by Lisa Tuttle
In between the boyfriends, who came and went, never affecting her very deeply, Agnes kept herself company with thoughts of Graham Storey. The crush she'd had on him as a child, seeing his shadowy, dreamy-eyed photograph on a scrap of newsprint, had become more sophisticated, but it was still a crush.
Reading the poems in his first collection, The Memory of Trees, as a high school student, she had decided he was an English Rilke. His poems had been as mysterious to her, and as moving. The poems in his second collection, which was published in America when she was in her final year of college, were less mystical. By then, her own tastes in poetry had changed, and she liked them even better. It seemed to her that she and Graham Storey had a similar outlook on life. He wrote the poems she wished she could write.
She had many favorite poets, others who moved her more profoundly, or seemed to speak to her more directly than he did—but they were all dead. Graham Storey was alive. Reading library copies of the TLS, Stand, The London Magazine and other British periodicals, she often came upon not only his new poems, but also book reviews and letters, all of which she read greedily, combing them for clues to the person behind the poems. By chance, doing some research on W. H. Auden, she discovered that Graham Storey had been in correspondence with the older poet for a few years, and that Graham Storey's actual letters were a part of the Auden collection in the Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas.
As a student, she had access to them. She sat by herself in a small, cool, well-lighted room with a box file open on the table and picked up the typewritten pages in her hands, raised them to her face, inhaling with eyes closed. What might be left, besides the words, indentations and ink on paper, after so many years? Cell fragments from the skin of his hands, a hair, a trace of cigarette smoke . . . ? She stared and stared at the signature in blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formality of his full name, but the last two letters were signed simply G.
How that initial reverberated, how personal it became, how it haunted her! The fact that it was one of her own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest a connection between them, proof they had something in common.
Just occasionally she would get carried away, caught up in a yearning so intense it was a physical pain and she was helpless before it. It frightened her a little, that she could be so overcome by emotion for someone she didn't even know, for a figure of her own creation. She had never felt such overwhelming love for a real person—only for the perfect lover she had once imagined Alex to be, and, as a child, for Myles.
But at least this time she knew her yearning could not be answered. She was perfectly aware that the real Graham Storey could not be the soul mate she'd invented. That was why, although she had his address, she never wrote him a letter (or, at least, she never sent it), and although she was saving her money with the idea of making a trip to England, she did not fool herself by thinking that an English holiday would bring her any closer to the real man. She indulged in fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking along the Drag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. She would recognize him from the picture on the back of his latest book. The English Department did sponsor a series of poetry readings; it was not impossible that they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe she'd be visiting London, walking down Charing Cross Road, and see him inside a bookshop, signing books. She could walk in . . .
The truth was, she didn't really want to meet him. She didn't want to be forced to give up her fantasy. She could enjoy it for what it was, her own creation, and her idea of the poet could be an inspiration to her. But they would never meet.
Standing in Victoria Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from jet lag and lack of sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a telephone book. The sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar touch. All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the problem of finding her way around this huge, unknown city.
The next day she set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it should be inhabited by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the far-flung tendrils of London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the Metropolitan Line. His street she had located in her newly purchased London A to Z and she felt confident that she would find her way there from the station.
She had no plans for what she would say or do after she had made her way to his door. She was praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her and feel what she had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face.
It was a sunny day, but breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. She felt glad for her cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Even before she saw the number and was sure, she had recognized his little white cottage with the honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, and both her breath and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for a reply.
A woman opened the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured, rather exotic way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long, dark hair. “Yes?” She hadn't expected to encounter anyone else, and it took her a moment to find her tongue, and ask if this was indeed the poet's house.
The way the woman looked at her made her certain she would not be allowed in. To this woman, whatever her connection to the poet, she was just some person from Porlock. “Please, won't you tell him—won't you ask him—but not if he's working, of course. Don't interrupt him. But if I could come back later, I wouldn't take up too much of his time . . .”
“You're American, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Here on a visit?”
She nodded. “My first time.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don't. Not personally. Just his work. I've admired it for so long. . . .”
The woman suddenly smiled. “Oh, you're one of his readers! Well, he's not here right now, but would you like to come in anyway? I can show you round.”
This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. “Maybe I could come back when he's in.”
“Oh, he won't mind me showing you round. I'm sure he'd want me to. After you've come so far, I couldn't send you away with nothing. Please come in.”
“Really, I'd rather meet him.”
“Well, of course you would, and why shouldn't you? You can come back again in a few days—better ring first to make sure he's in. But as long as you're here now, come in for a cup of tea. Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?”
