In a bid to fill the void that
sometimes creeps out of thin air, I chanced upon George Orwell’s A Clergy Man’s Daughter. I had previously read Animal Farm, but it did not register in my mind
as a novel worth investing my time on. Just like sci-fi movies I do not find
talking animals particularly attractive. Perhaps, I’d find it more alluring to watch
a lamppost withstanding the pouring rain, likening its loneliness to my own.
Sometimes.
For that matter, I left Animal
Farm halfway, just like a million other novels I have, both hard copy and soft
copy. As fate would have it, a ninja of mine passed me an assignment, a story
to review. Shooting The Elephant, it was. I read the story twice and produced
the a thousand words within a record time. many nights later, when sleep
evaded, I absently began reading other stories that were part of George
Orwell’s collection Shooting the Elephant, which was the title, included.
First I started with the review
of the stories. The fantastic turn of phrase was near orgasmic, that is, if you
have never had the taste of another’ nakedness – the opposite gender
preferably. The review was effusive of Orwell’s stories, saying that he
actually wrote what he experienced. He was a police officer, so to say, in India
during the days of the British Empire. He actually was born in India.
After five years of service, he
visited England and decided that the perils of India were not worth it. he
decided to stay and became a tramp. He wrote about his street days, where they
picked cigar butts with other tramps on the street. It was actually the first
story I read and I was overwhelmed by the way Orwell pieced his words. None
felt out of place, all neatly sitting by each other, as the story bowed
pleasantly to you, as though you were a powerful king.
I quickly devoured the story, and
then another and another. For the after taste of a good story lasts ages after
you have eaten, I pored over my usual poring places to see if I can find more
of Orwell’s brilliance. You see, the way Orwell writes, does not arouse a sense
of pity, even if he were to write about the pain (mostly his pain) of a cancer
affliction. He is more like ‘laugh at my pain’ kind of writer.
Luckily I found A Clergyman’s
Daughter, which is the story I am currently reading and it is the basis of this
piece. (Sorry for the long intro if you are still here). The story features a
character named Dorothy, the daughter of a Reverend Charles Hare, Rector of St.
Athelstan’s church. Dorothy is a dutiful girl, who prepares everything for her
father every morning before going to church for prayers. The morning prayers
only attract three people; an old woman, Dorothy and her father. That makes two
people in the congregation. Sundays seem have a better attendance by the locals
of Knype Hill.
Dorothy takes care of the
family’s meals. They are only two of them since her mother died, but they have
a housemaid whose brains begin working only after seven in the morning. That
leaves Dorothy to take care of chores earlier than that. Now, I don’t really
think so highly of girls named Ellen. I will be bound to be prejudicial towards
them as has been my norm since I met a girl name Lucy. My recollections of her
are actually hazy, but I remember the dread she filled me as a kid. (story for
another day).
The family does not make enugh
money to make ends meet. The characters in this story do not live in age where
there’s Tala and branch, so Dorothy takes everything on credit, including meat.
Who does that, you may ask. Apparently that’s the way of white people – to buy
meat on credit. Her father, even though he is a man of god, does not allow
himself to be bothered by trivial things as providing for meals. He even
sarcastically asks Dorothy if has started a poultry farm if they partake eggs
twice in a row.
Every morning Dorothy prays that
the butcher man does not demand she pays the bill. However, sometimes god does
not work that way. The butcher sends the bill anyway. She tells her father
about it and he drifts away in the golden days, telling her that there are
debts that lasted thirty years back in his heydays. And creditors or shop
owners never bothered people. He tells her she can shop elsewhere, and proceeds
engaging in fervent reverie of his days, when things were good and creditors
did not bother people, at least for thirty years.
As Dorothy goes shopping, vowing
to avoid the bothersome butcher, he meets a man known as Mr. Warburton, whom
can be described in our local parlance, as a sponsor. He is as unsightly,
physically, as many that grace this concrete jungle of Nairobi. Mr. Warburton
is widower, and relentless womanizer. He is also rich, certainly, Dorothy tries
to evade him, but he is not the kind of man to be let go off easily. He is
forty eight for god’s sake. So the daughter of a clergyman and a old man walk
around the town giving gossip mongers juicy stories to tell. They have what
Orwell calls a connexion, having liased romantically in the past. The town knew
about it.
He propositions Dorothy to come
to his house that evening for he had a special visitor. The visitor is an
author a book Dorothy denies having read. The book itself is sort of
pornographic in nature, just lie the way a forty eight year old would like. She
agrees after his relentless budging. And she goes out to shop. Just like that,
without asking Mr. Warburton for money. And she is in deep debt.
That’s where I am now. I’ll let
you know about what happened, at this time next year.
