And the evenings of these last days is a terrible time of sadness. Sun setting beyond the stands and further in the tips of trees. I suppose it’s because Wimbledon will go on without me. I stand leaning against a fence watching the players leave. Hair neat, faces shower fresh as they wait for their chauffeured cars. All this youth beauty and bounce. On the verge of a tear I heard a cry go up from behind me near the water tower on an outside court. I tripped down steps and along a deserted back lane between the evergreens. Reaching the water tower, a sentinel over this sadness, I come upon a doubles match. I was amazed as well as revitalized. Two short footed intense Russians playing two stringbean Americans from the Deep South.
A crowd collected. The Russian chunky bodies leaping around the court. They seemed awkward but friendly types and I wondered how it was that this naughty race had caused so much heartbreak. Then I heard the magnolia scented accents crackling out the dialogue. They were devastating these two from the East. Somehow I could bear tennis no longer. I went back through the evergreens. Past the members’ lawn where they took sherry under colored umbrellas. I spied some players packed to go. I approached to ask don’t you want to cry, absolutely break down and shed tears on the torn tickets in the road. And sidling near to make my heartfelt remark, I am taken aback by their flinty business man’s eyes. They were soon to go to Barcelona all expenses paid.
More clapping and I know that inside centre court they’re handing out the silver cups and plates. To those, who when it was match point and needed, got securely behind the cat gut and laid that chilled ball neatly at speed along the base line, out of reach. Over the tea lawn the casual labour pick up the paper cups. In the competitors’ buffet, arrangements for championships elsewhere in the world are made and school girls collect autographs at the bottom of the steps. Out on the grounds the blue and the green canvas covers lie over the turf. The water tower like a lonely mausoleum standing over the empty courts. The grass worn and brown. And I make a last visit to the gents which was a day ago like a train station.
When I Bought a Bear
I went in the door with a pound. Wrapped up in the tight fist. I thought maybe you’re only a kid once and never again. Mostly. And I looked over all these red bouncy things with bricks and houses and dinky toys. And I said have you got a bear. One that I can wash.
She moved with a smile and said I’ve got just the thing in sponge. I told her my child is desperate for some cuddly animal. And I want something that will last because we live on a boat and there’s nowhere to play.
I held the furry thing with a squeeze in my hand and said how much. A guinea. I took one of those breaths that’s almost the last. And sometimes I think maybe I have my share of pounds and even a little pile I keep to look at in my drawer. But a pound’s a pound even in a pile. And then night time looking down on the little sleeping squealless face makes my eyes tingle with a tear and maybe a toy’s not too much to ask. And I’m not a man for buying frilly flippant things. But this bear was sponge and washable and would do for years. So madam take my pound.
With it resting nestled in an arm I took the bus called twenty two. Sat on top in front looking down on the sunny crowd. Gladness on every face. Bonnets and buns swish and swinging between all the hips. And this bear can even bounce and play forever.
Through the little square with trees and fountain sprinkling in the middle and by where they have the two big guns I always feel will go bang. All the houses they brighten up to sell and coffee shops with yellow stripes of richery. In there they smile, smoke and laugh. I love them all.
At my own little corner by the river I step down and cross between the trucks to my boat bumping on the tide. My brave flag flying from the stern. In there I hear the gurgle of mother and child. Sometimes I think I’m too young to be a father but I can’t go back now. Maybe there’s a chop laced with garlic for dinner and later I can go out back and watch the river and bridge lit up, bulbs bobbing on the steel. I have a lot of little pleasures stowed away.
Down the gangway and I yelled I was home and had it in this bag and what should we do give it to her now. Or surprise her in the morning. How much was it. I can’t tell you. How much. A guinea. O no. O yes. O dear. It washes. Is it gold. Sponge.
We rolled her round the soapy tub for a bath and put her in her own little snugly bed for bye byes with fuzzy bear. There were smiles and kicking and hugs and kissing. I sang a song about the moon and said night night little girl and bear. And all bears and bees like honey. And bears cost money.
