Chapman's Odyssey

by Paul Bailey

  — Does anyone else have a question for me?

  Silence, again.

  To fill that silence, to prevent at whatever cost any further invocation of Ug and the inexplicable hearthrug that was in its possession, Harry Chapman stated that no one could possibly teach another person to write imaginatively. If you have no powers of observation and no insight into character and no flair for language, you cannot expect to be taught them. These were expectations that could never be realised with the assistance of even the most accomplished, dedicated and sympathetic tutor.

  In the ten minutes left to him, he told the sad story of the writing life of Herman Melville. He wrote some wonderful short books before producing his masterpiece, Moby-Dick. Everything he had written went out of print. For the last nineteen years of his life, he toiled in the New York Customs House, his novels forgotten and ignored. He died in 1891, an irascible and unhappy man. Then, in the 1920s, Moby-Dick was rediscovered along with his other writings and since then he has been recognised for what he is – a novelist of genius, a visionary, a writer whose finest prose is of a transcendental beauty. This recognition was denied him while he lived.

  The students applauded him when he finished speaking. Even Ug saw fit to clap.

  At a reception afterwards, a young woman came up to talk to the distinguished guest. She had a problem, what you might call a dilemma. She felt a real, vital urge to write creatively, but was undecided if the project – Harry Chapman winced at the word – should be a long novel, a collection of short stories, a volume of poetry or a three-act play. What could he suggest?

  While he was looking at her, wondering what to say, she suddenly sprouted horns. She was not alone, for everyone present had become a demon.

  Why, this was Hell, nor was he out of it.

  — Welcome back, Harry, said Nancy Driver. — We’re going to give you something nice to eat tonight. Fish, since it’s Friday.

  He smiled, recalling the two gargantuan meals he had consumed in the bright, sunlit restaurant.

  — I hope I have an appetite, Nancy.

  — It will only be a small portion.

  Was this going to be his third funeral? The guests, or mourners, or visitors, were dressed for an important occasion. He realised, now, that he was standing alone on a stage, in the pleasing glare of a spotlight, while they were taking their seats in the auditorium. Nancy Driver, Marybeth Myslawchuk, Philip Warren, Maciek Nazwisko, Veronica and Dr Pereira were in the front row, alongside Alice, Frank and Jessie Chapman and Aunt Rose, who was glowing as rosily as ever. He could make out, behind them, Leo and Eleanor Duggan, Ralph Edmunds and his sister Beryl, Randolph Breeze and Blanche Westermere, Prince Myshkin, Pip, Emma Woodhouse, Antal, Bartleby and a disgruntled Virginia Woolf. Jeoffrey and Puss, sleek creatures, were being stroked by Pamela, who had turned her back on Wilf Granger. And, dear God, there was Christopher, but without Hugo and Ben.

  His performance was about to begin when the Duchess of Bombay, begging pardon upon pardon for her lateness, found a place on the aisle. She was wearing a black T-shirt on which was printed, in bold white letters, the message ANTON VON WEBERN ROCKS.

  He was there to recite every single poem he had committed to memory. Soon he was speaking the timeless lines of Shakespeare, Herbert, Milton, Marvell, Anon, Keats, Blake, Smart, Hikmet, Ungaretti, Auden, Eliot and – oh, naughty, naughty Harry – John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, enjoying the wickedest of rambles in St James’s Park. Jack was high above the glare, willing his friend to remember all the words.

  On and on went his recital, line after line, century after century. As the hours passed, he became oblivious to the silent audience.

  — I have been one acquainted with the night.

  I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.

  I have outwalked the furthest city light . . .

  he was muttering to nobody in particular in the Zoffany Ward.

  In Harry Chapman’s heaven, Frank and Alice Chapman held each other’s hands as lovers do. There was music by Bach and Schubert, and Fred Astaire led Queen Céleste in a perpetual waltz. Serene harmony prevailed.

  But not, alas, for long. He awoke, in the dark, to sounds of weeping, whether from grief or pain he could not tell. He found the noise strangely consoling. It told him he was back in the real heavenly and hellish world.

  Saturday Evening

  So here he was again, where he had doubted he would ever be. He was at home among his books and pictures and music.

  He had learned, from Dr Pereira, that the surgeon who had called him Sunshine was dead.

  — An aneurism. Very swift.

  The doctor warned that his own illness might recur. A benign tumour had been removed, but another could appear at any time.

  — So my days are numbered, Doctor?

  — Everyone’s days are numbered, Harry. Even mine.

  He had kissed Nancy, Marybeth and Veronica goodbye, and shaken hands with Maciek, Philip and his fruitseller saviour. Nancy had forbidden him to return, though she would miss his poems.

  He sat in his favourite chair while Graham prepared supper. He hoped that he would come to agree with Jeremy Taylor that death is a harmless thing. A poor shepherd suffered it yesterday, as did a rich man. When Harry Chapman dies, he thought, a thousand others will die with him throughout the whole wide world.

