As he walked poetry words rolled about in his head. The lazy guard dog suggested something. By the time he reached Four Ashes Road, Walter had it.
I fear your dog is fearful lacking
When it comes to security.
We may find that hound cat-napping
'Neath some tree in surety.
Some guard dog, that, Mrs Tisdale!
Some guard dog, that.
Walter was pleased with it. Not bad. At the bend by the lower field gate he tried it again, and decided it lacked scope, ambition, finesse. It was terrible. He discarded it. Nothing would come of the second-rate guard dog. He was not a dog born for art, or guarding.
When he got home he would put the kettle on and read through his scribblings. Mostly it was poor. Cobblers, Perfect might say. For she was ne'er the girl, Oh no, Unlike the pansy and dandelion dear. Wretched. Like a rhyme for a skipping game. Now he would feel cheesed off. He would erase all the pencillings. He would sink into a drift of misery, punctuated by traipsings towards the kettle and the WC. His mother would appear at five o'clock and put their dinner on, meat and gravy twice a week. Then they would sit and watch the windows darkening while they occupied themselves; he with reading volumes of verse (how these poets of note would laugh at his efforts) and she with mending and needlepoint until they each appeared reflected in their chairs, gazing back at themselves.
Mary says she wishes Walter were a painter rather than a poet because then he could paint her beauty and the world would see it and there it would stay for ever and ever, amen. A poet, she continues, is good for nothing but a few old words that nobody wants. Who wants words? People have got plenty of words of their own, haven't they? Spray, she says, that's what words are, a squirt of dirty business to be precise: poop. Poets, she scoffs; spraying their words where they're not welcome. And who would want to hang poop on their wall? Nobody, that's who.
Walter says nothing. There are no words anyhow. Only jets of shit.
Mary lies under a hornbeam with marigolds in her hair, her bare shoulder exposed. She stares boldly at him; there is a warning in her eye. Walter is angry; he paints incautiously, truthfully. He has no talent, but he puts it down, what he sees. It is difficult. The very devil to do, he thinks, to make a mark on the canvas that rings true. As he becomes absorbed the expression on Mary's face begins to sour, and her eye narrows with suspicion. She covers herself up, yawns, and rolls on to her belly. He shall not paint her this way. Bugga him and all who sail. Daftie. Men for you. P'raps she'll get someone else to do it anyhow. She mentions this to him through the quick pull of a second yawn, but Walter pays it no attention. She is going to the city, she informs him matter-of-factly. She will get out of this place if it is the last thing she does – what a poop-hole! She will go and work in a Lyons Corner House, yes, that's right. She will be a Nippy and wear a smart uniform and have proposals of marriage from proper types, toffs and all. She will eat mixed grill every day with cups of sugared tea. She will not remain here in this poop-hole. He paints on. He is still painting long after she has fallen asleep.
It is for you
The nightingale sings her song
It is for you
the celandines, anemones and woodland orchids throng
It is your face
that each day pulls the sun around
It is your voice
in quiet prayer that I have found
It is for you
the night-black throws her stars
for you
time ticks away her hours
For you
the oak and sycamore against the wind do stand
For you
the world turns
and I upon it
bowed to your command.
Walter has signed his small curly signature at the corner of the page. Indeed, it is for her, but she shall not have it now. She does not deserve it. It is a few old words nobody wants, a squirt of poop, after all.
Twenty
SEAN LOOKS AT the clock and wonders if Ann is dead yet. He tries to recall what time it was when he last saw her and add up the hours in between. He remembers he cannot tell time. He sits in the bathroom with the lights off. He reckons if she is a ghost by now, she might appear to him in the dark, try to frighten him, remind him from the other side that he is spaz. He realises she will make an excellent ghost. 'Ann?' He speaks her name quietly to show respect for the departed. 'Ann?' She does not appear. 'Ann!' You cannot rush the dead.
