Female Ruins

by Geoff Nicholson

Overview

Female Ruins is a dazzling hybrid of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and Evelyn Waugh’s The Decline and Fall.
Geoff Nicholson’s novel tells the story of Christopher Howell, a cult architect who allegedly built just one building, and the search for that fabled building—reputedly a wild, willful amalgam of styles ranging from 11th century Norman to 20th century Neutra. Ingeniously built into the narrative are bits of Howell's essays which celebrate the idea of the “Cardboard House” and the architecture of impermanence. When Howell's daughter—and keeper of his flame—Kelly and a Howell groupie named Jack Dexter hook up in a free-falling love affair, the search for this apocryphal building becomes a search for a lost past. Brilliantly funny and seriously obsessive, Female Ruins shows how the castles we build are often symbols of our owns needs, follies, and magnificent obsessions.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781585670369
Publisher:	Overlook Press, The
Publication date:	06/01/2000
Pages:	236
Product dimensions:	6.34(w) x 9.34(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

Geoff Nicholson is the author of twenty books, including Sex Collectors, Hunters and Gatherers, The Food Chain, and Bleeding London, which was shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize. He divides his time between Los Angeles and London

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Some nights she wouldn't even have bothered to pick up the phone. The last train up from London got into Carsham station at ten-thirty and most of the time nobody got off at all, and even when somebody did get off, the chances were they wouldn't be needing a taxi. But just in case they did, Kelly's card was displayed in the window of the closed and deserted station office. And if the phone rang, and if she wasn't too tired or apathetic or pissed or stoned, then she would answer it, say, 'Kelly's Cabs' (even though there was only one), and get in her car and go pick up a fare and drive them home through the dark, empty Suffolk roads. But this time the call came at half-past eleven, which she considered way too late, and at first she wasn't going to answer it at all, but the phone kept ringing, wouldn't go away, and she eventually made herself grab the receiver.

    She didn't say her name at first. She knew it could all too easily be some drunk on the other end of the line, and she wanted them to speak so she could judge whether they sounded like trouble. But a sober, polite, somewhat hesitant male voice with a soft American accent asked if she was the 'car service' and she said she wasn't quite sure what that meant, but yes, she drove a taxi, if that's what he was looking for.

    The man on the phone said the train had arrived late and he was stranded at Carsham station, and was there any way she could come and pick him up? He asked very nicely indeed and said that he would understand perfectly if she didn't want to turn out at that time of night, but he said it in a way that madeit impossible for her to refuse. She said OK.

    She put on her leopardskin jacket, got in her car, drove the three miles from her home to the station, and there in the car park she saw a tall, lost-looking American. She wasn't sure how, but you could tell his nationality just from his appearance. He was wearing chinos and a button-down Oxford shirt and an expensive, creased linen jacket. They were all clothes that an Englishman could have worn, but this man wore them differently, in a way that advertised his foreignness.

    He looked boyish, but he was the kind of man who, she suspected, would still look boyish when he was sixty. She guessed he was a little older than her, a whisker over thirty, whereas she was a significant whisker under. It was his leanness, his gangliness that made him appear young. He looked as though he lived unhappily in his own body. There was something staid about him, something strained, that she found unattractive, but she immediately forced herself to stop thinking in those terms. Times were bad indeed when she had to think about her passengers in terms of their sexual desirability, but she knew this already. It had been a bad year, a bad few years.

    She pulled up next to him, observed that his luggage was fancy and expensive, wound down her window and asked him where he wanted to be taken; he said the Phoenix Inn. She laughed. He looked confused and explained it was a local pub where he had a room reserved. Did she know where it was? Indeed she did. It was situated all of a hundred and fifty yards away from the station. She pointed in its direction. You could almost see it from where they were. She was annoyed at the waste of time for so little potential reward, and didn't feel inclined to pretend otherwise. The man looked crestfallen, and then like a child with an embarrassing confession he pointed down at his right leg, which she could now see was bent at a peculiar angle, and she saw too that there was a walking stick leaning against one of the cases. It was an elaborate thing, lacquered glossy black, its head carved into the shape of a crocodile, its jaws wide open in the act of swallowing a naked woman, whose head, shoulders and breasts were still visible. Kelly wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean.

