Excerpts from 'The Buttoner' by Agnes Pimm
The book is a relic of a shameful era of our literary history, when it was unthinkable that a man might be permitted to toss his bowler hat into the female-dominated sub-genre of cross stitch fiction. Consequently, I was left with no option other than to don a sensible cotton blouse and a heavy tweed skirt, prior to making inroads into this forbidden territory.
Sadly, my ruse was exposed by the treacherous Dorothy Welsby, who affected both friendship and support for my plight, prior to very publicly stabbing me in the back. An edict issued by the Global Council of Literary Standards resulted in the book being de-published a mere two weeks after it was released. An accompanying motion to have me de-authored failed to pass by just one vote.
In practise this meant that The Buttoner was immediately withdrawn from sale and was removed from the shelves of libraries. The British Library extracted the novel from their book fort, resulting in minor structural damage, for which I was billed. Anyone who already owned a copy was required to hand it in at their nearest police station. Anyone who had read even a small portion of the book was made to undergo compulsory hypnosis that would compel them to dis-remember all elements of the plot and the characters. In place of these memories, the hypnotists implanted false recollections of me pushing to the front of a long queue at the post office. Overnight I became a focal point for what many regarded as justifiable abuse. Emmanuel Goldstein (formerly the most-hated man in Airstrip One and wider Oceania) took to Twitter to attack me in a succession of vitriolic tweets that made fun of my sandals. Even the local back-alley heroin dealers refused me service and asked me to return my loyalty card.
In practise this meant that The Buttoner was immediately withdrawn from sale and was removed from the shelves of libraries. The British Library extracted the novel from their book fort, resulting in minor structural damage, for which I was billed. Anyone who already owned a copy was required to hand it in at their nearest police station. Anyone who had read even a small portion of the book was made to undergo compulsory hypnosis that would compel them to dis-remember all elements of the plot and the characters. In place of these memories, the hypnotists implanted false recollections of me pushing to the front of a long queue at the post office. Overnight I became a focal point for what many regarded as justifiable abuse. Emmanuel Goldstein (formerly the most-hated man in Airstrip One and wider Oceania) took to Twitter to attack me in a succession of vitriolic tweets that made fun of my sandals. Even the local back-alley heroin dealers refused me service and asked me to return my loyalty card.
As the author of The Buttoner, I was required to eat the original handwritten manuscript in front of the town mayor and two local justices of the peace. Fortunately I was able to regurgitate a few random pages before they were too badly damaged by my stomach acids. It is these precious excerpts that I present to you in this blogpost.
Readers who are concerned that the publication of these partially-digested extracts may pose a threat to my freedom and well-being, should be assured that I am in no immediate danger. The Buttoner was so thoroughly excised from the cultural memory banks, that no-one could possibly authenticate an excerpt from the novel, and therefore no prosecution could ever be brought against me. You could argue, quite credibly, that the book never existed and that this blogpost is a cynical fraud that was created to sell copies of my latest novel The Missionary Dune (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook). If questioned by the authorities, I will state that the paragraphs below are passages from an unpublished Michael Crichton novel that I am reproducing under the terms of fair use.
Before I leave you to the sweeping and majestic prose of The Buttoner, some background regarding the plot:
On the eve of the Second World War, last-minute changes to army uniform codes require an additional top button to be added to all military dress shirts. It is believed by British tacticians that the supplementary button will provide increased neck support to soldiers and improve morale. In the village of Lower Pipfield, six men, who are due to be shipped off to Europe to fight the axis powers, visit the local seamstress Anna, hoping that she will be able to make the necessary amendments to their uniforms. When Anna discovers that she possesses only five buttons, she must make a difficult decision regarding which of the men she will consign to the ignoble fate of entering military service in breach of the new uniform standards.
On the eve of the Second World War, last-minute changes to army uniform codes require an additional top button to be added to all military dress shirts. It is believed by British tacticians that the supplementary button will provide increased neck support to soldiers and improve morale. In the village of Lower Pipfield, six men, who are due to be shipped off to Europe to fight the axis powers, visit the local seamstress Anna, hoping that she will be able to make the necessary amendments to their uniforms. When Anna discovers that she possesses only five buttons, she must make a difficult decision regarding which of the men she will consign to the ignoble fate of entering military service in breach of the new uniform standards.
~
...“But Mr Upshaft, you cannot deny a soldier the dignity of his uniform,” contested Anna stridently. “I can only imagine the fate that would befall a man under such terrible circumstances.”
In that moment, a Lancaster bomber, flying low over the cow pasture, was reflected in her eyes. It was a metaphor, or perhaps an allegory for her defiant and unyielding nature, thought Mr Upshaft when, years later, he reflected upon their conversation. At the time he had stared at her in the manner of an owl who had risen through the ranks of educators to become provost at Eton.
