Drinks with Dead Poets

by Glyn Maxwell

  ‘Jawohl,’ said Jimmy, ‘I daresay somewhere. Spot of grub first, eh?’

  Barry leaves me in this man’s care, and starts wheeling Rowena away along a kind of cloistered walkway, saying loudly without turning back: ‘We always do the walks, senor, some lovely walks they’ve got here. . . ’

  ‘Go right at the well,’ says Rowena.

  ‘Right at the well it is!’

  And so Jimmy took me to breakfast.

  *

  There are fifty men or so in here, place-settings for hundreds. Five or six women too, at a round table by the long bright window looking out over the grounds. On the opposite wall four or five tables of breakfast fully laden. Jimmy waves to the women, who are laughing too hard to notice.

  ‘The early birds,’ says Jimmy, ‘we’ll get the onslaught later. Let’s find you a tray, professor. . .’

  I settle for Full English, grapefruit juice and a mug of coffee, and plunge in gladly at the end of a ten-man table. Jimmy’s naming every bloke he can see, as if testing his memory: ‘Burdon, Cobb, O’Driscoll, Fell, Ullerton, Pye, Race, Hapgood, Brassey, not many poets in that lot, no wait, hang about, here comes the Rajah. . .’

  This is a fair yawning fellow in a striped silk dressing-gown, who seats himself grandly alone at a new table that’s soon settled by chortling pals.

  Jimmy spears a half-sausage and relaxes, having found what he was seeking: ‘We’ll take our lead from the Rajah. He’ll be hitting the Pavilion, now there we might run into the odd artiste. . . ’

  *

  Which is how we come to be sitting in a brilliant spacious glasshouse, which we reached by way of a colonnade, then a cream marble bathroom where my open-mouthed reflection just stared and shook its head, then a long quiet corridor with pictures of winning teams.

  Their Pavilion is set all around with sofas, low tables and exotic plants, it feels like one of the warm havens of Kew, for the air seems tropic-green with all the sunlight through the glass. Except that on three of the walls are bookshelves, and on all of the shelves are books.

  ‘Poets?’ says the Rajah, getting comfortable among pillows, and what looks like a small volume of verses in his right hand, ‘I met a group of young poets, in London. Extremely poor. They talk cockney. And they write – some are good, some bad – as they talk.’

  ‘Howzat then, Raj?’ Jimmy prompts him.

  ‘They allow for ow being aow. Their love-poems begin: If yew would come agin to me!’

  We snort at his mimicry, but the Rajah wags his finger, ‘That’s healthy. That way is life. They were so nice. Very simple, very good-hearted. I felt I’d like – almost – to live with them, protect them,’ and with this he subsides into his book, but not before waving us vaguely into nearby seating.

  ‘Wotcher got ya nose in, Raj,’ Jimmy wants to know – though I felt the poet wanted us all to be quietly reading too – now he lifted his book to show us:

  ‘Browning’s suffered from Browning-ites.’

  Browning you’re reading Browning? (I find my high embarrassing voice at last) oh we’ve invited Browning! I mean, I think, or both the Brownings. . .

  The Rajah sniffs: ‘Browning’s not a very good poet. Blake is,’ but then he riffles through the pages trying to find a thing he likes: ‘It’s – Oh to be in England, now the spring is here — I’ve probably quoted it wrong and spoilt it. Read it, it’s worth it. Quite short.’

  Jimmy nods as if he’ll do this, and I feel free to up and explore the Pavilion. It feels like wading through a sea-world it’s so warm and green and pungent. I thought the place was empty when we entered, but almost hidden by an old scratched upright piano, a thin-faced man in a collarless shirt is sketching something he can see in the gardens.

  Briefly glancing at me he asks politely if I’ve seen ‘the Blakes in the Tate,’ a formulation which, out of context, is bemusing, until the artist clarifies: ‘England turned out one man second to none. The drawings are finer than his poems, much clearer – but it’s unfortunate he – didn’t live when a better tradition of drawing ruled.’

  ‘This poet’s got questions, Slade,’ says Jimmy breezily, joining us, ‘what do you reckon to the arts poetical?’

  No it’s okay (I splutter) really, you’re sketching, do, do sketch! (my mumbling plight compounded by what the thin fellow seems to think of his nickname) Jimmy pipes up: ‘Slade’s his college o’ knowledge!’

