Tomato Cain and Other Stories, published in 1949, is the Nigel Kneale’s only collection of short fiction. JOE HOWSIN takes a look at this recently re-issued work…
Nostalgia is perhaps the most dualistic emotion we commonly experience; it is equal parts comfort and despair, longing and relief. Itās the ghostly invocation of a previous reality that never was or will be again ā at least, not in the way we remember. Itās this dreadful yearning that Nigel Kneale captures on film in works like The Stone Tape, and in his one and only work of written fiction ā Tomato Cain and Other Stories. Knealeās settings are wrought with conflicting emotions and unstable realities ā the residents of Minuke cling to a world of matter and logic, while the āotherā world of inexplicable happenings and unnatural manifestations forces its way to the fore, displacing everything the characters once comfortingly held as fact. However, most stories, like Clog-Dance for a Dead Farce, exist in familiar, āmundaneā settings that nevertheless ooze with a certain strangeness ā creating a uniquely unsettling atmosphere Elizabeth Bowen calls āeminent human queerness at its heightā.
Mark Gatiss, in his introduction, references Knealeās displeasure at being labelled a horror and science fiction writer but goes on to point out the āstrong thread of genuine ghastlinessā that runs throughout his work. But āghastlinessā is itself a more nuanced term than we credit; while it does fittingly describe the murderous intent ā be it human or otherworldly ā in Chains, itās equally applicable to the achingly mundane social awkwardness of The Excursion ā and if youāve ever been stuck making small talk with a particularly boring stranger on a public bus, youāll understand itās just as ghastly an experience as discovering a screaming ghost stalking the stairs of your newly-purchased research office.
Itās a testament to the impeccable structure of these stories that these two threads of ghastliness often inhabit the same page ā in The Patter of Tiny Feet, for example, weāre left to wonder whether weād rather face the ghostly footsteps of a mysterious spectre, or the odious pretention of the houseās owner. Either prospect is chilling, but in Knealeās world, human pettiness and spectral hauntings are directly linked: the former is a direct result of the latter and vice versa. This rings particularly true in tragic tales like Lotus for Jamie, in which the heart-breaking finale isnāt the fault of demonic possession or malevolent poltergeists, but due to the apathy and casual cruelty of ordinary people. This is the most terrifying aspect of Knealeās human horrors ā theyāre not even particularly horrific. Rare are occurrences akin to Poeās murderers or Stokerās prowling predators, most threats come from simple neglect and pessimism, and more often than not, our protagonists suffer due to their own foibles rather than any outside force.
This uniquely farcical take on the typical horror story is the source of much of Knealeās dark humour, and while stories like Who ā Me, Signor? lean into this comedic edge, there are similarly farcical narratives that go in the opposite tonal direction. Flo, for example, is among the most subtly disturbing short stories Iāve read, not only for its lethal events and terrifying implications, but because the detestable actions of the protagonist are the result of temper, selfishness, and stupidity, rather than any Machiavellian scheming. When sharing a hotel room with Hannibal Lecter, the terror comes from his intimidating intellect quietly plotting your downfall; but while a similar nightmare holiday with one of Knealeās characters will probably end in a similarly bloody way, itāll likely be a complete accident. Would it be comforting or sickening to lie dying and bleeding, all while holding back a macabre smile at the sheer absurdity of it all?
An often sickening lack of introspection and self-awareness acts as the dark vein that draws Knealeās characters to the poison chalice of nostalgia ā in his televisual work, Kneale bridges the gap between the past, present and future with depictions of ghostly technology, and while thatās certainly present in certain tales, the majority of Tomato Cain and Other Stories locates the shattering of time in a much more human place. A particularly telling moment in The Excursion comes in the expression of being āsort of glad [ā¦] we didnāt have to live a long time agoā (82). True, there are many perks of living in modern Britain: supermarkets, access to medicine, next-day delivery, the list goes on. Thereās plenty of reasons to feel grateful for all that we have. But arenāt food banks also being used at record rates? Isnāt the NHS under a tremendous amount of strain from historic underfunding? And isnāt Amazon a global monopoly, dodging tax and underpaying workers? Demonising the past can easily transform into a critique of the not-so-perfect future weāve created for ourselves.