“You need not imagine at all, young lady. I will tell you exactly what will happen,” he replied, foreshadowingly: “Such a man would be stripped of his rank. For the duration of his military service, he would qualify for only the most dangerous and demeaning tasks. Eventually he would be put on trial and sentenced to die by firing squad, only to be rescued at the eleventh hour by the love of a defiant, young woman who stood firm in the face of war, diligently repairing the torn seams of our social fabric, even as it was rent apart by global geopolitical forces.”
“But surely then you can see the urgency of my request,” said Anna.
Nervously, she caressed the spine of her copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook).
Mr Upshaft continued to stare at her, unmoved.
“It seems that I must remind you, Miss Ellegard, that rationing is now in full effect,” he sermonised. “This applies not only to food, but to other essential items, such as buttons. Where would our brave airmen be if they could not button-up the fuselages of their bombers and fighter aircraft? And what of our tank crews? How would they fare if the side-flaps of their armoured vehicles were left hanging open? Or are you one of those confounded women who believes buttons to be 'old hat' and that we should switch to the new 'zipper' system employed by the Yanks?”
Anna blushed modestly at the mention of zippers, She was, after all, a callow young seamstress who had, as yet, never been given any cause to leave her home village of Lower Pipfield...
...“Now, you are brave man, Charles,” said Captain Flanders. “I can tell as much from your moustache.”
He reached past his well-thumbed copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook) for his penis...
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote the word 'pens' here, but it was changed to 'penis' by my spellchecker. This is what you get for composing your novel on your mobile phone. While writing The Buttoner, I was mindful of the tropes of cross stitch fiction, wherein the male member is only coyly alluded to under such euphemisms as “his colonel” or “his bobbin.” The sex act is usually depicted as a vigorous game of badminton]
...Anna was awakened by the sun streaming in through the French windows of her French apartment, located in the French city of Paris. She dressed herself. Finding the kitchen cupboards bare, she ventured downstairs to the ground floor of the building. The smell of onions, wine, and pungent French cheese assaulted her nostrils as she stepped out onto the cobbles of the besieged city.
As she pedalled her bike up a gentle hill, she was pleased to note that both the German and English forces had heeded her request to keep the gutters free of debris, and to sweep up any broken glass or jagged metal that might pose a threat to her tires.
“Good morning Mr Zutter,” she called out, as she passed a German machine-gun emplacement.
The SS officer paused in the polishing of his MP 40 to acknowledge the beautiful young woman, wearing a flowery sundress, who teetered on tip-toes astride a stationary bike, on the opposite side of the road.
“How are you, Anna?” he replied cheerfully.
“I'm very good. Apart from this wretched war, of course,” she answered breezily. “It makes it so very hard to purchase butter.”
“Ah, ze war, when will she end?” said Zutter regretfully, as if he were a man pondering what his life might have been in a more peaceful era; one where he might have set himself up in business as the town baker, rather than a man whose eyes bulged manically as he machine-gunned the plate glass windows of pavement patisseries.
“If only I had met a women like you before I became ze living embodiment of evil,” he remarked, ruefully.
“I'm on the hunt for croissants,” reported Anna. “I don't suppose you know of any bakers that might be open this early on a Sunday morning.”
“I think that, if you take ze next left, and then keep on following ze road along,” advised Zutter.
Anna thanked him. Zutter waved at her as she departed. If she was aware of the gesture then she did not return it.
A boisterous chorus of working class greetings rose to meet Anna as she steered her bike between the meandering barbed wire and into British-held territory.
Captain John Pickering set down his copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook).
“Stripe me if it isn't Anna Ellegard,” he remarked authentically. “I hope that we didn't keep you awake last night, what with all the gunfire and agonised screaming.”
“It was quite alright, John,” replied Anna. “The laudanum you gave me worked wonders.”
“I say, you wouldn't happen to have a spare button about your person, would you?” enquired the Captain, hopefully.
“I only brought one button with me to Paris, and it's for the shirt of one man only,” said Anna, firmly.
“He must be a very special man indeed,” replied John, his voice tinged with regret as he rubbed his sore, poorly-supported neck...
…“Ow! Fuummphhh!” cried Hitler, as Anna deftly stitched his mouth closed.
“No, let him speak,” said Brunhilda. “I want to hear what this wicked man has to say for himself.”
“If he speaks, then he must do so in the Spanish tongue, so that I will understand,” said the Countess.
“When he addresses me, he must do so in old Finlandish,” said Fermeur.