    'OK, no problem,' she said. It wasn't quite an apology, just an acceptance that, yes, he did need a taxi after all.

    She put his bags in the back of the car and offered to help him into his seat, but he said he could take care of himself. He insisted on sitting up front beside her, partly as a gesture of egalitarianism, but there was more leg room there anyway. She waited until he was settled and then drove him slowly and majestically the laughably short distance to the pub. There was hardly time for conversation but she was aware of him looking around the inside of the car, inspecting it, and there was just time for him to remark that she was young and female and to ask whether it wasn't dangerous for her to be driving a taxi at this time of night.

    'This is rural Suffolk,' she said. 'Not New York.'

     By then they'd got to the pub and pulled into the gravel driveway. 'Nice looking place,' he said. It was an old, wood-framed Tudor coaching inn. Parts of it were authentically old but it had been tarted up and painted in stark black and white that had the effect of making it look authentically ersatz.

    'You'll see better,' Kelly said.

    She unloaded the bags and carried them to the front door of the pub for him. The place was locked but there were lights on inside and she rang the bell and waited for someone to open up. Her passenger said he was really sorry to have dragged her out for such a ridiculously short trip, and she appreciated that at least he recognized the absurdity of the situation. On the other hand, she supposed there was no way he'd have got to the Phoenix Inn without her. He asked for her business card, which she handed over, and he paid his fare and said keep the change. She could hear the landlord arriving to unlock the door of the pub, and she returned to her car. She checked the money she'd been given and saw that the tip was only just on the right side of generous.

Next morning, before nine, Kelly's phone rang again. This time she answered at once, thinking she was back to her old working routine, but she heard the same American voice she'd heard late last night.

    'Hi, this is Dexter,' he said, 'Jack Dexter, the limping American.' He paused, as if waiting for her to be amused by this bit of self-deprecation. When it didn't come he continued, 'Although, for some reason, everybody just calls me Dexter. I'm still sorry about dragging you out last night.'

    'It's all right,' she said. 'I'm a taxi driver, that's how I make my living. Although I wouldn't make much of one if all my trips were like last night's. What can I do for you?'

    He said he needed her services again, and he launched into what seemed to her an unnecessary bout of autobiography, but perhaps, she thought, that was the American way. He explained that he was in England on a two-week vacation. He was recently divorced from his wife and needed some time away. His plan had been to hire a car and tour the area, but a few days before leaving home he'd had this terrible problem with his leg, the flaring up of an old knee injury. It was too painful to allow him to drive. Cancelling the holiday would have been admitting defeat, so he'd made up his mind to come anyway, but now he was stuck in the Phoenix Inn in Carsham without any transport. He said he wanted her and her car to be at his disposal for the next seven days. What was her going rate?

    'Hold on,' said Kelly. 'What are we talking about here? What exactly does "at your disposal" mean? How many hours of the day or night? What sort of distances?'

    'Oh well,' he muttered. He sounded flustered, surprised, as though he was unaccustomed to having people ask him to explain himself. Then, rapidly, he said, 'I guess I was thinking of a series of day trips. You know, some of them just there and back, some maybe circular journeys, some triangular maybe.'

    'Where to?' she asked.

    'Just the immediate area,' he said. 'Just sightseeing, tourist stuff, nothing too difficult. There wouldn't be any really long drives. I just want to get to see the area. It might be a bit boring for you. And I guess I might need a little help getting up and down flights of stairs, but I'm not an invalid, I'm not asking you to be my nurse or anything like that.'

    'That's just as well,' said Kelly.

    She did some swift, only partially competent, mental arithmetic, tried to form an equation that combined an hourly rate with a price per mile and came up with a figure. If he'd accepted it immediately she'd have thought he was an idiot, just a stupid American tourist with too much money, but he haggled with her, brought the price down a bit, and she rather respected him for that.

