The English Dragon
T. P. Bragg

The English Dragon is a political novel with a small 'p'. It is a story of loss of innocence; a search for identity; of what it means to be English.

Modern England is observed through the eyes of a child. The narrative gives the flavour of a culture obsessed with image and dogma. There is a juxtaposition of the new and often violent urban society with the rural, traditional community.

The author does not shy away from difficult subjects - the treatment and housing of asylum-seekers being crucial to the novel's structure. A few will find it uncomfortable but most will recognise the England portrayed.

£5.95 - 256 pages - paperback - A5 - ISBN 1-903313-02-3

Sample - Chapter One is very much the quiet before the storm. Despite its 'quiet' nature, it anticipates some of the many matters dealt with later in the book. Much of the formatting has been lost in producing this extract.

Chapter 1 - Oliver

The child was stolen at 19:48 hours. She knew so because the station clock clicked above seconds before grim reality kicked in. Babble concussed her. Drained of colour and breath, her eyes widened in panic. With a stopped heart her skin numbed - their beautiful child had gone.

A church stands at the top of the valley; stones from Saxon remains have been used in its construction. Masonry bearing typical Saxon chiselling is incorporated in the tower's staircase turret. Possibly the church stands on a Roman site or that of an Ancient British encampment. The square tower with its pole pointing to the heavens commands a panoramic view across the vale.

Oliver was allowed to ascend the musty, twisting steps of the tower when either the vicar or verger was present. It was only recently that he had climbed these worn slabs so often. The old vicar had retired from the parish and a younger man had arrived from Manchester. Oliver had not spoken much to the new vicar but they were, at least, on nodding terms and Oliver had been given renewed permission to climb the ancient stone tower.

From the battlements he would cast his gaze to the distant hills before focusing on closer, familiar landscape. To Oliver's left ran a straight-edged escarpment of common land. Today he had taken a sketchpad and pencils. As the wind rattled the flag-less pole - sounding out metallic trills - he smelt the air, took a pencil and measured the length of the exposed ridge, noting the slopes of the hills and where the trees clung to them. Sketching furiously he made a bold straight line running from the top left of the paper towards a white horizon. At the centre of the page he positioned a conical hill where the Seven Daughters were still denuded of leaves. The valley itself had smoothly sloping hillsides as if giant female forms had lain down and been draped in soft green cloths.

The patchwork of fields was mainly rye and timothy; oak, beech and ash trees lining the Devon-banked lanes running between them. The air invoked coming Spring, Nature was doing her work, sprinkling green buds in skeletal branches. Hares made mad by the coming light and warmth boxed each other furiously. Eostre's eggs would fertilise the fields - lapwings rising in flight. The earth was turning.

Continuing to shade the paper and scratching in lines, he felt in awe of something. It was not the best of times to capture the view, but he wanted to feel the light of the late afternoon. The clocks were still set back. It was the first time he had been there - so high - with the sun sending its rays low and strong across the valley. He needed colour. Quickly he made notes of the hues and their subtle changes, but it was a clumsy record and the light's transformation happened imperceptibly but inexorably as the sun lowered towards the ridge.

In the near distance rooks suddenly took to the skies, circling and croaking before resting gradually in their high-perched nests. Touching the stone of the church and pressing himself against the castellation, Oliver felt connected to something. This was England. A feeling of whom and where he was flooded his blood. Here was peace. Before him was a landscape which appeared timeless yet was being changed. But this sense of change seemed thankfully slow. He had lived in the city. Watched the news. Heard all the lies describing what was meant to be England. This was the essence of England before him. And the thought came as an epiphany. True the view wasn't the whole of England; wasn't the whole story - but it was a defining part, more than an historical paragraph, passing sentence or lightly uttered word.
Sitting down he began to make notes on the fine paper:

'The countryside is English more than the city or town. What do I mean by this? Aren't the people of England more English than the countryside, which belongs to no-one? (I must think this one through - is the countryside itself a collection of historical signposts which can be read?) Is it that the cities suck in global influences whilst the countryside keeps its local, regional and national culture? Cities become a magnet for the iron filings of brash egos; get-rich schemes; the hopeless and helpless; the modernists and the pretentious. In the country there is still a chance to feel humility - to slow down, think and contemplate. Feel rhythms beyond the regulated traffic and howl of industrial music. There is an ephemeral and yet constant nature to the nature of the land. And yet there is also pollution and mismanagement and the self-righteous egos of some country folk…

'People are more English than the droning television or the rat-tat-tatting of the radio will concede. (What really can/can't be believed? What is the truth?) The hills are ageing with the effects of water and wind. The villages that I can see are almost buried in the soil. I am told that England is dead. Viciously funny broadcasters enjoy debating what is/is not English. But what do we/they mean by English anyway?'