Sean slips into the dark shadows that live inside their garage. The whine of the aluminium door doesn't give him away. The paper bundles lie waiting beneath their burial mound of bricks. Sean will start with the top one, the first beneath the ribbon bow. The paper is blue, light and sheer as moth wings. The words are made in blue ink, with small curly sweeps. They could be letters. Sean has never received a letter, so he would not like to say. He stares down at it. He wonders if it is in English. He thinks probably it is. The shapes C and S are very nice, swirly. Also the G shape and the F. The Os are disappointing, not very big. He recognises words: Donkeys. Jam. On. The. Pig. Drum. Not. Lads.
If he goes slowly he can tell many parts of it. If he goes slowly he finds he can sort of read the spaz thing.
8th September 1942, M.E.F.
Dear Mary,
Well, here is a turn-up for the books. Me writing a letter to you!
The appearance of this airgraph will give the game away, as you only have to see the Censor's mark and the field post-office stamp to know I am presently on active service. I hope you won't mind my writing, only all the lads write to their girls and wives back home, so I thought I'd give it a try! Why not eh?
How are you, Mary? I heard from Mother and she mentioned things had not been easy for you and Joseph and Clem at the farm, but that it has all picked up now. I am glad to hear this. I take it Isabel is happy in Kingshill. I hope your parents are improving health-wise. What a lot of trouble this war is giving people.
Well, we are under canvas (all we need is a bucket and spade) and so far life here in Egypt is not too bad, though it is fearfully hot during the day and the flies are a curse. As I write the wretched insects traipse over my words. When the bugle blows for the midday meal, it is the flies that invariably beat us to it! The fellows with false teeth have some trouble incidentally with the hard biscuit (they have to soak theirs in their tea).
The streets in the town near here are choked in dust, though interesting. There are wealthy-looking men on donkeys holding big white umbrellas over themselves and then to contrast there are the beggars on their haunches in the shade. The only women to be seen on the streets are the fortune tellers – and no, I have not yet had my fortune told – nor do I intend to! The shoeblacks and watch sellers are a binding nuisance.
Have you made any jam? Or cherry pie? I find myself thinking of home-cooked food. You know, a 2d bar of chocolate here is 5d. Fletcher has an upset stomach so cannot eat anything at all – probably these flies. (He gets low-spirited but he is a fine mate.) At night it is very cold and we wear our battledress and coats, though the moon is lovely, like a bright, pigskin drum.
Now space is getting rather short, so I will close. Cheerio for now then. All the best, Mary.
Yours, Walter
P.S. All the lads long for mail – Please write, Mary! I should be so grateful if you did.
Sean watches the final words as they rise up from the page.
chee ri for no. al the bets, yous water, p sal the lads lon for mae. ples witer marey. water.
A miracle has happened. He can read. Sort of. Some words anyhow. The ability to read real words has come to him while he was doing other things. Easy peasy pudding pie. Does this mean there are now two alphabets in his brain? Wur. the moon is lov lyk a big pigs kind run. Spaz, it was peasy! Bludyell. At the beginning of the letter, by the edge of the paper, Sean sees there are numbers. He knows numbers, so he reads them out.
Gor liked to read the paper and sing a Tony Bennett song and
chew peanuts all at the same time. It was how he relaxed. Sometimes he added a coloured drink or smoked a No. 3 filter-tipped as well. And so when he was relaxing he was busy with some or all of these things.
'What's one nine four two?'
Sean's father looks at him without any expression for a moment, before a crease of irritation folds above his eye. 'What?'
'One nine four two?'
'What about it?'
'One nine four two.'
'What are you on about?'
'Just tell me then.'
'What? They're numbers.'
'One nine four two.'
'Some bird's phone number.'
'A bird's phone number?'
'Holy cow.'
'Can I phone it on the phone?'
'No.'