As I do these nights, tired and full of sleep, I lay back and listened to the strange tune they play in the park across the river where they have the house of wax and fountains raging. And the barges go by booming and send the river rippling. And if a toy is a joy no price is too high to pay.
I slept that night like a bomb. With morning a red rare sun. I got up and perked the coffee on the stove. Got the butter out of my new cooling crock and laid it all over the toast and covered it all in salami. Then I went to take a look at the wind and smoke out of the stacks all over the sky. The clock over there says eight. And someday maybe I’ll have a garden and room to breathe.
There were some little screams. And I didn’t know what to do first. I heard the plop and ran in. Little baby was near the window. No bear anywhere. Prayers please. It can’t happen to me. Out there on the tide, two furry ears and glass eyes. I stand here watching the river rushing out to sea. One pound, one shilling.
Paddling and Persons at Putney
It takes enormous energy to tell lies. And the truth is I’m neither sad nor glad about the boat race. But it became something which was going on across the river.
After winter comes spring and then the Boat Race. All along the Thames on that day every inch is choked with people, all making a democratic racket, with drums, clapper machines and vocal cords. Oxford or Cambridge could be a sandwich but everyone’s got a passion for one or the other. And a rippling roar meets the boats as they shoot up along the river and disappear around a bend.
But what is choice, if not chic, are the March afternoons of the week before. When the addicted take a No. 22 bus, a scooter or Bentley over Putney Bridge and down the Embankment past the starting marker for the University Boat Race, a granite post set with the letters U B R. Then past the curious sordid gaiety of a monstrous hotel. They say naughty naughty goes on in hotels near rivers in England but I feel sure this is an outrageous untruth. Swans float by. Along with tons of horrifying garbage. And some days, an interesting sight, when the river overflows as the tide comes up and swans merrily sail down the middle of the street with kids paddling proud kayaks.
But ahead of me now, a gathering. They stand mum-chance, carelessly, effortlessly, blinking their eyes. Some with polo coats, me in my usual astrakhan and a few oddbird parsons wearing black. Except for the few upstarts who twirl mustaches and sport blazers, the ignoring of one another is rampant. I of course, merely look foreign wherever I am, flashing, however, a rather choice English accent which when it slips has an even better one underneath. For watching oarsmen you can’t do much better than that these days. So I lean against the fender behind me, a Rolls Royce of some rakish vintage. Now we are a thin but select group. And with nothing said, we are accent tested down to the last murmur.
Both Oxford and Cambridge are in their respective boathouses as the guests of the Westminster and Barclay banks. A nice background. For these banks are big and possessed of tidy sums. And from each boathouse fly two flags with a bank one on top. So with colors flowing in a gentle wind from the west, and hopefully, a sun, the moment we wait for comes. Oxford bouncing down the boathouse steps in their sneakers, having of course briefly paused and posed on the terrace. They stand in a circle in front of the open boathouse doors, with the upturned shell inside, and commence exercises. The crowd gathers close. The diminutive cox shouts commands in his elegant, elephant sized voice. They do the protracted deep-knee bend. An approving hush from the onlookers.
Out o
n the river now. The sleek white yacht of the BBC, television cameras fixed on a flying deck, as they race back and forth making the most interesting waves come ashore, and I suppose arranging shots. And suddenly a procession of pleasure steamers, empty and cobwebbed from winter, pass down river. The hoot of tugs, barges in tow with their skippers leaning over thick arms, smoking pipes. These pleasure steamers take up the fantastic rear of the race. Jammed with graduates of all kinds, including the under ones as well as a few risqué types who may have utterly failed at college and now feebly flair forth on boat race day. One jolly bunch altogether.
