Drinks with Dead Poets
Page 35
‘It isn’t moving, Max.’
Oh. No. I guess not. I just wanted – it to.
‘Cor, another thing you control, I better stick with you eh.’
*
I could go another lap.
‘I beg your pardon.’
A circuit, round the village, we’ve not been everywhere.
‘I ain’t going everywhere. I ain’t goin nowhere.’
Tomorrow’s the day when my bride’s a-gonna come. . .
‘Excuse me?’
Nothing. Dylan. If I stand still I’ll fall asleep. Like a horse.
‘Let’s go to yours and play music.’
Really?
‘I think it’s almost dawn. Listen.’
Listen?
‘I mean breathe.’
‘Go on, breathe.’
I am breathing.
‘Breathe.’
‘Good boy, keep breathing, top tip from Bevan there. Go on, where we going, lead the way,’
We’re right here, you know we are.
‘What? no I don’t.’
This is my digs, where I’ve lived all term, that room lit up at the top there. You didn’t know that?
‘I’m supposed to know where you live now?’
No. Just saying.
‘I don’t care where you live.’
Why should you, hell, not your circus, is it,
‘Not my bonobos Max look there’s something on your front door.’
What?
Glyn hiya!
That first-floor room was locked, sorry! Did what we had to!
Ox
PS – semester was ace, see you in spring for drama!!!
*
We could hear him as soon as we got inside the house.
‘Is that snoring or like, the Apocalypse.’
Have you got a light?
‘You don’t smoke, you just materialize.’
To see our way.
‘It’s a fucking staircase Max.’
Yep, first man ever,
‘Also there’s a light here.’
It doesn’t work.
*
‘So it doesn’t. Well. I’d say – follow the sound of marching bears.’
I think Ollie and Roy put the drunk bloke in my room.
‘No shit Sherlock.’
Heath says that.
‘Never heard of him. Hey Max am I going to prick my finger on a spindle and die?’
Probably, why?
‘Come on, it’s so like Sleeping Beauty right?’
Sleeping Beauty didn’t snore like that. Ending would’ve been different.
‘Arm-in-arm, Max, scared now.’
It’s like I’ve – been seeing him everywhere.
‘Who-which-what-where-why?’
The snoring guy, I keep seeing him, he’s – familiar in some way –
‘Probably you, in the future, woo. . .’
Anyway. Er. Welcome. Max’s lodgings.
‘Such a romantic idea. Get a girl up to your room, most guys would go that whole candlelit thing, table set for two, cheap pasta dish from a TV chef, five bottles of wine cos you never can tell, but no, none o’ that crap, instead a fat old snoring man on the only bed I like it, I like that style!’
He was writing something look. . .
‘Do you have any wine. . . ’
It’s the last page of a letter. . .
‘Fridge yes, wine no. What’s this rosette on the wall?’
What? pub quiz
‘That’s classy. I think we should do my drugs.’
No look, look:
I confess that a tittle more society would sometimes be pleasant – for painting, greek, music, reading and penning drawings are all used up by the end of the day. various friends, however, unite and come – so I don’t complain.
If you let me know – shell I send out and gather toadstools in hampers for you? You can sit and pick them in the large hall.
O! that could get back to ferusalem this spring!
goodbye. Yours,
Edward
‘D’you like, know him, Max?’
Uh-huh.
‘Is he like – your dad, is this your subtle way of – ’
He’s the first poet I ever read. As a child. That’s Edward Lear. ‘Oh. Right. The nonsense guy.’
I’ve a nonsense poet in my bed.
‘No change there then.’
I’m – dreaming after all. Oh no, oh god,
‘Hey hey, I’m not, I’m not, shut up. I got your back, okay, okay Max? Been a long term etcetera,’
Hang out till sunrise, can we,
‘Etcetera, gather toadstools while ye may,’
I know one of his poems by heart,
‘Not going to cost me, is it,’
No Mimi, I’m an elective, you can take me or leave me,
‘Is both an option maybe?’
What
‘Nothing, read your nonsense, you know you want to. . .’
*
When awful darkness and silence reign
Over the great Gromboolian plain,
Through the long, long wintry nights;
When the angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore;
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore. . .
*
And this is how the term ends, me sitting cross-legged with Mimi Bevan on the faded carpet of my attic in the small hours, reciting The Dong With A Luminous Nose while its author snores above us on the bed,
‘The what?’