Inside a drawer in the cabinet that stands beside the smoked-glass cats, the Matthews family keep their small brown correspondence envelopes. Sean chooses a pencil from the pot and writes down the numbers just as he had seen them on the blue letter. He places the envelope in front of his father and Gor reads it out immediately like a code.
'Nineteen forty-two.'
'Nineteen. Forty. Two,' Sean repeats. It is a series of numbers which seems to exasperate his father.
'Nineteen! Forty! Two! It is a date. A date, Sean. A flaming flipping date! Nineteen forty-two. We were at war with Germany. At. War. Hitler. Goebbels. Rommel. Ruddy Nora. Cath? What's the matter with him? What do they teach him at that bloody school? The lad's a cretin. My eight-year-old son is a cretin.'
Nineteen. Forty. Two. It is a flaming flipping date, Sean knew that now. His mother and father were at war with Germany. Why? They had certainly never mentioned it before. He also knew cretin was proper English for spaz. This date: it could be a long-time date like the date of Jesus, or it could be sooner, like last Tuesday. Miss Day will know. She knows dates like falling off a log.
Twenty-one
WALTER WALKS AS if he were alone. It is no civilised sort of walk as Sankey has acquired a large black hound, a lurcher by the name of Jack, that drags him about, requiring him to lean exaggeratedly backwards as if he were on water-skis. The dog belongs to a sickly girl whom Sankey visits. Her health has deteriorated and Sankey blames himself. He suspects his prayers are feeble. He worries that his Word is not good enough, that he will not save many souls, or heal many hurts. He knows his heart is in the right place, he says, but he worries his message is tangled and impure. He has offered to care for the dog.
'Can you not control the thing, Charles? Steer it.'
'He is beginning to respond, Walt.'
The dog's shaggy spine is curved like a hoop. It swings Sankey into the trees and they disappear, though Walter can hear Charles protesting, and every now and then commanding the creature in that high voice of his. Walter thinks he may as well sermonise to the poor beast for all the good it will do.
It is a fine day and the sky is filled with long clouds sailing in fleets. There is pennycress and foxglove in flower and bluebells in the woods, and Walter imagines there can be few better places in the world. Moreover, he is a young man ready and able to begin an interesting life, just as soon as one comes along; surely it will not be long now.
The dog is bouncing towards the sown field. Sankey jerks behind at the end of the leash. He is appealing to the creature in rising and falling cries, or perhaps he is singing, it is hard for Walter to tell. They are lost for a while as Walter skirts the trees, and then he hears another cry and catches sight of the dog streaking across the field, jagging left and right and then flying wide in an arc before disappearing over the rise. Walter waits. As straight as an arrow, as crooked as a bow. As yellow as saffron, as black as a sloe. Schoolboy rhymes; he could remember them all. He hears Sankey calling, 'Walter?' Walter has cause to wonder on occasions such as these what he is doing with a fellow like Charles Sankey. There were a hundred things he could occupy himself with, as many people with whom he could spend profitable time; it could give you the pip.
The fields are writhing with rabbits and the dog cannot resist. No sooner do they find it, shivering, frothing with excitement, than it is off all over again. Sankey holds him for a while, leaning on his heels, singing out his name. The moment the dog breaks away is almost a relief. It flows silently into the grass and from there moves like ribbon up the incline, like something elemental, dark and smooth as river eel. The rabbit will feel a rush of air it has never known before, a crack of bone, then nothing more.
They wait but the dog does not return. Sankey calls its name and then Walter tries, reluctantly at first, then loudly, indignantly. They call its name together; they try high voices, like choristers, until they are hot and browned off.
'A right balls-up,' Walter says finally. 'And no rabbits to show for it.'
Walter and Charles rest by the pond. The sun is high, insects are busy. The dog is gone, likely in the next county by now. It is a mystery, Sankey agrees with himself, why such a dog, when offered comfort and care and human company, would wish to run off like that, as though such benefits were to be found any old where from any old one.