There is an aesthetic difference, and perhaps even more than that, between Oxford and Cambridge. The latter are more reserved, thinner in the face, and do not have the ruddy complexions of Oxford. And they are mostly last for practice. They arrive in their charabanc just as Oxford are moving out in the stream and set off for Hammersmith Bridge, a mile and a half away. The crowd has thinned somewhat then but I feel those who are left are more sedate. There are always a few young women in the crowd. One usually long, lank and blonde. Unlike me, she leans against the dazzle of a Mercedes Benz, blonde legs crossed, blonde voice saying, I suppose, in the blonde brain, “I am blonde, I will, after the race, marry a banker.”
Two bankers approach. Bowler hatted and flat bellied, that’s how I know them. They pause nearby for some back slapping. The blows are delivered with the palm and heel of the hand to the small of the back. The idea is to produce coughing and in some cases retching, depending upon the respective ages of the slapper and slapped. And now Cambridge come out of their boathouse, four on each side of the glistening shell. The cox leading them, his casual finger guiding them down to the water’s edge. A loud command and the boat goes up, over and gently in the water. Charging back up the slipway, they return with the oars, slip out of shoes and into the boat. Carefully, one by one.
Meanwhile there is a delicious little performance. A chosen group stepping carefully down the slip and climbing into a pink railed gondola. Big mufflers round the throats, dressed in lambskin, coonskin, and always one tasty woman preening in the latest. There may be of course, the odd escaped lunatic or convict here but they are indistinguishable from ordinary folk due to their extreme good manners and pleasant smiling faces. Especially since they would be mixed among a few Old Blues, stampeding toward the gondola, who can look like nothing on earth. Some are ninety years old. With heart pumps, they say, as good as ever. All bundled up like bears. The squeaking ancient legs are lifted up and over the pink rails, pillows carefully placed to receive bottoms.
And whoops. This happened once. An Old Blue slips a leg into the drink. You may think there was no laughter. But the crowd suddenly, admittedly only for an instant, became a howling mob. I thought of Tyburn Hill and the hangings. And roared myself but inwardly of course, using the pursed lips as a disguise. The dunked Old Blue let out a not unbecoming seal bark. They dragged him out of the swirling grey water by the armpits. He swan flapped around the gondola. The rugs were rushed to him. The gondola rocked disastrously. And it nearly happened. Just what you’re thinking. The women screamed. But the Old Blue, true to school, tie and that oar he once held, shouted his advice over the howls of horror, “Save the women and children first, leave the men till later.”
And so the launch gets filled. The Oxford coach up front, dark blue cap on head, megaphone at his mouth and sprig of violets in his buttonhole. The helmsman manoeuvring in the strong tide. On the slip the crew step into the boat, fit in their oars and wait. A photographer taking pictures. Sets of teeth sparkle everywhere. The real and the false. And the shell with eight eager oarsmen is pushed gently out into the tide. A few well modulated instructions float across the water from the coach. The cox sets his chin evenly, draws wind into his lungs and shouts, “Off scarves.” Out come the red pouches and in go the scarves and all is tucked neatly back under the sliding seats. Another command, “Come forward.” And the crew lean into their oars, blades back. And then, “Are you ready.” Great silence everywhere and finally, “Paddle.” And the slender shell with eight flashing splashes leaps away on the lead colored Thames.
Now watch them paddle with their long slow stroke to turn widely below Putney Bridge, then with the tide pouring behind them, paddle back up to be grabbed by the stake boats. Down river, the armada of launches, speedboats and yachts greedily anticipate. Light and dark blue flags wave and wag madly from bridge, window and shore. And then silence. They wait. And suddenly they’re off. Two slim insects catching eight claws on the water. Followed by this frenzied flotilla, spreading the river in white waves with cheers and gay scarves flying. And out of one mountainous coat, I see an Old Blue, jaw set like the prow of a ship, eyes glued and feverish on this brief spectacle that starts all over again next spring.