  Slade ponders the poetry question: ‘Definite thought. Clear – expression, however subtle. I don’t think there should be any vagueness at all, but a sense of something – hidden, felt to be there. . . ’

  ‘Blimey,’ notes Jimmy, ‘not a walk in the park, is it?’

  The artist reddens and defers: ‘I’m a very bad talker. I find it -difficult – to make myself intelligible at times, can’t remember the exact word. Think I leave the impression of being a, a rambling idiot – ’

  No no! (I cry)

  ‘Pardoo too,’ Jimmy protests, but the Rajah booms an observation from the far end of the glassy realm, from which I can make out only ‘Slade’ and ‘rhythm’.

  Slade shifts back in his chair, eyeing his work. Then he nods as if concurring and resumes his sketching.

  ‘Regular rhythms I don’t like much – but of course it depends where the stress and accent are laid.’

  It totally does (I say but softly, not to involve the Rajah)

  ‘There’s nothing finer than the opening of Lycidas for music – yet it’s regular.’

  Once more, ye laurels, O ye myrtle groves! (I begin, with Jimmy blankly beaming ‘Ah, great stuff!’ and me hoping someone will interrupt before I forget the next bit) with ivy never sere, etcetera!

  Slade is thinking it through: ‘Now if Marvell had broken up his rhythms more. . .’ He pauses, lowers his eyes: ‘I like his poem urging his mistress to love – because they’ve not a thousand years to love — and he can’t afford to wait, I forget the name of the poem – ’

  You mean Coy Mistress? (I all but yell in triumph)

  ‘Well,’ and Slade goes quietly back to work, ‘I like it more than Lycidas.’

  Jimmy nods and shrugs politely as if he rates the poems about equal – though my guess is he’s heard of neither – and we leave Slade to his work, flop happily down on a couple of sofas in the neighbourhood of the Rajah. We can hear him turning pages, one, then many, sighing and yawning. We could see Slade squinting at his sketch if we looked. But we don’t look. Except the one time I do look he’s staring right at me.

  what do you see in our eyes

  at the shrieking iron and flame

  hurled through still heavens

  what quaver what heart aghast

  ‘How d’you write a poem then,’ Jimmy asks me when it’s been too long, and before I can answer the Rajah answers from the depths of his pillows, crisp voice emerging from a luxurious yawn:

  ‘Get an idea – opium, or any of the conventional methods – (b) write in as luscious, intricate, scarlet, hothouse, polyphonous verse as possible – perfectly easy – then (c) translate the result of (b) into rough simple verse, making the whole as rural, balladic and unaffected as you can – the result combines all the virtues of all the styles ever – Ghost!’

  A matinee idol has drifted in, smoking, in shirt-sleeves, with an illustrated magazine. He descends into an armchair. By now it feels like noon or so, a couple of men in pink-grey waistcoats are taking luncheon orders. Ghost asks the Rajah what he’s drinking and the Rajah lifts his pewter tankard: ‘Stout, it’s the only way.’

  Jimmy knows the new man too: ‘You look a bit worse for wear, Ghost, out on the tiles last night, were we?’

  ‘We got excited,’ Ghost chuckles (and the Rajah quaffs again as if minded to catch up) ‘Jumped about, sang praises, looked in at half-doors, blessed the people inside. . .’

  ‘Unutterably fantastic,’ murmured the Rajah.

  ‘Saw Shakespeare in a lantern, saw Italy in a balcony – strange way of getting drunk!’

&n
bsp; Jimmy and I joined in the laughter. I saw Ghost noticing Slade quietly sketching by the window, and nodded as if to say we shan’t disturb you Slade.

  Jimmy ventures: ‘Got another poet for your collection, Ghost,’ and Ghost glances, turns, reaches out his hand to mine.

  I’m I’m Glyn (I hear myself say, shaking)

  ‘I’m Wilfred,’ says Ghost, ‘and I follow the gleam.’

  ‘Lads got some questions for ya, feller,’ Jimmy smiles.

  I really don’t, I’m just sort of passing through and saying hi, it’s really –

  ‘Name? Ghost demands abruptly of himself, words to that effect. Address? unfixed. Health? quite restored. Mood? highest variety of jinks. Religion? primitive Christian. Aim in life? pearls before swine. Favourite colour? sky-violet. Favourite animal? children. Pet aversion? pets.’