  The cat leapt on to his lap, curled herself into a multicoloured ball, and purred contentedly.

  Harry Chapman offered Jack the ship-boy silent and heartfelt thanks for bringing the creaking vessel safely into port.

  Friday

  Those working parts of Harry Chapman’s body that could be beneficial to others – his heart, liver, kidneys and corneas – were removed at the hospital soon after his sudden death in the early hours of Sunday morning. Later that day, Graham informed the media of his friend’s passing and started making arrangements for his funeral.

  What was now left of the corporeal Harry Chapman was encased in a coffin of the plainest, cheapest wood. A clergyman would not be required to conduct the service, which was to be totally secular except for a reading of George Herbert’s ‘The Flower’, with its invocation of a Lord of love who rescues the grief-stricken and benighted with His fulfilled promise of renewal and rejuvenation.

  The mourners gathered at the chapel in Mortlake crematorium just before three o’clock on Friday afternoon. Graham greeted every one of them, accepting their condolences with the quiet dignity that was his by nature. He embraced and kissed Pamela Kenworth and the newly widowed Eleanor Duggan and shook hands with Wilf Granger, who remarked:

  — It will be my turn next.

  A stranger named Randolph Breeze introduced himself, along with his fiancée of twenty years, Miss Blanche Westermere.

  — I had the exceptional good fortune of occupying the bed next to Mr Chapman in the Zoffany Ward. What a fascinating person. Miss Westermere and I have come to pay our last, alas, respects.

  — How thoughtful of you.

  — Mr Chapman’s knowledge of T. S. Eliot was truly beyond pareil.

  — Was it? He seldom talked about him. I know that he loathed Eliot’s plays. He thought they were over encumbered with what he called ‘well-bred dread’. But do excuse me, Mr – Wind, is it? –

  — Breeze.

  — Of course. My apologies. I must say hello to Dr Pereira and his team.

  The doctor, Sister Nancy, Marybeth Myslawchuk and Maciek Nazwisko had managed to escape from their duties for an hour or so to say goodbye to Harry, the man with a thousand poems – they were sure it was at least a thousand – at his command. They didn’t make a habit of going to patients’ funerals, but this was an exception.

  — I’m touched.

  The ceremony was about to begin when a distraught elderly woman, whom many recognised as a famous novelist, burst into the chapel with several questions on her lips:

  — Is this the right place? Is this the right time? Is this the right day? Have I come to the wrong funera
l? It is Harry Chapman in the box, isn’t it, and not somebody I’ve never heard of? Should I have gone to Putney instead? Harry is dead, isn’t he? I’m not making it up, am I?

  — No, Brenda, you’re not making it up. Calm down. Yes, it’s Harry in the box. Come and sit next to me.

  — I’m sorry, Graham. I had a drinkie or two to settle my nerves and then I panicked. The taxi driver took me this way and that way, up hill and down dale, and all the time I was thinking I was on a fool’s mission to nowhere. Oh, Harry, my poor lamb.

  — Sit down, darling.

  Eleanor Duggan opened the proceedings with the story of Paolo and Francesca, as recounted in Dante’s Inferno. She read it in Italian and only translated the lines in which the poet has Francesca talking of the great sorrow that comes with remembered happiness. She was followed by the actor Jeremy Wilson, who read the final paragraph of Melville’s ‘Bartleby’: ‘Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!’

  Pamela went to the lectern, smiled at the congregation, and spoke from memory a poem by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, that Harry ‘loved to distraction’.

  — Ancient person, for whom I

  All the flattering youth defy,

  Long be it ere thou grow old,

  Aching, shaking, crazy, cold;

  But still continue as thou art,

  Ancient person of my heart.

  On thy withered lips and dry,

  Which like barren furrows lie,

  Brooding kisses I will pour

  Shall thy youthful heat restore,

  Nor from thee will ever part,

  Ancient person of my heart.

  The nobler part, which but to name

  In our sex would be counted shame,

  By age’s frozen grasp possessed,

  From his ice shall be released,

  And soothed by my reviving hand,

  In former warmth and vigour stand.

  All a lover’s wish can reach

  For thy joy my love shall teach,

  And for thy pleasure shall improve

  All that art can add to love.

  Yet still I love thee without art,

  Ancient person of my heart.

  And then Graham read ‘The Flower’, as Harry had instructed, in a steady voice. In the closing seven minutes, there was a recorded performance of Webern’s orchestration of the fugue (ricercata) from Bach’s The Musical Offering, which Harry had requested to be played in honour of the Duchess of Bombay.