    Even so, she was sure that on other occasions she'd have flatly said she wasn't interested in the job. For one thing, if he was going to employ her for the whole week then there were a couple of regular fares she'd need to cancel or work round, and that was going to be a hassle. Furthermore, spending a whole week with somebody she didn't know could be asking for trouble. Dexter seemed unobjectionable, but her acquaintance with him ran to about four minutes, and she knew she wasn't the most tolerant or easy-going person. So there were good reasons for turning down the job, but in the event she accepted it, and before too long she thought she'd worked out her real motivation. As she was making arrangements for when she would pick him up at the Phoenix Inn later that morning and where she would drive him, she realized she was taking this job because in some peculiar way Dexter reminded her of her late father.

For a long time Kelly had been very polite to people who came asking questions about her father. She had wanted to be helpful. She told them what she knew, but it was never enough for them. They wanted answers and information that she didn't have. They wanted her to tell them things she couldn't possibly know. They made her feel inadequate and ashamed; not exactly new feelings for her. She felt that a good daughter should have known more, should have had more insight. But what was she to do? She was only thirteen when her father died and, although she'd spent a lot of time thinking about him and wondering how things might have been if he'd lived, by and large she'd resisted the temptation to turn herself into a scholar of her father's life and times. She'd left that to the others, to the ones who came asking questions.

    Her father's name was Christopher Howell, a name that meant next to nothing in the world at large, but which rang a loud, occasionally alarming bell in certain small, tight architectural circles. In these places people could get oddly excited at the mention of his name. He was someone people didn't feel neutral about. He was a cult figure of sorts. And, if you believed a monograph written in the late eighties, he was 'the greatest modern English architect never to have built a building'. Others said he was just a trifler, a poseur and a fraud.

    At the heart of her father's reputation were three quirky books about architecture. They consisted of strange, short, sometimes witty, sometimes gnomic, often semiautobiographical essays about architecture. The first was called Watch it Come Up, the second was Buckminster Fuller's Bedspread and the third The Ruins of Pleasure. They had been published in the middle and late seventies, and all were still intermittently in print, and still read by the cooler sort of architectural students. He wrote about quirky things: ice houses, domestic garages, metal buildings, the design of crazy golf courses; writing seriously about unserious architecture.

    There was also a collection of drawings, consisting of plans and artist's impressions of projects that her father had dreamed up. A few of them were fully realized drawings, but most were little more than doodles. Her father hadn't been much of a draughtsman, even less of an artist and the drawings were scrappy, hairy things, but they had a crude, spirited charm about them.

    Some of the schemes invented or depicted in his work might just conceivably have been built, given a massively wealthy and massively indulgent patron. Others were pure fantasy: vast buildings constructed on tiny stilts, suburbs laid out according to arcane and ironic principles, cities of the future waiting for a technology that would make them possible.

    The story was that her father never found a patron, indulgent or otherwise, and since he couldn't make his ideas concrete, he'd decided to make them as abstract as possible. He became a sort of architectural philosopher, a propagator of 'speculative architecture', a genius figure to some, almost a guru to one or two.

    Some of the people who appreciated her father's work said that the impracticality of his ideas, the essential unbuildableness of his buildings, was the whole point. Their beauty, they said, lay in their impracticality, their lavishness, their irony. Some just said they were works of art, poetic inventions. Kelly was very happy with this view.

    Other critics said that, even though he'd done his training at the Architectural Association, her father had never really intended or wanted to be an architect. They said his self-assigned role was to act as a sort of philosophical whetstone, someone against whom students and scholars, and even architects, could hone themselves and their ideas, thereby becoming sharper and more cutting edge.

    Kelly would have found this last proposition utterly depressing if she'd thought it was true, but she didn't think it was. From what she could remember of her father, and from reading his books, he had seemed desperate to create buildings, real buildings, not just flights of fancy, not just works on paper. Even as a child she had recognized that in him, and her mother, on the rare occasions when she could be induced to talk about him, remembered his frustrated ambition far more than she remembered his genius.

