A World of Other People

by Steven Carroll

  Leaving the weather behind he steps inside the church, immediately surprised by the crowd and by the vastness of the church itself. It’s not exactly a cathedral, but it’s not that far short of one either. And that’s a surprise, for Iris never really let on about that, and so he’s always thought of her church as more intimate. At the same time he is asking himself if ‘crowd’ is the right word. Does a church play host to a ‘crowd’? Like contemplations of reading and being read to, it takes his mind off things. And he is always relieved to have his mind taken off things, to learn that an hour, say, has passed, and that he hadn’t noticed. He looks around, hurriedly scanning the faces of the assembly that may or may not be a crowd, but he can’t see her. She will not come. He is convinced. It is a pointless trip. All the same, he is here now, and so he takes his place on a pew that he has pretty much to himself and waits.

  Until an hour ago Iris had every intention of being there. She too had read the notice in the paper. And although she too prefers the privacy of one’s room and one’s chosen book, she’d felt drawn to the reading. She was even looking forward to it. In spite of the cold. But then one of the women in the office, who was rostered for fire-watching duties that evening, fell sick. And Iris, asked to fill in, could find no reason not to. So instead of going to the church, accidentally bumping into Jim and sitting with him through the reading and following the night to whatever conclusion it might have come to, she is standing on the rooftop of the Treasury, looking for firecrackers.

  There is disappointment in her heart; she hasn’t looked forward to much lately, but she had been looking forward to this evening before her plans were upended. And it wasn’t just the reading or Mr Eliot that she was anticipating, but also the church itself. Her old church. She hasn’t been inside a church, her own or anyone else’s, for a long time — for nowadays she feels as though she needs a reason to be in one. And so, with every good reason for being there, she is not exactly disconsolate, but peevish, even grumpy, as the evening begins.

  And while she is registering the disappointment of not being there, she is also contemplating those occasional impulses to return to the church, for she has long since ceased to believe any of it — God, Holy Ghosts and virgin mothers — and she’s also wondering how on earth she could have believed any of it in the first place, or when we ditch the whole business, if something always stays on: the lingering incense, the comfort of ritual, the superstition of the atheist. Is it, she’s wondering, eyeing the dark, silent city spread out in front of her as she does, that when belief dies the emotions that attend that belief die long afterwards? You don’t just get up and go. A searchlight fans distant clouds. She shrugs, lifts her coat collar and watches her breath disappear into the night. Surely it will snow.

  It is at this moment that the woman beside her, from the office but whom she doesn’t know well, passes her a whisky flask. She welcomes the whisky, but silently acknowledges she would rather Pip beside her. These days, she muses. These nights. Searchlights, dark, labyrinthine streets, the brittle walls of brittle houses and all those brittle lives huddled inside or in the shelters. The memory of Jim, stroking the soft coloured cushions on her bed as if never having seen such wonders before. The clutch of a stranger’s hand. Love like faith, which demands nothing less than everything. The extraordinary abnormality of these days. Will we ever, she asks herself, will we ever live like this again? And will we miss it?

  She passes the flask back and feels the whisky doing its work. It’s a rooftop thought, one that will do to pass the hours up here, if it doesn’t snow soon and drive them inside. Then, as if she has conjured the snow from the clouds, the first flakes fall, and the two women look at each other and nod in silent agreement that it is time to leave the roof to the weather.

  Jim is not unfamiliar with churches, but he is not entirely at ease in them. Even when taking in the tourist sights on holidays. And so, feeling out of place, he glances round awkwardly, wondering if there is any point in staying after all. There is a lectern at the front of the church, beneath gilded figures — saints, angels and the like, Jim assumes — and a glowing crucifixion hovering above it all. Somebody is placing a glass of water on a table beside the lectern. But there is no sign of Eliot. Not that Jim would really know, for he has only ever seen photographs of him. And heaven knows how old they were. He checks his watch, noting that everything should have started by now. But the church is still filling, although ‘filling’ is hardly the word — for no poetry reading could fill this vast place. Not tonight, at any rate, in this cold. He can hear a group of Americans nearby and turns in their direction; some in uniform, some not. And behind him a heavy European accent that he thinks must be Polish. Or Hungarian. In laboured English a man is telling his companion that he never steps inside churches. Not ever. Jim looks around. But there is no sign of her. Of course. He always knew she wouldn’t come.

  Dully, he becomes aware of a shift in the atmosphere. A change of mood. The church has turned silent. All heads are straining towards the lectern and suddenly Eliot is there. He’s sort of materialised. And Jim concludes that he must have entered through a back door. Eliot places his briefcase on a chair and looks around the church over the rim of his spectacles. And straight away Jim doesn’t like him. Not so much doesn’t like him as doesn’t like being in his presence. Even at this distance. There is something disquieting, even distasteful, about it. And a major part of him would like to get up and leave. Odd, how these things can hit you immediately. You like someone, you don’t like someone, all in a split second. And at first Jim’s not sure why. It’s not what Jim decides to think of as the ‘act’ (the suit, the briefcase, the brolly — the uniform of just anybody, which he clearly isn’t) that causes this. That might spark incredulity, but not dislike, not discomfort. No, it’s not that. It’s something in the thin lips, the plastered-down, carefully parted hair, the tall gaunt frame. The pale skin. Something deathly there. No, not deathly. Cold. A cold fish.