Clutching his pencil, Oliver looked at the words. Was tempted to tear the sheet out and rip it up. Or fold it into a paper plane and fly it from the tower. It amused him to consider arranging his thoughts into lines of "poetry" or "song-craft" then fold the sheet into a plane and hurl it through the air. Wouldn't the Arts Council give him a grant for that? Wouldn't he be making some deep artistic statement? But it troubled him to think about what was English. Was being English about a common language, or a shared ancestry? Didn't he hear week in week out that "the British (and English) are a mongrel race"? (Could they possibly have said mongrel?) Wind rattled the flag pole. The stirring perfume of Spring caused him to inhale deeply.
The view of the valley made him feel - rationally or otherwise - that he belonged. Picking up the sketchpad he continued to add detail to his drawing. The sun was beginning to dip below the crest of the ridge. The ochre and beige colouring the top and side of the ridge were dashed with grey rocks. Below, the grasses were darkening. To his right the hillsides were stroked with deep sun embers and shadows formed where the sun's rays could not pass. This was his country. He felt that deep down. But it wasn't enough simply to feel. And there was a guilt invoked too. How could it be his country?
A disembodied voice called up to him. It meant he had to think about going down. Closing his eyes he let the strengthening breeze pass over his features. From the soles of his shoes he felt the pull of the land through the stone of the church. Snapping to he climbed through the doorway leading to the tower's steps. There was blackness and a smell of dampness.
The vicar was in conversation with a youngish woman. Recently there had been a lot going on in the church. The pair appeared concentrated and close. 'Thanks,' Oliver called softly, not wishing to intrude. The vicar almost peremptorily waved back. He couldn't help feeling aggrieved that his reverie had been interrupted especially while there was someone still there in the church. Who was she? The vicar was normally so airy and casual and nice. Almost too nice. Not engaging Oliver much in conversation but usually full of sparky pleasantries uttered in his posh and slightly Mancunian accent.

In the churchyard Oliver looked back up at the tower as if to put things into perspective. A magpie fluttered up from a gravestone. 'Shit,' he mouthed. 'One for sorrow.' Wasn't there some custom for dealing with these birds? He had met an old man recently who had known the time when the de Quillard family had run the estate. As a boy the old man had spent long days in school holidays watching the work of the gamekeeper. And the gamekeeper had routinely shot magpies. Oliver had asked the old man why this was. 'Because them magpies steal the eggs from the game birds,' came the simple reply.
Wandering out onto the lane, Oliver decided to walk a little way down into the valley. He wanted to keep to the light. In shadow the air was cold. His fingers tightened their grip on the pad. He saw the valley both from the perspective of the tower and from the close-up detail of the banks he passed between. Primroses gathered in bunches. Mentally he thought himself back through generations. A clergyman on his way to deliver a sermon. A sailor returning from months or years at sea. A smithy leading a lame horse to be shod. And then still further back. Who were the men and women who had walked these lanes? Who were the children who had picked flowers and berries? What existed before the lane? A track; a path. A means of communication between communities? Angles, Saxons? Celts? Ancient British people? There had been an archaeological find recently which had shown men and women had lived in and around the valley for many thousands of years.

Oliver was a newcomer. Viewed with some mistrust. Viewed with some jealousy. Viewed with interest. He and his wife Rowan had bought Ciderup Farm. The house was in poor repair and the farm buildings near dilapidation. But they had talked and talked of keeping animals and growing food and of getting out of town.
Until Oliver had had success with a song covered by an ageing yet increasingly popular boy band (and played incessantly on Channel Four and the music satellite channels), their talk was nothing but talk. But money changed their reality. And the thought of the future had brought optimism enough for Rowan to feel relaxed enough to conceive.