  A piano starts to play, as if the pianist had been waiting politely for this list to conclude, and I assume it’s Slade but no, there he is still sketching and looking doubtful. He’s moved away from us a little but has turned his chair around and may well now be trying to capture our group with his charcoal. The pianist is hidden by the upright piano, and is playing a song I know but can’t place.

  Ghost and the Rajah settle back to read, and a great trolley squeaks into view, wheeled by an aged man in a tailcoat. The trolley is stacked with plates of food, glasses, cups and saucers. Jimmy sorts me what he calls ‘sarnies’ – ham, or cheddar, or some pale brown paste of the ages, and a welcome pint of cloudy beer.

  Ghost leans forward to see what’s on the trolley, fades back empty-handed and winces like his bones ache: ‘Refereed a football match yesterday. Calves are still suffering.’

  ‘I saw Peter Pan,’ the Rajah says, nibbling a stick of celery, ‘it’s perfect. The incarnation of all one’s childish dreams. . . Wonderfully refreshing. Never silly.’

  The pianist plays a lively tune and the amiable Jimmy tries to spread a smile at that. Ghost blows smoke instead: ‘Preserve me from all rag-time. Preserve me from billiards, whist, and football.’

  Out on the lawn are more people than before. Most of them seem to be either taking boxes somewhere or coming back without them. Off behind some trees I see tennis-courts where four women in white are merrily contesting. But just about every other soul I see is carrying boxes and crates away from the house. The mood seems good-humoured, but whatever they are doing appears to be quite urgent.

  I ask Jimmy what it is and he’s struck by all the kerfuffle: ‘Blimey O’Riley it’s all go today!’

  I want to joke it’s for my birthday! but think better of it, and in any case, Ghost now saunters up to the window, trailing his sweet old smoke and grinning: ‘Nothing can keep him from his morning’s golf.’ Jimmy and I join him there and look for what he means. I see four men, two tall players striding away from two burdened little caddies, all proceeding across the wide lawn. ‘Siegfried,’ says Ghost.

  The taller of the two faraway figures seems to touch his mouth every few moments till a little puff of blue smoke indicates a pipe. He’s the first to reach the last gate and instead of opening it climbs it, leaps, lands, springs along on his majestic progress.

  Ghost takes a brisk drag on his ciggie and turns a quarter-turn my way: ‘He says Sweat your guts out writing poetry! Eh? says I. Sweat your guts out, I say! Looks under twenty-five. Admires Thomas Hardy. Condemned some of my poems, amended others. Rejoiced over a few, read me his last works – which are superb. I don’t tell him so, or that I’m not worthy to light his pipe. I simply sit tight and tell him where I think he goes wrong.’

  From the sofas the Rajah grunts in approval.

  We watch the second golfer reaching the gate in the distance. A big fair man, he opens it and waits for the caddies to catch up.

  ‘Graves’s technique is perfect,’ says Ghost softly in his honour.

  He leads us back to our sofas, having gazed his fill of outdoors: ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we live, and the day after tomorrow live, live, live!’

  As if inscrutably responding to this, the hidden pianist starts to bash out a tune we all know, but we all take a while, as we settle down in our places again, to identify it, it’s – God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen! all together now,

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay,

  Remember, Christ our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas Day

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray

  The pianist pounds away like billy-o in response to our rising volume. Slade’s not singing but smiling faintly as he loops a great page over his easel, and the Rajah’s drained his tankard and is ordering more stout.

  O tidings of comfort and joy,

  Comfort and joy,

  O tidings of comfort and joy!

  The crescendo echoes and the last chord fades. I hear the creak of the piano-stool as the player sits back in his corner.

  ‘Gor blimey charlie, in November?’ Jimmy cries with scorn, but he’d been booming his share with the best of ’em.

  Ghost sighs, lights another cigarette: ‘Christmas has lost its savour. Stare at a sprig of holly – mistletoe – they mean nothing! Father Christmas, Charles Dickens, Scrooge, Bob Cratchit, Plum Pudding, Tiny Tim,’ – we all join in – ‘Mince Pie, Christmas Tree – ’

  Silent Night? I wonder,

  ‘No use! Can’t get the atmosphere. . .’

  I smile at Ghost in sorrow for his plight and he smiles back at me for mine.

  I knew you in this dark for so you frowned

  yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed

  I parried but my hands were loth and cold

  ‘That was a pretty good concert,’ Ghost calls towards the piano, from which a soulful minor chord chimes back as if to say you’re welcome.