  After a brief welcome on this cold evening from a church official who speaks of Eliot — Jim can’t help but notice — with a reserved but proprietary air, and a quick nod of thanks from the poet and a smile to someone in the front row, Mr Eliot announces the title of the poem he will read: ‘Little Gidding’. And straight away Jim knows it’s a place not far from his airfield. From his base. He’s never been there, but he’s seen the signs. Or has he noticed it on a map? He doesn’t have time to contemplate this further because Eliot turns to his opening page.

  As soon as he begins to read the poem his voice changes. And Jim wonders how on earth anybody gets a voice like that, because nobody could be born with it. This is Eliot’s ‘poet’s’ voice. A voice, it occurs to Jim, that is the equivalent of his three-piece suit. Something he puts on when required. It is a deadpan voice. An unemotional voice. An above-it-all voice. One that does not involve itself in the emotions that poetry springs from. It’s almost like a machine speaking. The opposite of what you’d expect a poet’s voice to be. This voice stands back, not unlike a butler introducing the guests at a party, lords and commoners all accorded the same monotone. There is meaning here, the voice says, but you must find it yourself. I will not guide you. I will provide no emphasis, no clue. The idea being, Jim assumes, that an audience will listen to the poetry free of the distraction of the poet’s voice. And although in denying itself affectation it becomes an affectation, Jim prefers this to the shrieking and howling he has occasionally heard from poets who read their work. For although much of the time the poem Eliot is carefully enunciating sounds like a philosophy lecture on metaphysics (not Jim’s field at all, and one for which he has limited tolerance), there is something else going on here. Prim voice, precise words, but all, he senses, sitting on top of messy emotions. Yes, that’s it. All those messy emotions swirling about underneath, only ever alluded to, but there, all the same. You can tell. That’s what’s really going on. That’s where the power of the poem is coming from. Eliot never says what the emotions are,
but you know they’re there. And Jim concedes that all that buttoned-up reserve and restraint, all the precisely this and precisely that, impart a certain tension to the poem. The emotions, like the murky currents beneath the still surface of a stream, threatening to break through at any moment. Yes, it’s something along those lines, Jim mumbles silently to himself. Almost as if the poetry is a refuge, an escape from all those emotions. Almost as though if Eliot didn’t have the poetry he might fall into that murky stream of messy emotions and drown there. But, at the same time, it’s hard to ignore the voice. And Jim finds himself, time and again, not so much listening to the words as returning to the intriguing question of how on earth you acquire such a voice.

  There are no gestures. No waving of the arms. Just a very gentle rocking, from side to side, of that tall, gaunt frame upon which the three-piece suit hangs. It’s almost imperceptible. You have to be watching. And Jim is. But at the same time, Jim is looking around. More than once during the reading, he turns and scans the crowd. For the attendance has grown even while the reading has been in progress, and Jim decides that it is now definitely a crowd. And absentmindedly concludes from this that a church can indeed play host to a crowd. But there is no sign of her in the crowd. She has not come and he wishes he hadn’t either. Wishes he could just get up and go. Right now. Suddenly the crowd is intolerable. And he will. Who cares if he creates a scene? Who cares what they, this crowd, think? He has stopped listening anyway. And he is about to rise when something stops him. Not physically, but as forcefully, all the same, as a firm hand on the shoulder. And at first he’s not sure what it is. It is a puzzle that preoccupies him for a moment. A second. Less, perhaps. And then the puzzle solves itself. He has not risen from his place because he is listening to the poem again. And the hand that restrained him, it seems, is that of the poet himself, reaching out over the heads of the audience. And as the poet’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and urges him to remain still, a voice is also telling him that he will hear this out. That he must.

  But what? What are the words that sit him down? It is a mystery. And then his mind registers a single word and he is shaken as his ears take it in. ‘Dove.’ He has heard the word ‘dove’. And although ‘dove’ is a harmless enough word, it is not to Jim. No, ‘dove’ is one of those words that shakes him. It has a private meaning that will not be found in any dictionary or book of symbol and myth. For he no sooner hears it than he sees, once again, the side of his kite, ‘F’ for Freddie. The dove his wireless operator had painted on the fuselage of the plane for some paradoxical reason that, in the sheer intensity of those days, he never got around to inquiring about. And so it is the word ‘dove’ that sits him down, and keeps him immobile, incapable of rising even if he wanted to. He is listening to the brief story of this dove. As it breaks through the clouds and into sight, for this dove is descending. And flames, the poem is telling him, flames are lapping about it as it slowly falls from the heavens to earth. A solitary dove in a wide, empty sky. Aflame. And although the poem moves on and the voice of the poet continues, he hears none of it. Over and again, he sees it: the dove breaking through the clouds, slowly descending, bright yellow and orange flames lapping about it. Again and again: the dove, the clouds, the flames.