    Kelly's mother stopped giving interviews long before Kelly did. She had no desire to become the caring, protective widow. It would have been quite possible for her to style herself as the guardian of her late husband's reputation and legacy. But she had quickly decided that was a mug's game.

    It took Kelly much longer. She kept giving time to earnest young scholars. They came from all over the world and many of them seemed nice and conscientious enough, and she tried to please them. She tried to come up with something they could use, some extra memory, some undiscovered letter or drawing. But before long everything she was prepared to give had become extant, had entered the public domain. The ones who came next quickly realized that. They found her useless, of no interest, an empty vessel, and that depressed her. At first she wasn't sure why. After all, these people were strangers, they meant nothing to her. But then she knew there had been many times when her father had also found her useless and of no interest. By being of interest to scholars, and in talking about her father, she had doubly tried to redeem herself.

    The bare bones of her relationship with her father were easily summed up. Even though her parents were conventional enough to be married, they both liked to think of themselves as free spirits. They may have had a piece of paper from the City Hall, actually the Chelsea Town Hall, but they didn't feel tied. In fact, so untrammelled did her father feel that the moment Kelly was conceived he was up and gone. Her mother took it pretty well. She didn't want to restrict his genius, she said, and anyway what was the point of trying to keep someone who didn't want to be kept? They eventually got divorced but the break was not absolute. Throughout the early years of Kelly's life, out of guilt as much as out of affection, she suspected, her father would make sporadic reappearances, make ever more incompetent attempts to be a good father to her and a good partner to her mother, before leaving again. Kelly couldn't claim that she ever felt unloved exactly and it was easy to imagine infinitely worse, infinitely less efficient fathers, but she could never escape the pain and puzzlement, the feeling of impending abandonment. She always knew that he had other, grander, more important things on his mind than his daughter; and that hurt.

    Her mother showed Kelly her father's articles when they appeared in magazines or newspapers. She remembered watching him in a debate on television about the future of cities. And then she remembered the obituaries. Some of them were warm, some of them were sneering; but either way they suggested that her father was someone who had to be dealt with. She noticed how much they got wrong. One obituary said he was happily married with one son, another said he'd never married at all. She supposed that was all part of the myth; contradictory data that some swot would think was worth delving into. She remembered being surprisingly, incomprehensibly unmoved by the immediate fact of his death. Only years later did it get to her.

    In his occasional autobiographical writings her father sometimes described himself as a drop out, as an ageing hippie, as a bum; but she knew he was only playing with the words. He meant that he'd never had a 'proper job', that money wasn't exactly plentiful, that he didn't lead a conventional middle-class life. It was true in a way, but there was a lot wrong with that picture. For one thing he worked hard, far too hard ever to be considered a drop out. And yes, money was a struggle, but there were always bursaries and grants and lecture trips abroad, and when he came to see Kelly and her mother there were usually expensive presents. And while he didn't have a mortgage or his own house, he was very good at finding rich people who would invite him to house-sit for them, who were happy to have him stay in their guest house, their holiday cottage, their Georgian gate lodge.

    It was left to Kelly to be the true failure of the family. She sometimes felt she lived her life by negatives. As she got older it seemed to her that her father had been both blessed and cursed by his calling: blessed in that he knew with great precision what he wanted to do with his life; cursed in that he was never able to do it. Her own problem, it seemed to her, was that she had never discovered what it was she wanted to do. She occasionally thought she ought to try to live up to her father's reputation and (disputed) genius. She wouldn't have objected to following in his footsteps, trying to succeed in the areas in which he'd failed, making his ambitions hers, but she knew that wasn't on. She knew she hadn't inherited any of her father's gifts — for inventing, for writing, for thinking. She never wanted to be an architect but she also knew she'd never have had the opportunity. She was sure she didn't want to go to university, sure she didn't want to be in the public eye, didn't want to make masses of money; but again it would have been all the same if she had wanted to. She had no talent in those directions. Sometimes she felt as though she had no talent at all.

