sure (my emphasis) 'at I aril not asking the Law Society to give rile legal advice or to make my solicitor pay compensation? Despite all this, let us t'agine that the foolish client remains insis he.at. The pamphlet then warns him that if ,IsaPplication is rejected — and there seems be no earthly chance that it can be 9therivi5e — he may have to pay all the costs urred by his folly. I wonder: is the Law cletY quite sure it can do anything for anYOrie?
Ian. not altogether unhappy that, so far, the isnalmer has been a poor one. The flat I live overlooks one of those private public taardens. Normally, the view I have of grass slid flowers and plane-trees is soothing. ne, however, brings out the humans — esPeeially the women, who come and disT,aY themselves in varying stages of sndtess. They soak in the sunshine as t113011ges soak in water, occasionally stirring cniselves to rub some unguent or other dnto their overheated skins. Why do these kisPlays irritate me? They irritate me ueeause they impose constraint; they limit nlY freedom. I cannot let my eyes wander rlere they will. Each lump of prostrate vemale flesh creates around itself a kind of ()flex that simultaneously feeds on and rlePels voyeurism. Not to look would be "Vocritical; to be seen looking would be r!cle. What kind of attitude shs;uld men ,sau: °Pt towards women's bodies in so disPiritingly 'feminist' an age? Women, alas, 4,-fie as festooned with sexual enticement as a
istmas tree with baubles. What do we do 1,a0out breasts and thighs and lips and hips?
Owe pretend that they don't exist? Do we ;ensure ourselves when they arouse us? walking through the tunnels of the Under
ground I observe that many of the advertisements featuring pretty girls are scrawled over with the slogan — 'This is degrading to women'. When does a woman cease being 'degraded'? Is it when she becomes indistinguishable from a man? When she has abolished the womb and forced us all into the desiccated universe of unisex? I wish I knew.
My garden interests me for another reason — the subdued but relentless class warfare to which it gives rise. On the side opposite me the houses have been 'done up' and let out at vast rents to expatriate businessmen and their families. One sees lawn mowers, barbecue equipment, wrought-iron tables and chairs, hand-painted window-blinds. The children who emerge out of these houses are lithe, sun-tanned and frighteningly self-confident. Cross to my side and you plummet down the social scale — no lawnmowers, no barbecue equipment, no wrought-iron tables and chairs, no handpainted window-blinds. Stray cats prowl through untended gardens, rubbish bins overflow, pipes leak, the children are truculent. Here live Chilean exiles, Spanish waiters and chambermaids, bachelors quietly going to seed. Late at night the Spanish waiters and chambermaids return home and sing the sad songs of their homeland. It is said that the old ladies who control the garden committee tend to beautify only those bits that directly affect them, reserving for their territory 'the benches, the litter baskets and the more exotic varieties of rose; and, I must admit, my end of things does look somewhat dank and neglected. A sign nailed to one of the plane trees forbids the playing of football. To ensure that the message gets through to the Iberian element, the interdiction is repeated in crude Spanish — `Probido (sic) jugar al FUTBOL en este jardin'. About a year ago the old ladies became hyperactive: my end of the garden was suddenly blessed with an extensive bank of shrubbery. Had they become a little conscience-stricken? My joy soured when it was revealed that they were only acting at the behest of those living on the 'other side'. They wanted to block us out of their view. En este jardin human nature flourishes in all its pristine purity.
A few days ago one of my sisters passed through London. She brought with her some avocados, picked from her Trinidad garden: big, smooth-skinned fruit (they are at least twice the size of the biggest avocados you see in London), flawlessly yellow within and as smooth and as rich as butter. I do not pretend to be Proust, but eating those avocados revived memories of the fruit and flowers that grew in the tiny yard of the Port of Spain house in which I spent my boyhood. I recalled our own avocado tree spreading its branches over the corrugated-iron roof of the garage. In the season I would climb up on to that burning roof and collect the fallen fruit. We also had a 'Governor's' plum tree but it never fulfilled its promise — it wanted to be barren but never quite possessed the courage of its convictions. I would spend hours in that tree, enjoying the shelter of its delicate leafage and staring into the neighbouring yards. In later years it was overrun and all but strangled by a bougainvillea vine. But the glory of the yard was our cassia which, in the rainy season, flowered in pendulous cascades of gold. For some weeks the ground would be covered with the yellow petals shaken off by the wind and rain. In the shade of that cassia my father grew anthurium lilies and orchids. Our crumbling fence was hidden by croton and poinsettia. Thinking of it makes me feel a little homesick.
Well, jes' look at dis t'ing. I pick up me Guardian paper (I does read only de bes', you understand', no trash for me, man) and I turn to de woman page. I nearly fall off me stool when I see dat up in Wolverhampton dey have dis new t'ing called `Mek a Pickney Happy'. De woman (she call Ann Hills) who writin' dis t'ing say: 'The large number of ethnic minority children coming into care is causing national concern: they suffer from the dual separation of leaving their families and cultures'. Dat is one t'ing I like 'bout de English people and dem. Language, man. Dey got language. I can't say I too happy 'bout dis t'ing. Even I know dat 'pickney' must mean piccaninny. And if you don't know what a piccaninny is you jes' ask Enoch. He will put you straight, man. Still, I have no time to stan' here chattin' to you. Dem ol' cotton fields is callin' me.
Shiva Naipaul
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