About The Book

ABOUT THE BOOK.
BY CHRIS PLATT.

I first read the book at college. It wasn’t on the syllabus. We didn’t read it in class. As far as we knew, the English department were unaware of the book and the sensation it was causing. It was handed around like it was an illegal substance. Check this out. Here, read this!
There was a buzz around campus about the book. Have you read it? Do you get it? What does it mean? What is the author trying to say?
I heard about the book weeks before I was handed a copy. Everyone was talking about it. A friend who was in my Sociology class found me in the college canteen one lunch-time. He handed me the dog-eared paperback book.
‘Have you heard about this book?’ He asked, sliding the book across the canteen table.
I nodded, yes, of course.
I stared at the thick volume. The cover illustration was a clear blue sky with a single white cloud.
The Masterplan by William Fury Davis was written in large yellow lettering.
I had heard so much about this book over the past few weeks. It was the only book the author had published. The novel had sparked so much debate when it was published in the mid-1990s. Critics had been debating for thirty years about the meaning of the novel. Was it a comedy? A satire? Was it a comment on modern society? Was it about consumerism? A criticism of the internet and technology? It was clearly saying something, but what?

I arrived home from college that afternoon, and headed straight to my room. I placed the book down carefully on my desk as though it was some ancient text I was about to study, maybe in a way, it was.
I read the entire book that evening, all one thousand and seventy nine pages. It was a compelling, captivating read. It was laugh-out loud funny and yet sentimental and sad. It was enthralling but, at the same time, completely baffling. You had to think about it to try and make any sense of the novel, and yet the more you thought about it, the less sense it seemed to make. It reminded me of those late 1960s Beatles songs that music experts have been analysing for years, and were no nearer to figuring out their meaning. We are the egg men, anyone?
And the last line of the book was just puzzling, It was then I knew what I had to do.

I barely slept that night. The scenes from the book seemed to haunt me, taunting, mocking. I had never read a book like it. I felt moved, riled up, close to tears, and yet still so confused about what the book meant.
The next day, at college, I found the guy who passed me the book. He was in the canteen drinking tea from a plastic cup.
Before we hurried off to our first lesson, I grabbed his arm, and spoke, my voice urgent.
‘I read the book.’
‘Yes? And?’ He asked.
‘I want to know what it all means.’ I insisted.
‘Everybody does. That’s the thing. Nobody knows.’ He said.
That was the first conversation I had about the book but it wouldn’t be the last. I was like those die-hard football fans who talk of little-else but the game. The Masterplan by William Fury Davis was my specialist subject, my only subject. And I wasn’t the only one.
At house parties with my fellow students, we would drink and smoke late into the night, discussing the book, quoting, reciting, debating what the meaning was.
It was like a puzzle, a thousand word cryptic crossword clue, divided into chapters. It was like those television shows that are so riveting, so compelling, each episode just amazing, but by the end of the series you’ve no idea what any of it actually meant. And yet, you can’t wait for the next series.

When the half-term break came round a few weeks later, while my friends had plans for study sessions or camping trips or pub crawls, I had very different plans of my own. An idea had come to me late one night, as I mulled over the puzzle of the book, re-reading it once more. There was one person who would surely have the answers.
Only one person would know what the book meant, and that was William Fury Davis himself. Davis had only published the one book before stepping away from the literary world.
It had been years since his last public appearance. Davis was said to be living quite the reclusive life these days. I had done a bit of digging on line, and made a couple of calls, pretending I was working on an article for the non-existent college newspaper. Finally, I had an address. My heart pounded in excitement as I scribbled the address down. I clutched the paper as though it was the winning lottery ticket.

William Fury Davis was living in a small village out in the Lancashire countryside. As I didn’t drive, it would be quite the trek to the village. A bus into the city-centre, a train out to Bolton, and then another bus from there. But, I hoped the trip would be worth it.
It was dark, early morning, when I set off for the bus into town. As I travelled on the bus and the train, I flicked through the copy of the book. I re-read the book, like I was doing some last-minute revision on the way to an exam.

As I stepped off the bus late that afternoon, rain was falling from the grey skies. I stretched my arms and legs, stiff from the rattling public transport. I walked eagerly towards the address I had been given, wondering if I would find the author at home, and what reception I would be given. I hoped that he would be amenable and we could have a discussion about the work, and he would explain exactly what the book meant, and his reason for writing the novel.
I headed up the street, and reached the house. The author lived in a terraced house on a cobbled street. The area had an old-fashioned feel to it.
I knocked on the front door and waited, my heart pounding in my chest, eager for the answers. And I waited. I knocked again, louder this time, more of a bang than a knock.

Nothing. No answer. The house was in darkness, no light or lamp-glow burning inside. I stepped back, and studied the building, looking at both storeys, as though it would hold the answer. I shrugged.
I looked up and down the street, quite unsure what to do next. I spotted a pub up the road, the lights glowing, inviting. There was nothing else for it, I would stop for a few beers before heading back home. If nothing else, I would have sampled a few local ales in a pub. Not a completely wasted journey.

The pub was that lovely old-fashioned type of place that you never seemed to find in the city centres and busy towns. These little ale-houses, with their original wooden features, and open fires, seemed only to exist off the beaten track. There were pale imitations in the city, but I always got the feeling that those places had had all the original interior ripped out, only to be replaced by something the brewery thought old pubs used to look like. These pubs always ended up being a watered-down version of the places they once were.
But, this place felt like the real deal. The clientele was a mix of people. There were a lot of old fellers in flat caps and women in thick knitted cardigans, as well as younger types with trendy beards and glasses. A couple in one corner were playing chess, over halves of bitter, and there were two lads huddled round a thick volume of poetry, eyes glued to the page.
I headed to the bar and ordered a pint of the local beer.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ The barman asked, as he pulled my pint.
‘No, I’m from Manchester. I’m up here on a bit of a mission, actually. I’m looking for someone, the writer, William Fury Davis. Have you heard of him?’ I asked.
The barman nodded to a figure sipping a pint of bitter at a table by the fireplace.
‘That’s him?’ I asked.
‘The man himself,’ The barman said, his voice hushed. ‘but you didn’t hear it from me.’

I took my pint and went over, approaching his table warily. He was somewhere in his sixties and his wild grey hair touched his shoulders.
‘Excuse me, Mr Davis?’ I said.
‘Fury Davis.’ He corrected.
‘Sorry, yes, Mr Fury Davis.’ I said.
‘They call me Billy. What can I do for you?’
He waved to the seat facing him.
‘I need to talk to you about the book.’ I said, as I sat down.
‘What book?’ He asked.
‘Your book, of course, the Masterplan.’ I insisted.
‘I have nothing to say.’ Billy said.
‘Please,’ I said, ‘you have to tell me about the book.’
The writer pointed to his empty beer glass. I hurried to the bar and returned with two fresh pints of beer.

Billy took a long swig of beer and then spoke.

‘The idea came to me in a dream one night. For a writer, that’s not unusual. I woke up and scribbled down this idea for a book, a book that would be like nothing else I’ve ever read. I wrote the book in three weeks, surviving on little more than endless cups of tea, and a couple of hours sleep a night. I tried to hang on to the energy, the feeling, the essence of the dream. I put it all down on the page as best I could.’
‘But what does it all mean?’ I asked.

He paused. I waited for what felt like an hour for his reply.
Then he gave me an amused grin.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’