    Early on she'd decided that she wanted to be good with her hands, but she hadn't wanted to do anything girlie, hadn't wanted to throw pots or screw around with batik. She studied woodwork, thought she might become a craftswoman, a cabinet-maker, be good at marquetry or handcarving or something, but she was never better than average. Then for a while she was an average painter and decorator, the real thing with emulsion and wallpaper, not some sort of tricksy interior designer. She even tried her hand at laying floors and tiling bathrooms, but she found she was average at that too.

    She supposed that if you had to psychoanalyse this stuff you'd have said that whereas her father's work had been nebulous and theoretical, she deliberately chose work that was solid and substantial; but it hadn't seemed that way at the time. Mostly she was just trying to make a living as best she could. 'But if you think that makes me sound like an underachiever,' she'd say, 'you should have seen me when I was fifteen.'

    She'd had a few bad years after her father died, nothing truly spectacular, just the usual mild transgressions that teenage girls are capable of: shoplifting, sex with older boys, Class B drugs. Her mother was helpless, her school was pathetic. There were counsellors and briefly a therapist, and she had a lot of fun pissing them off, sitting in stony silence for a whole hour-long session being one of her favourite techniques. She guessed they saw she was a well brought up girl at heart and that she'd eventually sort herself out. And she had. She got caught in a stolen car with a bunch of extremely dodgy 25-year-olds, got threatened with every imaginable legal and social indignity (and her imagination was pretty good in those days), and without a great deal of fuss she'd cleaned up her act, not completely, she hadn't become a born-again virgin, but had cleaned it up enough to stay out of court. It had not really been any big deal, she said now. But if you'd seen her aged fifteen, a joint in one hand, a bottle of vodka in the other, some yob's hand up her shirt, you'd have thought that ending up as a jobbing carpenter or painter and decorator was more than she had any right to expect.

    Then she gave that up too. Working with her hands was not the joy she had hoped it would be. She saw that solidity was not necessarily to be found in building materials. So she became a taxi driver. She liked it. It suited her. It wasn't practical, it wasn't creative, but that was all right because it wasn't meant to be.

    She had always liked driving. It made her feel independent, not free exactly, but certainly released. It was mood changing, consciousness altering. Driving fast was undoubtedly a thrill, but in her bit of Suffolk that wasn't always possible. The roads were full of fearful old ladies and gents who felt that driving at thirty miles an hour on straight, open roads somehow kept them safe and gave them longer lives.

    She liked driving fast at night through the tight curves of deserted country lanes; the hedges rising beside her, the narrow tunnel of landscape being revealed, being called into existence by the high beam of her headlights. She liked being in control and yet on automatic pilot. She loved the way driving relied on instinct as much as conscious skill, and it always pleased her to arrive somewhere in her car and have only the vaguest memories of the drive there.

    In her time she'd owned sporty little convertibles and funky old classics, but she'd also owned vans and a Ford Transit, and driving them was good too. But when she decided to become a taxi driver she bought an oldish, high-spec Volvo estate car. It was so respectable, so middle-aged, so unlike herself, and perhaps that was why she liked to wear the leopardskin jacket; it fulfilled a need to subvert the expectations of what Volvo drivers, let alone taxi drivers, should be like. And she liked to have music blasting out of the stereo; loud passionate music by loud passionate women, Bessie Smith and Patti Smith, Babes in Toyland and Hole — all Americans she realized.

    She never pretended that driving a taxi was interesting or fulfilling, but it was honest and regular. She took people to and from the station, she took old ladies on shopping trips; later she might take them to the hospital. She sometimes took drunks home after the pubs were shut, but she tried to avoid that. She could deal with drunks all right, but she didn't want to have to clean up their vomit. It wasn't exactly Travis Bickle stuff, though of course you got fares who had sex on their way home, sluts who let themselves be groped and fucked on the back seat of the car. That was usually all right by her. The seat covers were stain resistant. She just kept driving and kept her eye on things in the rearview mirror. There were days when it was titillating, when it seemed like the best part of the job, when it seemed that just by driving her car she was part of some shared universal erotic impulse. But there were other days when it made her feel so depressed, so lonely, days when she wished she could be the slut on the back seat.