However, the opposite nostalgic impulse is equally attractive ā the āgood old daysā is a narrative weāre constantly fed by various forms of media from the news to Stranger Things. But in Peg, Kneale highlights the absurdity of romanticising the past with the ghostās memories of āthe lovely, cuddly, cosy black-out. And the guns and the searchlights and the balloonsā, conveniently ignoring the death and misery just under the surface. Itās no use romanticising the past to escape the horrors of the present ā theyāre already lying in wait.
Returning to the very beginning, in the eponymous Tomato Cain, Kneale highlights the absurdity of romantic nostalgia on a more personal scale. The core narrative is quintessential Kneale ā the hilariously petty Cainās overreaction to āa little heap of scarlet fruit. The new tomatoes of John James Quilleashā quickly reveals a sinister undertone of xenophobia and a stubborn resistance to anything new: āthey were not a harvest-fruit to sing hymns for, but foreign things drawn from the earth by hot glassā. Cainās distrust of the tomatoes is depicted as a thinly veiled cypher for his interpretation of the foreign as somehow intrinsically corrosive to his way of life: āthe things came from South America, whose immorality was a deep concern to all thinking men. āLove applesā were the tomatoes calledā. But, in a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, Cainās distrust leads to the destruction of his identity as a respected member of the English upper-class ā āTomato! Tomato Cain!ā He knew, with a sudden twitch of agony, that Eli Cain Esquire had ceased to exist at a touchā ā unaware that this transformation is entirely down to his own actions and nothing at all to do with the āforeignā, āimmoralā tomatoes.
Thatās not to say we should ignore the past entirely. It often yields useful answers to our most prescient problems; thatās why, while reading any good book is a pleasure, Iāve always found something special in lesser-known gems from a previous time ā which Tomato Cain certainly is. In her original introduction, Elizabeth Bowen praises the short story as existing āhalf-way between tradition and experimentā; weāre privileged, then, not only to experience Knealeās stories as innovations on a constantly developing form, but also as works whose influence can be seen in subsequent generations right up to our own. Bowenās introduction highlights the fact that literary innovation is a steadily swinging pendulum, rather than a pyramid built higher brick by brick; plot-laden stories give way to more ephemeral mood pieces, transforming the form into unrecognisable new variations, and then back again ā a churning soup of story, theme, and structure thatās far more kaleidoscopic and endlessly unique than a simple straight line. I canāt think of a more appropriate perspective from which to view Knealeās work: as both a harbinger of the future and an artefact from the past.
However relevant Knealeās depiction of corrosive nostalgia was in his time, itās gained even greater significance now ā the fact that the fears depicted here are present even in 2022 is perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the collection. Though Kneale is not always on the right side of history ā thereās the use of certain words that wonāt sit well with modern audiences, as well as a few uncomfortable implications ā it canāt be denied that Tomato Cain and Other Stories holds its own as a prescient work of literature and a tour de force for one of the 20th centuryās most interesting writers. So, go back and read my first paragraph – remember how good it was? Me neither. The past is rarely as glittering as we remember, but the future? Well, Iāll tell you ā
You can buy Nigel Knealeās Tomato Cain and Other Stories from Amazon.
JOE HOWSIN (he/him) works as a copywriter in Manchester, after completing Manchester Metropolitanās Masters programme in Gothic literature and film. Heās also written articles on Saint Maud, Ghostland, and A Dark Song for Horrified magazine. His fiction can be found in places like Not Deer, The Walled City Journal, Tetherās End, Lost Futures, and Dark Lake publishingās The Theme is Revenge Anthology. His twitter handle is @FlayThrowsCats.