'Cheer up, Charles. Never mind.'
Sankey hangs his head. 'I have no comfort for any souls, not even a poacher's hound.'
'Like I say, Sank, never mind about it.'
'Sorry to say, but I do mind, Walt.'
'Perhaps it had dementia. It looked unstable, to be frank.'
'Perhaps.'
'Right balls-up, but that's life.'
A lapping begins at the edge of the water.
'Supposed to be a creature in this water, that's the legend anyhow.'
'Nothing here but God, Walt.'
'No point in chancing it,' Walter laughs.
Sankey glances at Walter. 'Are you afraid?'
'Course not.'
'You certain, then?'
'Course.'
'Shall we swim in that case? Cool off?'
'I don't swim,' Walter replies.
'Dip your toes then, Walt. Cool off'
'Perhaps.'
'Come on!' Sankey is on his feet, peeling off his shirt to reveal pale ropy arms. He moves with heron steps to the water's edge and Walter is surprised to see how small his feet are, how narrow his waist and how childishly bowed are his legs. 'Come on. Cool off. Are you chicken?'
Walter watches Sankey, gawky in his underwear, as he shuffles along the bank for the best spot. Perhaps he is chicken. He had not thought of that. Perhaps it explains everything.
Sankey launches himself, without finesse, into the water.
'Good dive, Sank,' Walter calls.
Perhaps he is chicken. That's it. Perhaps there is nothing at all waiting for him around the corner of his life. Perhaps his life will be like the absconded lurcher, unremarkably present one minute and fled to the back of beyond the next.
Sankey's head bobs up like a buoy. 'Coming in? It's lovely.' He waves to Walter before setting off across the pond. Walter forces himself to wave back.
Walter lights his pipe. The smoke curls upwards towards the beech umbrella. Tut tut tut, calls a warbler. Sankey has given up trying to swim. He stands in the water, dazed, watching the light burn off the surface. It occurs to Walter that this moment has poetic potential, though it is unlikely he has brought his pencil, let alone his notebook, and he realises this is probably why he will never amount to anything poetry-wise. William H. Davies would not have forgotten his notebook or pencil. Indeed, he would be on the third verse by now. Balls-up as usual. Silence is how he would begin his poem, with that word. Silence.
'We thank you, Lord,' moans Sankey from the water.
Walter closes his eyes. It was hard not to be cheesed off.
'For the gift of water to sustain, refresh and cleanse all life.'
Charles has his arms outspread, like a pigeon-chested Errol Flynn.
'Over water the Holy Spirit moved at the beginning of Creation. Through water you led the children of Israel from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Promi
sed Land.'
It is in this one distinct area, Walter thinks, that Sankey has come unstuck. A pity in many ways, as he has good points and makes for cheerful company at times, but on this particular theme he has conceivably, arguably, gone too far.
There would be no more silence now and it was too late to write his poem. He should have written it ten minutes ago. In this way, he thinks, all manner of poems, paintings, novellas and assorted artworks are lost to their creators, as they are interrupted by women with brooms, crying babies, freak weather, ill health and Methodists. All these faceless would-be geniuses sunk into pitiless oblivion. And he too joining them shortly, with the flockless Charles Sankey by his side. It was all he deserved, particularly if it were to prove correct that he was chicken, which of course it probably damn well would.
'In water Your son, Jesus, received the baptism of John and was anointed by the Holy Spirit as the Messiah, the Christ, to lead us from the death of sin to newness of life,' chimes Sankey, enjoying his acoustically pond-enhanced voice.
Walter remembered there was a poem by W. H. Davies called 'On Hearing Mrs Woodhouse Play the Harpsichord', which began: We poets pride ourselves on what we feel, and not what we achieve. Walter thought that was rather good. He had hoped to use it in conversation at some point, but so far the opportunity had not presented itself. He admired the pomposity of it, the certainty, the way it excluded all non-poets.
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