In My Peach Shoes
She was dressed in the best she had. I went to meet her going on the long highway. I heard from sources she was tickled pink to go out with me. Naturally I felt big time. I was going straight north. Saw the police parked all fat in blue waiting for speeders. They looked at me from behind the sunglasses. You’ve never seen such bellies in blue. I looked back with that air I’ve got, that I know somebody who knows somebody who’s something and you better watch out. It made no impression and I kept going north on the bright whistling concrete.
Big tents spread out in the trees on every side. I think I saw banners and bass drums. And there she was, covered with her haystack hair. And I wiggled my toes. I have always paid peculiar attention to shoes. And these peach ones I was wearing made me feel smooth. With a neat breath I put an inch extra on my chest and smiled. And she smiled. The smile she used as a child. What a real mouth and large teeth, her wide straw hat over her straw hair. And a worried frown as she peered at my shoes.
The restaurant with its flat roof and factory windows. And we walked down and down to it. My arm held for hers. To the white covered table in the sunken garden. She in her lacy white dress as the waiters went to and fro. This late high sunned afternoon. When all the deep grass is white and warm. And deep enough to hide. Perhaps my shoes. With their peach I was proud of.
But when we sat on the chairs that were iron and filigree and the table tin with holes. Doubts about my taste were evident. I could only go sad and touch the silver salt and pepper things and pretend that I was starting a fashion. Didn’t she know peach was really the snazz. No. She did not know. I walked away and left her there.
I went up the wide steps from this old but lavish eatery. The waiters worrying in and out their kitchen door. The head man looking at me depart and down his nose towards my tootsies. All the others had come clothed in furs and lace, women in white, men in black with employees hurrying round them everywhere.
And she sat all alone waiting for me to come back. With her pinkly colored nail she touched the table things one by one. Nothing came for her to eat. That’s embarrassing in a restaurant. She pitied my bad taste. And she’s not getting anything to taste at all. I flew the banner of a hero in my heart but outside where others could see me I was a heel.
Watching through the window. Waiters passing out the peach melba. Trays and trays of clotted cream. Yummy. She sits silent. The head man comes and whispers. Now she cries quietly. Waiters come take the things away. She raises her head to look. I hope for me. Her tan face wet. And the others are picking up their lavish furs around their smooth shoulders and bowed to and smiled upon they’re gone.
The sun comes down. I think of places like roads of ash and poison ivy patches. To which I am immune. And she’s not. Now the employees come and take the table and lift down the flowers from the walls. And say sorry Miss but we can’t help it, we’ve got to take your chair. She stood brown clenched hands to her eyes.
I got up from position. Slipped off the shoes, socks too, white with monogram. I froze my smile of the potentate across my appearance. And with the slow step I moved through doors down and down into the midst of this preposterous eatery. I raised my voice. T
hey saw the diamonds sparkling on my toes. My total demeanour was disdain. Like flashes they brought the eating instruments. Her eyes wide with horror drew narrow with love. And after the melba I presented a foot. I said quietly. The color of this too, is peach.
When I Brought the News
I thought I was going to be a millionaire. With moroccan bound books for looks everywhere. And even a drive that went for a mile through the trees and little lakes and lilies. So in my best serious face I stood in line for the job and told the nervous man I’d work very hard.
Every afternoon loaded down I set off on the outskirts of town folding papers with a sleight of hand and flicking them across the grey porches. And even in an open window for a laugh which I thought I needed. And as I proceeded along this frontier road picking berries grapes and peaches I said hi to the rival newspaper boy and told him he was underpaid and you’ll never make the money I’ve made. But it was a lie.
Because Friday I collected and most said come back tomorrow and I objected but turned my sad face away and mumbled it was only a dime. And you’d think it was a crime every time I rang a doorbell and even those with chimes and added up the weeks they owed. In there they sit warm and reading, with smells of steak and pizza pie. Out here lips chapped with frost I might die, dancing on my cold toes. There’s only so much I can stand, you savage hearts.
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule Page 8