  And as he lowers his head, mesmerised by it all, something is happening to him. He is clammy. In the bitter cold of the church he is clammy. His palms are sweaty and his legs have turned to jelly. Something comes. The body knows. Something comes. Beware, it says. I must ready myself, the body says. This is why you are sweating and your chest is tight. He is now resting his head in his sweaty palms and his legs have begun to tremble. And his hands too would be shaking if they didn’t have something to hold on to.

  Then silence. And the church breaks into applause. Long and loud applause that he couldn’t join if he wanted to, for he is almost hunched, rocking back and forth in his place. As the applause fades a respectful quiet falls upon the place. People around him begin to stand, and just as it seems that the whole business is concluded a voice rises somewhere behind him. It is a question. And Jim lifts his head, looks around, but can’t see where the question is coming from. He turns to the front again and glimpses a pained expression on Eliot’s face — clearly he did not expect questions. But the gentleman continues, and he wants to know just what it was that Mr Eliot drew upon for his images of the war — the flames, the dove, the dust. For, the gentleman continues, they are such strong images. And so even though it is unexpected it is a question that carries with it appreciation. And Jim, aware of the effort of keeping his head up and the trembling of his legs and body and the thumping of his heart in check, watches as Eliot nods. And, like everybody else, he waits for the response. There is a short pause, and when Eliot speaks it is with the clipped, precise manner of the lecturer.

  ‘These images,’ he says deliberately, as if he is not speaking but composing aloud, ‘the dust settling in the early hours of the morning after a raid on the living and the dead, or a single bomber in flames, come from fire-watching on the rooftop of Faber and Faber. And, of course, it is impossible not to be moved by these sights. We are all human. But it is the task of the poet to remain perfectly still in such circumstances.’

  He stops, and there is another question. But Jim doesn’t hear it. He barely heard the end of the previous answer. He is here and he is not here. The church, the paintings on the walls, the woman beside him, the man with the heavy European accent behind, all cease to exist. He is gone from them. He is flying. He has fled his shaking body. He is out there. In the sky. In the cabin of ‘F’ for Freddie. Back there again where these words have flung him.

  Stay calm, a voice is telling him, above the drone of the engine. The engine that is keeping them up there. The other is aflame. Stay calm, this voice, this uncanny fourth who joined them sometime during the flight, is saying. The marshmallow cloud is endless. The dead second pilot is slumped beside him; the wireless operator and the navigator dead behind him. No instruments. Everything dead. A thousand-to-one nightmare. He is flying on instinct and faith and peering into the cloud that never ends, the windscreen smeared with the second pilot’s blood. And all the time the voice is telling him in quiet, reassuring tones to stay calm. Stay calm and soon this thousand-to-one nightmare will be over. All will be well. This is not the moment. You will know the moment of your death when it presents itself, and this is not it. Stay calm. But do not relax. Not yet. The clouds will part. Trust me, says the voice. And then, miraculously, they do and he bursts into the clear, moonlit night that was there beyond the clouds all along, and he knows exactly where he is. For there, directly below, illuminated by the brilliant full face of a chandelier moon, is the city. Clear and crisp. He crosses the river. Here I come, here I come. The university, the Senate building all lit up, the familiar landmarks of his London loom. Here I come. And it is thrilling too, this lost reel of memory. Everything so extraordinarily clear. A rooftop, the square, the moon. And as he nears the rooftop he is momentarily distracted by figures rushing towards its railings, railings that glint in the moonlight, for he is low in the sky, so low he could reach out and scoop them all up. But he is only distracted for a moment. Why is that? He rocks back and forth on the pew. The wheels are lowered for landing. The flames around the engine are leaping into the night. Any minute now, any second, everything will go up. He sweeps over the rooftop and on over the city. The wheels are lowered for landing, but where? He rocks back and forth. The church, the world around him, has collapsed. There is no world here. Only this one he has entered. The wheels are lowered for landing, but where? And then he sees it. A park. Not a country field, but a city park. The playing fields of this park are spread below him. Dark with a deep green, sodden look. Then they rush up to meet him. And he is lifted from his seat. The noise is distant as they career along the open fields, then halt with a crash.

  He is suddenly face down in that sodden earth. Rows of houses are out there. Footpaths and streets. The dove has landed, and
it too is face down in the field. A playing field, not a country field. The wing has gone. The flames are rising. And the voice is now warning that it’s going to go. Any minute, it’s going to go. And as he stumbles to his feet he looks for the gunners. The tail gunner, the front gunner. Nowhere. And in spite of the voice telling him that it’s all going to go, he rushes back (oblivious of his broken ankle) to the tail of the plane. But the tail gunner is a goner. One look, his head like that, and Jim can tell he is gone. And it is then, in the noise and the heat, and he feels that he could explode any minute, that he staggers to the front of the plane and stops, staring at the front gunner’s cabin window. The lost reel of memory — the park, the playing fields in which he crashed are all new … but that familiar feeling that this is where the world turns black returns. For this is where it always ends. This is where his memory always stops. The world turns black and everything stops with it, and whatever is on the other side of that blackness remains a mystery. The missing page he could never find.