FIRST PHRASES

4 7 R F I R S T P H R A S E S A L A S T A I R F O W L E R The first language I remember uttering came out in the back garden of our old house, the one on the south side of Fernleigh Road in Muirend, Glasgow, Scotland, the United Kingdom, Earth, the Solar System, the Galaxy. I stood on the grass behind this semi-detached bungalow, improvising a morning hymn in one of my private languages. Suddenly I was interrupted by the silly woman next door leaning on the fence and insisting on knowing what nice song was that. The sacrilegious interruption abashed me. But I spared her: I just said eskorakes to her, or something like that. The earliest individual word I recall pronouncing is psalm. This too was linked with embarrassment. I had got home after my first day at school, and submitted to a family debriefing. What had I learned? What had I read? What had I sung? I began, ‘‘We sang a pusalum,’’ but got no further. My sister hooted derisively: ‘‘Pusalum , pusalum,’’ she repeated over and over again, giggling helplessly on the floor and ostentatiously drumming her heels. Apparently people pronounced pusalum like sam. That wasn’t the only humiliating word. Sinbad was supposed to know a spell ‘‘Open see same,’’ but when I tried it out it opened 4 8 F O W L E R Y nothing. See same proved strong magic of a sort, though; like pressing a button it activated more drumming of heels. Pronunciation was a dangerous business. Another time the family peace was broken by a quarrel about whether the Swiss city was Basel or Bale. My mother was better read than her sister, and knew we must say Basel. But my aunt was more traveled, and knew we must say Bâle. She had heard the natives say it that way. So Mother consulted the Encyclopaedia Britannica and found ‘‘Basle, Switzerland: see Basel.’’ Oral tradition versus textual authority. Speech was distinctly contentious. A minefield of dissension, it was not to be entered without forethought . Words – and the sounds making them up – were heavy with dangerous properties. About that time I came across the curious practice of stammering , and thought to explore it. I began, as many do, by imitating others. The whole family came down hard on this. Stammering was like squinting: I might easily get stuck that way. And that was just what happened. I got stuck, and found I was a stammerer. The condition was shameful and to be concealed at all costs. So began a double life. Whatever else I was, I was the guardian of a secret, and errands were dreadful. Sent for half a stone of potatoes, I foresaw I’d have to say the heavy phrase ‘‘half a stone.’’ On the way to the greengrocer I imagined the approaching failure. What if I failed to utter the obligatory words? It would reveal what I really was: a stammerer. But if I got by, it would only mean going home with two burdens, my secret and the potatoes. At school it might prove impossible to make certain sounds and the words they formed. Initial vowels loomed fearfully: if they tripped at the sentence threshold, no sentence would come out. And names were worse. Inescapable and immutable, they might easily make me mute. Worst of the worst, my own name happened to begin, unluckily, with an initial vowel. Now each Sunday evening was a time of dread; each Monday, a school day when I could be found out any time between nine and four. With hindsight, I see that that stammer was a blessing in disguise . In going round and about to avoid unspeakable words I got used to discovering other, speakable ones, words of a happily pronounceable sort. I learned alternative expressions. Di√erent phrases. Other ways to say anything always o√ered. Anything and F I R S T P H R A S E S 4 9 R everything could be said variously. The phrases available were multifarious. In a word, I could say any word I liked...