The Dong,
‘That’s what I thought you said,’
And waiting for the sunrise.
*
Then, through the vast and gloomy dark,
There moves what seems a fiery spark,
A lonely spark with silvery rays
Piercing the coal-black night —
‘You’ll never make that first train,’ she murmured where she lay over there with her back turned, in my tartan blanket, under the window.
I’ll get the second one then, 12.17, you want to catch it with me?
Mimi?
‘Yeah alright go on.’
You’ll meet me at the station, twelve noon?
‘Copy that.’
Where was I. . .
A lonely spark with silvery rays
Piercing the coal-black night —
A Meteor strange and bright:
Hither and thither the vision strays,
A single lurid light.
Slowly it wanders, pauses, creeps,
Anon it sparkles, flashes and leaps;
And ever as onward it gleaming goes
A light on the Bong-tree stem it throws —
‘The what tree?’
The Bong-tree,
‘For fuck’s sake. . .’
And those who watch at that midnight hour
From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry, as the wild light passes along,
‘The Dong! – the Dong!
The wandering Dong through the forest goes!
The Dong! the Dong!
The Dong with a luminous Nose!’
*
By the time the Dong had fallen for the Jumbly Girl who would break his heart, Mimi Bevan was fast asleep. I eased the last of her roll-up out of her fingers before it burned her, and by now the light outside was – light, not morning yet but light, and I had seen myself through Thursday.
Edward snored, Mimi sniffed and shuffled and turned in her blanket, and I stretched out on my back, with my palms behind my head, the way as a child I thought would always make me stay awake if I needed to, and my eyes began to close on the growing light,
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a sieve. . .
*
They were both gone when I w
oke. The bedclothes were neat but the tartan blanket lay crumpled under the window. The earth was foggy but the sky a blinding blue, and out of the window I could see all the way to the wooded isle to the west, blue pines poking out of the mist, for mist was all I could see of the water.
I bade the view farewell and was out of that room with my bag and my case in less than a minute.
I left my books behind, but I took my birthday cards, even one I remembered had gone behind the bookcase.
The village was very quiet. I made the station for noon. The platform was deserted but for a tall lad in uniform.
I’m waiting for the 12.17. Is there one?
‘Heavens yes. You’re early.’
Well yes. I’m expecting someone.
‘I see.’
A companion for the journey.
‘I see.’
Good I’ll. Just stand here then. And wait for seventeen minutes. Sixteen minutes. (I waited for two.) Watch my things will ya mate, I’m going to find my companion.
*
The Keys was full to the rafters, it was doing a roaring trade, I could see that through a frosted window, in fact -
It was nice through a frosted window. I could see it was steamy and crowded in there, with the Christmas lights all blazing away, the tree in its glory, the fire going in the corner over there, but the window blurred the many faces, so there was no one I could put a name to. Just like the day I arrived, I thought.
But I hadn’t time to savour this smear of gold and crimson light: I went round to the next window, where the panes offered a clearer view.
There they all were, at the tables they favoured. Ollie and Iona, with Caroline, Roy, Heath all toasting and who was in that reindeer jumper? Claude, from the Coach House. Suitcases, hold-alls, packed bags were heaped all round the place. Lily was in there with Molly Dunn at the bar, they both wore dark glasses and were prattling and shouting. Rowena Finbow was there, reading the menu in her wheelchair, McCloud was there kneeling down on the floor, with a smaller boy and girl who both looked pretty much like her. They were piling wrapped-up gifts round the base of the tree. Peter Grain and Nathan were there, in a booth, heads and hands together. My ghastly jukebox trio were in there, banging their tankards for some idiot reason. Jeff Oloroso, Nikki Phapps, Gough Slurman, Delphine! ah, one of the ones who’d gone swimming was there, so maybe they hadn’t all drowned or frozen. But I couldn’t see Bella or her friends from fiction. Barry was in there, ambling round on his merry way, being tapped on the shoulder and asked something by format, who wore a white coat and stethoscope, like a doctor, let’s have a listen to heart-rates today. Norman was stooped at the bar with a magazine, straightening up to serve someone, oh flippin heck not her.
Mimi was in a red tee-shirt, a green elf-cap, black jeans, she was ordering a round, she kept looking back and pointing, demanding what they wanted – Jake Polar-Jones, Syrie, Ali K, Yvette, all the gang from Theatre Studies – it was 12.07. She had better make that order quick.