It would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she wondered about the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her hippy, gypsyish clothes—cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver bangles on her arms and a ring on every finger—she was unlikely his housekeeper or secretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false naiveté, “Are you Mrs. . . ?”
The woman smiled. “I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm his girlfriend, Amy Carrick.”
There was something in the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her head that made her suspect she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet's presence.
“Where is he now? Will he be back soon?”
“He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland. He does that sometimes, when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how poets are. Wouldn't you like to see his study, where the magic happens? Just through here. This is his desk, this is his chair. He always writes longhand, on a pad like this. There are his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of Biros, but he's taken his favorite pen away with him, of course.” It was like being shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forced upon one and never allowed a moment for thought or a meaningful private discovery. Although she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelieving everything the woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems. Perhaps he wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the back of the desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been written
at that desk, with the poet in that chair.
“Go on, I can see you're dying to try it. Go ahead, I won't tell him, sit down, see what it feels like to sit in the poet's chair!”
She backed away. “Could I use your bathroom, please?”
Amy led her to the other end of the small house, where the bathroom was beside the kitchen. “I'll make us a pot of tea while you're freshening up.”
She ran the water to mask any sound, and had a look around the bathroom. There were no signs of a woman's occupancy, no makeup, moisturizer, or tampons, not even a toothbrush in the mug beside the sink. Only one person lived here, and he was away.
“Why don't you take a seat in the lounge, make yourself at home. I'll be in with the tea in a couple of minutes,” called Amy as she passed. There was one armchair and a sofa in the room called the lounge, and by the evidence—a crumpled tissue and a paperback lying open on the seat—it was obvious that the other woman had been sitting in the armchair earlier. Perversely (“make yourself at home!”), she chose to sit on the chair, lifting the book (A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman) and tissue and setting them on the nearest surface, then settling herself, wriggling her bottom deeper into the already flattened cushion. As she did so she felt something small and hard under her. Probably a button or a coin, she thought as she raised a buttock and slipped one hand beneath the cushion.
She had found a small gold key attached to a thin gold ring. The key seemed too small and delicate to be of any practical use, so perhaps it was the sort of charm that more usually would be worn as part of a bracelet or necklace. Without thinking, she slipped it onto her ring finger and it was a perfect fit. She turned it so that the key lay in the palm of her hand, and she closed her hand around it just as Amy came in with a tea tray.
“Here we are! Milk or lemon?”
“Lemon, please.”
“I thought so. I've noticed Americans don't often take milk in their tea. He never takes tea at all. He's a coffee drinker, but it has to be strong.”
She craved all such details of his life out of habit, but resented this woman for being the source. Anyway, she might be lying. She certainly didn't live here with the poet as she had implied. “Have you been to America?”
“Me? Oh, no. I used to work in a cafe where we had a lot of American tourists coming in, that's where I noticed. My boyfriend says noticing little details like that is really important in a poet.”
“Are you a poet, too?”
“I try,” she said, casting her eyes down, more coy than modest. Then a thought alarmed her, and her eyes came up quick and fierce. “Are you?”
“Oh, goodness, no. I'm just a reader; I can't write.” The lie soothed whatever dark suspicion had briefly disturbed Amy's complacency. She knew she'd been right in her reflexive, almost instinctive lie. She didn't want this woman knowing too much about her.
When she left—as soon as she had finished her tea—she was still wearing the key ring. Distrusting the other woman as she did she couldn't bring herself to hand it over to her. She justified this with the thought that all the other rings on Amy's hands were silver, so this was unlikely to be hers. This might belong to the poet's real girlfriend, in which case it would be much better to give it to him when she came back another day. After all, it was his house she had found it in.
But as soon as she was outside on the street she was gripped by panic, realizing that however she justified it, she had just stolen a piece of jewelry. She should have shoved it back under the cushion again before she left—what had possessed her to put it on in the first place? The panic died away as she accepted the fact that it was too late now, and she'd just have to try to explain herself when she met the poet. Her hand made a fist around the fragile key as she walked away.
She fell asleep early and woke, disoriented but wide awake, just before dawn. It was too early to have breakfast or go anywhere, nothing would be open, and although she would have enjoyed just walking through the streets of London she was afraid it wouldn't be safe. With a sigh she reached for the book she had been reading the night before, but soon cast it aside. Her dreams lately had been more interesting, unusually vivid and strange. There had been one scene in particular. . . .