“It is agreed then,” said Marjorie Adlington. “Hitler will make his case to us in Spanish, and then in Old Finlandish for the benefit of Fermeur. While Anna is unsewing the fuhrer's mouth, I will read to you from this copy of The Missionary Dune, by Sam Redlark.” (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook)
The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook.
“But surely then you can see the urgency of my request,” said Anna.
Nervously, she caressed the spine of her copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook).
Mr Upshaft continued to stare at her, unmoved.
“It seems that I must remind you, Miss Ellegard, that rationing is now in full effect,” he sermonised. “This applies not only to food, but to other essential items, such as buttons. Where would our brave airmen be if they could not button-up the fuselages of their bombers and fighter aircraft? And what of our tank crews? How would they fare if the side-flaps of their armoured vehicles were left hanging open? Or are you one of those confounded women who believes buttons to be 'old hat' and that we should switch to the new 'zipper' system employed by the Yanks?”
Anna blushed modestly at the mention of zippers, She was, after all, a callow young seamstress who had, as yet, never been given any cause to leave her home village of Lower Pipfield...
~
...“Now, you are brave man, Charles,” said Captain Flanders. “I can tell as much from your moustache.”
He reached past his well-thumbed copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook) for his penis...
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote the word 'pens' here, but it was changed to 'penis' by my spellchecker. This is what you get for composing your novel on your mobile phone. While writing The Buttoner, I was mindful of the tropes of cross stitch fiction, wherein the male member is only coyly alluded to under such euphemisms as “his colonel” or “his bobbin.” The sex act is usually depicted as a vigorous game of badminton]
~
...Anna was awakened by the sun streaming in through the French windows of her French apartment, located in the French city of Paris. She dressed herself. Finding the kitchen cupboards bare, she ventured downstairs to the ground floor of the building. The smell of onions, wine, and pungent French cheese assaulted her nostrils as she stepped out onto the cobbles of the besieged city.
As she pedalled her bike up a gentle hill, she was pleased to note that both the German and English forces had heeded her request to keep the gutters free of debris, and to sweep up any broken glass or jagged metal that might pose a threat to her tires.
“Good morning Mr Zutter,” she called out, as she passed a German machine-gun emplacement.
The SS officer paused in the polishing of his MP 40 to acknowledge the beautiful young woman, wearing a flowery sundress, who teetered on tip-toes astride a stationary bike, on the opposite side of the road.
“How are you, Anna?” he replied cheerfully.
“I'm very good. Apart from this wretched war, of course,” she answered breezily. “It makes it so very hard to purchase butter.”
“Ah, ze war, when will she end?” said Zutter regretfully, as if he were a man pondering what his life might have been in a more peaceful era; one where he might have set himself up in business as the town baker, rather than a man whose eyes bulged manically as he machine-gunned the plate glass windows of pavement patisseries.
“If only I had met a women like you before I became ze living embodiment of evil,” he remarked, ruefully.
“I'm on the hunt for croissants,” reported Anna. “I don't suppose you know of any bakers that might be open this early on a Sunday morning.”
“I think that, if you take ze next left, and then keep on following ze road along,” advised Zutter.
Anna thanked him. Zutter waved at her as she departed. If she was aware of the gesture then she did not return it.
A boisterous chorus of working class greetings rose to meet Anna as she steered her bike between the meandering barbed wire and into British-held territory.
Captain John Pickering set down his copy of The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook).
“Stripe me if it isn't Anna Ellegard,” he remarked authentically. “I hope that we didn't keep you awake last night, what with all the gunfire and agonised screaming.”
“It was quite alright, John,” replied Anna. “The laudanum you gave me worked wonders.”
“I say, you wouldn't happen to have a spare button about your person, would you?” enquired the Captain, hopefully.
“I only brought one button with me to Paris, and it's for the shirt of one man only,” said Anna, firmly.
“He must be a very special man indeed,” replied John, his voice tinged with regret as he rubbed his sore, poorly-supported neck...
~
…“Ow! Fuummphhh!” cried Hitler, as Anna deftly stitched his mouth closed.
“No, let him speak,” said Brunhilda. “I want to hear what this wicked man has to say for himself.”
“If he speaks, then he must do so in the Spanish tongue, so that I will understand,” said the Countess.
“When he addresses me, he must do so in old Finlandish,” said Fermeur.
“It is agreed then,” said Marjorie Adlington. “Hitler will make his case to us in Spanish, and then in Old Finlandish for the benefit of Fermeur. While Anna is unsewing the fuhrer's mouth, I will read to you from this copy of The Missionary Dune, by Sam Redlark.” (which is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook)
~
The Missionary Dune by Sam Redlark is available through Amazon as a paperback or eBook.
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