Long before the child was born they had discussed their plans.
'I'm not going to be filthy rich,' he began, 'I don't even think I'd want that much money. I don't want to invest it or make anything out of it,' he reflected.
'It would just be nice to have somewhere decent to live.'
'Well if I get as much as I think, we should be able to afford a pretty decent place. Not a mansion or anything,' he laughed.
They had been stuck in rented accommodation throughout their time together. After they were married they lived in a one room flat at the bottom end of a dirty town.
'I still feel guilty,' he said.
'Why? How can you? You've put so much effort into your music.'
'But it's not as if I'm Mozart is it? Not as if I deserve a lot of money. I write pop songs for God's sake…'
'Intelligent songs.'
'You think so?'
'Of course they are.'
'But to get so much money for three and half minutes. It doesn't seem fair.'
'And all the times you've played for next to nothing? All the times you've done favours? All the travelling and bad food you've complained so much about?'
'Even so. I know I've worked hard but it still isn't right. You could be the best musician in England and be living from hand to mouth. You could be as gifted as Mozart or Beethoven and be neglected. There must be lots of really talented musicians who get nothing.'
'That's the nature of the business though isn't it?' she said.
'I don't think of it as a business.'
'That's why…' and she was going to say he didn't make any money but of course the conversation existed because he had - finally -made some, and indeed a lot of money. 'You got nothing most of the time and you were still talented. You can't deny that,' she said, adding, 'anyway why are you going on about classical composers so much? You're a rocker.'
'I would like to have trained classically.' He watched her reaction. 'You didn't know? Didn't I tell you? I could have been a classical flautist. I could have played piano and written symphonies…'
'Pretentious…'
'No. Well…maybe. I would've liked to follow in the tradition of Vaughan Williams. Quintessentially English. Re-discovering Englishness…Do you know, "The Lark Ascending"?'
'No.'
'What about Elgar? Elgar's Enigma Variations?'
'Not really. I'm not sure. Perhaps. I do recognise the title. I'd know it if you've played it to me…'
'Elgar's music is very beautiful. Very uplifting. I have played it to you. His work evokes the rolling countryside of Worcestershire. Maybe Warwickshire.'
'I have heard of him…I'm not a philistine you know. Just because I like rock music. Your music. And I can't remember ever having Warwickshire evoked.'
'It's beautiful music,' he mused.
'Your music is beautiful.'
'Thanks. No, I mean it. I appreciate what you say. I think some of my work has got soul - I mean I try and put a kind of beauty into it. But the nature of the stuff, it's primitive compared to Bach or Handel - or Williams and Elgar.'
'It's different. It isn't meant to be the same is it? You don't play much classical music, is this something new? Besides, isn't there room for all kinds of music?'
'Yes. But you can't say all music has the same quality.'
'Why not?'
'Because there's a difference between me banging out a song in half an hour with three or four chords and a fairly predictable melody line and that of a complex orchestral arrangement.'
'Surely it depends on whether or not people enjoy it. Maybe they could listen to your song and later a Beethoven symphony - both giving pleasure.'
'Mmm. But even so the one has had a greater intelligence behind it…'
'You're intelligent…'
'Yes, but untrained. Like I said, if I'd had a musical education from an early age, well then maybe. But a genius who knows how to write for all sorts of instruments and who understands harmony and melody…'
'That's an elitist argument. What's got into you?'
'I want to understand music more. And no, before you say it, that doesn't mean not feeling it in the same way. There are levels in the quality of all the different types of music. There isn't equality in music is there? I mean there isn't even equality of opportunity; some people are better at making or writing it than others. But you either have to give your best or be a cynical money-maker…' Here Rowan coughed. 'Okay I've been a cynic…I know, I feel bad. That's why I feel bad. At least before I could say I was writing songs for my art - however poor or primitive it was. Or however good,' he added carefully. 'I can't imagine that Vaughn Williams wrote "The Lark Ascending" for cynical reasons. Elgar wanted to create music that would put England back on the musical map. England has always been about words - words, words, words, not about music or art.'
'I just don't know why you're so preoccupied with all this. You've managed to make some money at last; you've managed to get people interested in you. Now you're rambling on about English composers.' She paused. 'You say there's no "equality of opportunity in music" but there is equality in the listening…'
'I'm not even sure about that…I used to think that everyone heard music in an equal fashion, but music is like any language if you can't understand it it doesn't make sense. If you can hear all the nuances in a musical piece and understand the beauty of the subtleties and the various components, then perhaps it will make more sense and therefore you'll appreciate and enjoy it more.'
'Anyone can feel music.'
'Yes,' he hesitated, 'but is music only for the heart?'
'The spirit…'
'The spirit,' he mused. 'Yes, music feeds the spirit. That's why I'm getting into English composers too. I want to feel the spirit of England. I may not have come across these composers naturally - so what? Sometimes we have to actively search for things, dig them out. We have treasures that are being buried by dirt. I want to get back, you know? I want to reconnect with things. I can't help it if I've only listened to certain music. I like rock. I love rock. There's stuff that can send shivers down the spine. But I want the melodies and words linked through the ages too. You talk of spirit. Spirit never dies. But it must be re-connected. Isn't spirit connected to our intellect as well as our raw emotions?'