  I’m looking out at the day again, a long bank of shade on the lawn now. Off to the far end stands a group by a little white gazebo, turning to greet someone who’s just come into view. My eyes follow where they’ve turned and I see it’s Barry and Rowena, Rowena being wheeled by Barry, everybody knows them! I want to cry out but how would they hear me through the glass? I can’t get home without them – I even miss my class and start to wonder what they’re up to, I’m leafing through a book, I see who’s sitting where, I’m about to teach some poems I know –

  ‘Hey Bartholomew!’

  This wakes me from my light doze: the lunch, the murmur of conversation, the comfort of the sofa and the strangeness of the morning had taken their gentle toll. It feels like hours later, a day later, within a further frame of gold.

  ‘Oi, Paderewski!’

  Jimmy’s gone round behind the piano to take his praise to the accompanist. Yawning and blinking and following him round I see who’s there on a piano-stool, a pale stocky fellow in wire-frame glasses, something of Chaplin about him, writing something on a music score.

  ‘They’re good sorts,’ he says, crossing it out again.

  ‘What you scribblin’, maestro,’ Jimmy wonders.

  ‘Yesterday,’ says the fellow steadily, ‘I – felt I – talked to the spirit of Beethoven.’ He darts a look at us both: ‘I’m serious – something happened. I was playing the slow movement of the D Major – felt the presence of a wise – friendly spirit, it was old Ludwig Van all right.’

  He plays a sprinkling of the master, breaks off, returns to his vision: ‘when I finished he said: Yes, but there’s a better thing than that... Turned me to the E flat sonata. Said he was fond of me, I was like himself as a young man. That – I’d started much too late. Still he – he allowed me to hope much more – ’

  ‘This feller’s a poet, Bart,’ says Jimmy brightly, shrugging off the oddball spirit stuff, ‘he’s got some poetical questions!’

  I stutter one out to which, again without breaking his attention on the score, Bartholomew responds: ‘Walt Whitman’s my latest. Taken me like a flood.’

  I can hear the Rajah mut
tering from his lair across the room, while Slade sits back from his sketching close by and ponders mildly: ‘Can’t quite get the – delight in Whitman, from one poem of his I know – Captain, My Captain – Emerson is America’s poet, paved the way for Whitman.’

  ‘He’s democracy’s poet, Whitman,’ Bartholomew dissents, playing a complex chord, ‘on death he says the supreme word, on the making of men, on the open air and its revelations. This line on the sea – ’

  But the Rajah booms from his base-camp: ‘People who want everyone to write like Whitman are deaf, mad, or wicked.’

  Bartholomew presses on, reciting: ‘Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways. . . ’

  ‘Whitman’s justified,’ the Rajah pronounces, ‘because he produces good states of mind – which is more than his imitators do.’

  The piano player scoffs and sounds a loud bass discord but ‘Fellers, let’s be havin’ yer!’ is Jimmy’s cordial intervention, ‘time for a cup o’ cha, eh?’

  And before that works its primordial magic, Bartholomew closes the leather black covers of his music book and gently fingering its printed golden title says:

  ‘I should like some verse not yet known to me.’

  He looks up, at me maybe, his little round glasses make it hard to be sure.

  nothing but chance of death after tearing of clothes

  kept flat and watched the darkness hearing bullets whizzing —

  and thought of music

  ‘If yew were the Aownly Girl in the wowldy and I was the Aownly Bor-hoy,’ Jimmy sings in terrible cod-cockney as he takes the teapot from one of the ancient servants, ‘a-nuffin else would a-matter in the wowld to-diey a-we would go on a-lavin in the syme old why. . . ’

  Something in Jimmy’s manner hits the spot for all the men. To the Rajah he’s amusing in a low way, to Ghost he’s one of the lads, and to quiet awkward Slade and the musical Bartholomew, the two now treading our way for tea, he’s one of those genial souls who buzz about with the power to call them from chosen solitude to gather, pressed, for the greater good. And to me – well, he’s my one link to Barry, who is, now I think about it, my one way home to what I know – or what I’ve grown used to dreaming of knowing. And now out on the lawn the group by the gazebo has dispersed. I don’t see Barry or Rowena and the shudder goes right through me: even in delight I find I’ve strayed too far from home.