  There was a champagne reception, or wake, at the house in Hammersmith. The buffet had been prepared by a chef from Rome and Graham hoped that the guests would stay sober enough to appreciate Massimiliano’s subtle cooking. Brenda, who was indifferent to everything other than fried eggs and bacon, had already attained the very peak, the Everest, of drunkenness in a remarkably short time and had concealed herself beneath Harry’s desk, with her sleeping head stuck in his waste-paper basket.

  There were two uninvited guests, two notable gatecrashers, in the forms of Mr Breeze and his ageing bride-to-be Blanche Westermere. They arrived with Wilf Granger, who assured Graham that they were an enchanting couple. They had listened to his tales of woe – dodgy prostate; dicky ticker; diabetes and an ingrowing toenail, not to say his inability to get Dick Turpin to stand and deliver – with the utmost, and he really meant the utmost, sympathy.

  This was the farewell party Harry would have wanted, Graham thought as midnight approached. There had been some serious conversations, but the farcical spirit had finally prevailed. Brenda had left wearing the waste-paper basket like an Easter bonnet, and that was a vision Harry would have cherished. Then Wilf revealed that he had written a cheque for a thousand pounds to the delightful Mr Breeze in order to be the proud owner of T. S. Eliot’s false teeth.

  — If my own fall out, as they look like doing, I can always wear his.

  When he was alone at last, Graham noticed that there was a letter addressed to him on the doormat. There was no stamp on it. He read:

  Dear Mr Weaver,

  Please forgive me intruding on your grief. Your partner Harry was very kind to my late unhappy brother Ralph and I bless him for his kindness. May he rest in peace. I will toast his lovely memory with a glass of sherry.

  Yours,

  Beryl

  Graham dimmed the lights and sat in Harry’s armchair and welcomed the purring cat into his arms.

  Author’s Note

  I wish to express my deep and abiding gratitude to the trustees of the Royal Literary Fund for the ­generous support they have given me in recent years.

  Acknowledgements

  Mary, Sam and Roy Adams; Thomas Bailey; Arthur and Helen Maud Bailey; Joan Bailey; David and Ellen Bailey; Gabriel Bailey; Beryl Bainbridge; Vanni, Noris and Piero Bartolozzi; Carl Bonn; Mabel Burgess; Angela Carter; Kathleen Church; Elizabeth David; Noel Davis; Frank Day; Joan Deans; Tom and Peggy d’Errico; Alice and Hal Dickey; Rose Donnelly; Sadie Dunnett; Sandor Eles; Michael Elliott; Ilona Ference; Gordon Gostelow; Jane and Geoffrey Grigson; Paolo Guasconi; David Healy; Roy Herrick; Connie Highton; Reverend Stephan Hopkinson; John and Sylvia Hove; Russell Hunter; Leslie Hurry; Harald Jensen; Terence Kilmartin; Francis King; Sheila Lemon; Richard Lord; Colin Mackenzie; Ken McGregor; Penny McVitie; Robert Medley; Patrick O’Connor; Vincent Osborne; Muriel Philipson; William Plomer; Betty and J. F. Powers; Oliver Reynolds; Ian Richardson; John D. Roberts; Bryan Robertson; Alan Ross; Jeremy Round; Bernice Rubens; Lorna Sage; John Schlesinger; Alex Leo Serban; John Stocken; Elizabeth Taylor; Stephen Tumim; Dorothea Wallace; John T. Wharton; Angus Wilson; Casper Wrede.

  A Note on the Author

  Paul Bailey is an award-winning writer whose novels include At The Jerusalem, which won a Somerset Maugham Award and an Arts Council Writers’ Award; Peter Smart’s Confessions and Gabriel’s Lament, both shortlisted for the Booker Prize; Sugar Cane, a sequel to Gabriel’s Lament; Kitty and Virgil and most recently, Uncle Rudolf. He is the recipient of the E. M. Forster Award and the George Orwell Memorial Award, and has also written and presented features for radio. Paul Bailey lives in London.

  By the Same Author

  At The Jerusalem

  Trespasses

  A Distant Likeness

  Peter Smart’s Confessions

  Old Soldiers

  An English Madam: The Life and Work of Cynthia Payne

  Gabriel’s Lament

  An Immaculate Mistake: Scenes from Childhood and Beyond

  Sugar Cane

  Kitty and Virgil

  Three Queer Lives: An Alternative Biography of Naomi Jacob, Fred Barnes and Arthur Marshall

  Uncle Rudolf

  A Dog’s Life

  Copyright © 2011 by Paul Bailey

  Excerpt from ‘Acquainted with the Night’ from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright © 1928, 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, copyright © 1956 by Robert Frost.

  Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Every reasonable effort has been made to trace the copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

  Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Bailey, Paul, 1937—Chapman’s odyssey / by Paul Bailey. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN 978-1-60819-864-1

  1. Hospital patients—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction.

  I. Title.

  PR6052.A319C33 2012

  823'.914—dc23

  2011029642

  This electronic edition published in November 2012

  First U.S. Edition 2012

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