A window I was staring through, and a window of time passing. If I didn’t go inside now, into that rich warm brimming tableau, just a matter of yards inside – it was the walk away to the station for me, and the train and goodbye. 12.07, 08. . .
Except – I could get the later train, there was still one departure left, I could get the 4.17!
Go – back down to the station, collect my bags, come back up to the pub, enjoy myself, drink drinks, eat three-course lunch at length, say adieu to those who stay here, go staggering back to the station at four with all the folks who are leaving today, take the long ride home with them all, chat, play word-games, look out of the window, sleep, sleep, sleep. . .
12.10, seven minutes – Mimi was ordering food, they were all there, leafing through the menus, reading the specials scrawled on a blackboard, oh and here came Bella and Blanche and Kornelia, bursting out of the Ladies together, all in the clothes of the night before, shrieking at something, laughing and weeping, now format was listening to Mimi’s chest, breathe in and she did, breathe out and she’s doing so. . .
If I go in now, it will all be hurry, haste, stress, no time for proper farewells at all -
When I left that window I was set to go inside.
But now I find myself walking, footsteps clocking away south in the bright cold wind, and there on the snowy hillside with a hoot the distant train glides out of the tunnel, I guess it’s 12.12, so I look – it’s 12.14. . .
*
Is that the 12.17?
‘Yes, sir. That’s the one you mean to catch.’
Well-remembered, mate.
‘It’s my job, sir. Here are your bags.’
I know, man. I’m in fact, I’m going to take them, change of plan,
‘Is there a problem, sir?’
There’s a 4.17, isn’t there,
‘There’s a 16.17, sir.’
Wow even better.
‘That’s not for four hours though, sir, four hours and two minutes.’ What?
‘THAT’S NOT FOR FOUR HOURS, THOUGH, SIR, FOUR HOURS AND ONE MINUTE!’
WHY IS NO ONE ELSE TAKING THIS TRAIN?
‘ONCE MORE, SIR?’
WHY IS NO ONE ELSE TAKING THIS TRAIN?
Lad didn’t mind, or know, and here it came why not, the 12.17, rumbling emptily down to a jolting juddering halt here at the buffers, hissing and done. I could go now. I can go.
‘Can I help you with your bags, sir?’
No, mate, thank you, I got it.
‘Are you awaiting your companion?’
What?
‘Mind the gap there sir.’
I got it, thank you. What did you say?
‘Merry Christmas to you, professor!’
And to you – to you and – yours –
To tell you the truth I was so stunned to have suddenly got on the train, I almost forgot to watch my own departure. I was just sitting there, staring forwards, letting the world turn under me.
I was moving! I sat up with a gasp – I’d even sat down on the wrong side – I almost fell against the opposite window in time to see the dear old place beginning to recede. Way over there I saw the roofs of the student halls, I saw the spire of the tiny church, the village hall beside it where I’d taught the three, seven, twelve things I know, I saw a white flash of the village green and the lampposts there, I glimpsed the pub and it was gone, I saw the field from my first day, the woods where we’d gone walking that green dark afternoon in the rain, the meadow on the other side where I said let’s make it summer, I saw the little winding road on the opposite hills, curving off between the fields, the road which took me on the Field Trip with Barry on my birthday – blackness slams it away, the tunnel, now I stare at my own self in shock in the hammering streaming window.
I sat, the tunnel was long, I must have slept, I must have dreamed.
I dreamed I was going downhill on a sleigh, sleigh-bells were ringing and ringing and ringing, and then I was in the village hall and I could hear bells chiming but it was still dark tunnelling black when I woke, and then all at once it wasn’t – I was thumped back into different daylight, rainy fields and houses and trees, and something in my bag was chiming, that was the chiming from the village hall, it was a flat canary-yellow oblong of metal, it wouldn’t stop chiming, a phone it was, it was my own phone chiming, and when I turned it over to see it was chiming and blinking with names and questions, sad face, smiley face, holly, heart, dad, snowman, xmas, text after text after text after text
DRINKS WITH DEAD POETS
Pegasus Books Ltd
148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Glyn Maxwell
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition August 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor ma
y any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-I-68177-462-6
ISBN: 978-1-68177-498-5 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.