'This is spoiling things,' she said. 'I'm simply glad we're going to get some money at last.' She patted her belly. 'It isn't just you and me anymore is it?'
'No,' he smiled.
'I want us to live away from all this,' swishing her arm through the air. 'I'm fed up with the noise and shouting and crap in the street. Not much soul out there.'
'I thought you thought it was exciting?'
'Well…it has its moments.'
'And now we're getting some dosh you want out?'
'Yep.'
'Typical.'
'What do you mean?'
'Just that. Typical. It's like a programme I saw on television last night. There were all these do-gooders ranting on about how they would "stamp out hate crimes", and you could see they wanted to KILL. You know? But if you said to them - how about bringing in the death penalty for child killers they'd go mad. Call you a Nazi or something.'
'I don't follow, what's that got to do with me not wanting to live in this pit?'
'Well, you said it was exotic and colourful. Alternative. Now I've sold a song and stand to make money at last you want to be the perfect bourgeois.'
'Oh, come on. I still don't get the comparison. I don't know how your mind works sometimes. You think I'm bourgeois - really…'
'But it's true isn't it?'
'Yes of course I want to move but don't lump me with those hypocritical do-gooders please.'
'Maybe I'm being harsh - I'm still wound up by that programme…'
'You are. And I mean it. Anyway, I don't understand why you're defending racists?'
'What d'you mean? I'm not. Never mentioned them.'
'You said, "hate crimes".'
'And those, Row, can be committed by all sorts of people. Besides I wasn't defending anyone - I was attacking the kind of people who tolerate only those who agree with them. Worse. They have a set of values they conveniently disavow when it suits them. That's the point I'm trying to make.'
'Thank you. Now can't we talk about the house of our dreams?'
He viewed her compassionately. He was destroying her dreams through his own feelings of inadequacy.
'Yes.'
'I want a place in the country. Will we be able to afford that?'
'Looks that way.'
'With land?'
'Yep.'
Her eyes seemed to mist over in cliché.
'You know the really funny thing?' he began.
'What?'
'Well here we are in this dump, police sirens blasting, idiots shouting outside and…'
'Yes?'
'And we're going to be rich.' He stopped. 'Well I'm going to have some money for the first time in my life.'
'And,' she said.
'And?' he questioned.
'And you're going to be a father.'
'Not for seven or eight months…'
'You seem sure…'
He smiled. Being a father seemed wonderful but very abstract. And so he mused on what it might be like to have a son or daughter. And thought about his own father who had died. And about the world he had inherited and which his father had departed. And it surprised him that he could be so moved by these thoughts.

Standing in the lane in the valley, Oliver looked back up towards the church. At the head of the valley was the house they had bought. In the house were his wife and child. He loved them both. But his child he loved in a way that was different and new. Through the love for his child he felt the fleshly connection to all those who had lived through the past. And he felt the connection to his own dead father. It made him painfully aware of who he was and what was happening in the country around him. Not in the valley or the beauty of Devon, Cornwall, Dorset, Somerset, or even beyond. But in the deathly towns and cities which had grown away from connections. He didn't quite understand his thoughts but knew that having a son was beautiful and what was happening to England was a kind of negation of continuity. Gripping the sketchpad he felt half compelled to write down more of his thoughts. But what was the point?

The valley was picked out by the sunlight as its rays quivered between the darkening blue sky and the ancient bank of ridgeway. Shadows were creeping along banksides and weaving across fields. The clouds which had dropped to the horizon were being golden-lined. He observed the colours building up. Gold; indigo; purple, a luminescent pink. All these paradoxically vibrant and yet somehow sombre colours against an electric and deepening blue sky. Walking on slowly, the lane rested alongside a wood and he heard a crashing sound coming from its still near-bare interior. There was something stirring. It was not just Spring.

In their house, Rowan and his son, Ben, played in front of a newly lit fire. She looked at Ben with tears in her eyes. They had lived in the house for nearly two years. She was blissfully happy. And the child was so innocent and beautiful.