The Pattern in the Carpet: A Personal History With Jigsaws Read Online Free

patches left, Auntie Phyl might embark
philosophically on the topic of 'the missing piece'. For at this late stage in a puzzle's life, it has become clear to all participants, sometimes over several nights of struggle, that certain pieces are, almost without question, missing. Sometimes there is one particular space, a distinct and obvious space, and the piece that should occupy the space cannot be found. If it could, it would have declared itself. The floor has been searched, and sometimes it is suggested that the bag of the vacuum cleaner be emptied. Occasionally pieces are retrieved by these methods, though often not the ones you are looking for. It is at this moment that Auntie Phyl might say, 'Now's the time when we could count the spaces, and see if we've got the right number of pieces left to fill them.' This is always a controversial moment, for the depression cast by an incontrovertibly missing and irrecoverable piece is considerable, so in a way it is as well to delay this disturbing realization for as long as possible. On the other hand, if you confront the problem, and bravely count the spaces, and find that you have the precise numbers to fit them, there is an increased satisfaction in staring at these recalcitrant remainders, knowing that, implausibly, impossibly, they will eventually be made to supply the gaps and complete the image.
    One of the strangest and most unsettling cognitive experiences of a difficult jigsaw (say, a Jackson Pollock) occurs when a piece that has eluded intensive search over hours and days and weeks suddenly makes itself known, and fits itself into its home. At once, the piece loses its profoundly unknown quality, and becomes so much a part of the pattern that within seconds you cannot remember where the gap was. What Freudian denial had concealed its identity for so long? Once it has been seen and placed, it is impossible to recall its previous invisibility.
    One night, while writing an early draft of this book, and in honour of Auntie Phyl, I took the risk and counted the last pieces of Henri Rousseau's
Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!)
with
which I was then engaged. There were thirty-two spaces left, and thirty-two pieces. They would have to go in. And they did, although I had difficulty in placing even the last four. I am not very good at jigsaws. That is one of the reasons why I like them so much. I had been working on this striped beast of the forests for months, albeit very intermittently, with a little help from my daughter Becky and other visitors, and I was pleased to finish it off, and to resume serious work on this book, in which I had hoped to explore the nature, satisfactions, history and imagery of this curious activity.
    I like to think that my aunt was happy, as I was, during those summer evenings in Somerset. I always anticipated her visits with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, because she could be a very rude and demanding guest. Graciousness was not her forte. She belonged to a generation that expected younger people, even younger people in their fifties, to behave with deference. Once, driving back towards Porlock Weir over Exmoor from an excursion, my daughter, my daughter's friend and I engaged in a lively dispute about which route to take back. All were beautiful, so which to choose? Should we take the coast road, or drive inland over the moor via Simonsbath? After a few minutes of this banter, my aunt said, and not as a joke, 'Oh, do shut up about it, you're making me feel sick.' We fell silent at once, but when we got back home my daughter's friend confided to me that she had never heard an adult speak to another adult in that tone.
    (This elegant friend, Guyanese-born and educated in England, now lives in Johannesburg, whence she sent me a jigsaw of camouflaged African animals that at first sight looked easy, but was far more difficult to complete than Rousseau's tiger. I emailed her to say, 'The African jigsaw is impossible,' and she responded,