Thinking about it, she remembered something she'd seen walking back from the poet's house in Harrow, and made a connection. Words hung in her mind, glittering slightly, suggesting new connections, conjunctions, interesting clashes. She scrabbled in her bag for her notebook and a pen.
By the time the maid knocked on her door several hours later she had completed a poem, and she had the thrilling feeling that it was the best she'd ever written.
During the next few days she saw the sights of London and she wrote. She wrote in the early mornings in her room, she wrote in cafes, tea shops, and restaurants in the afternoons, and in pubs or her narrow little hotel room in the evenings. She had never known anything like this overpowering burst of creativity, and she'd seldom been so happy. Writing poetry had always been a struggle for her, and the results of that struggle usually mediocre. Now everything was changed. The poems were not easy to write, they didn't spring into her head full-blown, she had to work at them, shaping and reshaping the initial idea, but it was like working in clear daylight after bumbling around in the dark for so long. She had something to say now, and the words to say it. The skill had come, perhaps, from all the years of practice, of looking and listening, reading and trying to write, but why here, why now?
She developed a superstition about the key ring, which had not been off her finger since she found it, but it was not something she was able to put into words—it would have sounded too silly. Yet she had not gone back to Harrow-on-the-Hill, or even thought about it, during her week of writing, and now, as she began to think about the poet again, feeling that old familiar tug of longing, the thought of having to give the ring up, to give it back to him, was almost painful enough to make her abandon her original plan to meet him.
Finally she shut herself into a telephone box and dialed the number she knew by heart. A man's voice answered, repeating the last four digits she had dialed. Unable to think of any response, she hung up.
She put all her recent poems into a big brown envelope and set off for Harrow. She didn't know what she would say, but she would let him see that she wore the ring, let him read her poems, and then he would decide her fate. Standing before his green door, her hand poised to knock, something else seemed to take over and decide for her. Instead of knocking she bent down and leaned a little forward and pushed the envelope containing her poems through the letter slot. Feeling as free, happy and satisfied as when she read through a poem she had just written and found it good, she walked away from his door.
Halfway down the hill on her way to the station she remembered her name was nowhere on any of the poems or the envelope. He would have no idea who had written them, or how to get in touch with her. But that didn't matter. She understood now that she had written them for him, and now he had them. She would get in touch with him after he'd had time to digest what she had written, and then they would meet as equals, two poets together at last.
She had grown tired of city life and the turmoil of London, so the next morning she packed her things and took the train down to Cornwall, dreaming of high white cliffs above the slate-blue sea, of quaint fishing villages, of ancient stone circles and wild moorland ponies. The weather was kind. She sat and wrote in the sun in the ruined castle of Tintagel, and in quayside cafes in half a dozen Cornish fishing villages. She lived each day—walking, looking, eating and writing—without thinking beyond the moment, and she was happy. When the weather turned and rain swept in from the sea, she got back on the train. She visited Exeter, Bristol, Bath and Brighton. And then one night, sitting in a pub in Brighton with a half-pint of bitter and her notebook and pen, she saw two lovers, a few feet away from her, holding hands and kissing. She felt a pang of loneliness as she remembered how she had loved the poet, yet never met him. She was scheduled to fl
y back to Texas in just over a week.
The next day saw her back in Harrow. She pushed her latest poems through his letter slot, but then, instead of retreating to a hotel in London, she hauled her duffel bag farther up the hill where a pub called The King's Head had rooms for rent. She spent the rest of the day wandering around the hill, browsing in antiques shops, gazing at the picturesque old buildings of Harrow School, and reading inscriptions on tombstones in the churchyard. She had dinner in the hotel restaurant, and afterward settled herself in a quiet corner of the lounge bar, having decided to spend the rest of the evening writing.
She hadn't been there long enough to set pen to paper when the poet walked in. He wore jeans, an open-necked white shirt, and a scruffy old tweed jacket going at the elbows. He looked around with a gaze as wide-open and innocently curious as a baby's and intercepted her stare. She was unable to look away. After a moment his eyes left hers and he turned to the bar. She shoved notebook and pen away in her bag. She was trembling. A few minutes later, as she had known he would, he carried his drink away from the bar, across the room, and joined her at her table.
It was an ordinary sort of pickup, with nothing poetic about it. Probably, if she hadn't known who he was, she would have brushed him off—she had no liking for the sort of casual encounters that began in bars—but if she hadn't known who he was, she would never have stared at him in that way which encouraged, practically demanded, his attention.
