“Go on,” said the Air Marshall.
My father rolled his eyes, “The boy says he’s in love.”
__________
“Let’s get married!”
The words slipped out almost before I knew I’d said them, but they had the desired effect. Fuffy squealed in delight and threw her arms around me, giving me a bone-crushing squeeze. “Oh yes, yes, and yes again,” she said, cupping my face and peppering me with kisses. We were madly in love and I’d never felt so happy. Ever.
Fuffy Morningdew was the second-best-looking girl in my village and I was a carefree, confident young man with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye.
It was my fifth year at Winstowe College and I stood at the dawn of a new chapter in my life. I’d decided to become a writer based on my natural flair and command of the English language, and I had my whole life planned out. Married by eighteen, two children by twenty-one, my first best-selling novel by twenty-three, and so on and so on. I had everything in place to have a warm and loving life and god knows I was ready to lead it.
I’d first met her while performing at the end of year revue. I was the cornerstone of the school’s barbershop quartet, Iambic Pentameter, and my harmonies had swept her off her feet.
Within days she’d invited me home to meet her parents. Naturally I was keen to make a good impression. And I did. At least with her mother, to whom I ended up making love on the bathroom floor while Fuffy and her father sang early Victorian hymns at the piano. It was a confusing, awkward moment, but it triggered the nascent confidence I was developing with women. I saw no need to tell Fuffy about it though. She’d have been violently opposed to the idea of sharing me, so I put the whole thing down to life’s rich tapestry.
At any rate, over the next few weeks my love for Fuffy flourished, and soon I’d forgotten all about Mrs Morningdew’s suffocating thighs.
I borrowed my father’s Bentley for the day and drove us to a local beauty spot for a picnic, complete with a Fortnum’s hamper of caviar, smoked salmon and champagne. We parked in an area called the Baker’s Belly, one of Devon’s highest points. It was a featureless hill covered in thick short grass with no trees or bushes offering unfettered views to the sea twelve miles away.
I rolled out the tartan rug and set out our picnic while Fuffy kicked off her shoes and took in the view. “This really is the most wonderful treat Victor,” she said, drawing in the air through her slightly too large nostrils.
If she knew that I was about to propose then she was hiding it well. I popped the cork and champagne foamed over the neck of the bottle. “To us!” I said, as we brought our crystalware together. “today really is a momentous day.” She giggled and looked at me innocently.
“What do you mean, Victor?” she said, her large, dark hazelnut eyes were like two big bowls of hazelnuts. Or any other brown kind of nut – like a walnut or brazil nut.
Fuffy drank from her glass and then giggled excitedly. “I hope you’re not trying to get me squiffy,” she said. “What are you up to, you silly?”
I smiled conspiratorially and shrugged. I couldn’t hold it back much longer. I loved her so much I wanted to shout it out across the whole of Devon. I poured her more champagne and for a while we simply looked into each other’s eyes. We didn’t need to speak. We were in bliss. The only sound I could hear was that of my beating heart, and the faint whistle of air through the almost unnoticeable gap between Fuffy’s two front teeth.
Then there was a rumble of thunder. It was so loud it made us jump. “Oh no. Please don’t rain,” she said, holding her palm upwards, seeing if she could detect any droplets. I was too happy to care. Nothing was going to ruin my day, not even The Great British Weather.
“Let’s get married!” The words came out as a whisper. Almost slipping out before I knew I’d said them. Fuffy squealed in delight and threw her arms around me, squeezing me with a strength that belied her size. There was another rumble of thunder. Then the heavens opened. We kissed passionately in the downpour, and it felt romantic and vital. We were in love and nothing could touch us. I held her cheeks and moved my head closer to hers as thick rivulets of water ran down her face.
“Open your present!” I urged.
“Victor, it’s raining, we should get back in the car. We’re going to be soaked.”
“C’mon, it’s only rain,” I said, “go on, open it.”
Fuffy stood and looked up at the sky. It was black. “Victor,” she said, in her mock scolding tone, “come on, there’s a really big storm, I think we should get back to the car.” She had only just finished her sentence when it happened: an ear-splitting crack, and a blinding flash. The bolt of lightning tore through the sky and struck her, knocking her onto her back.
“FUFFY! NO!” I dived on top of her to protect her, but it was too late. She’d been hit.
She lay motionless.
Frantically I grabbed hold of her, looking for any sign of life. I lifted her head and touched her face, “FUFFY. FUFFS. FUFFLINGTONS! My darling talk to me, open your eyes!” I held her in my arms. She didn’t move so I picked her up and staggered to my feet. Facing the heavens I cried out in anguish, but my screams were lost in the sound of thunder.
I looked down at her pretty face. It was like a porcelain doll, pure and fragile. I bowed my head and wept. My tears fell on her like rain. The rain also fell on her like rain.
Then suddenly she moved, and her eyes opened. “Victor?” she said, her voice soft and confused, “what happened? Did we finish the champagne?”
“Oh FUFFY!” I breathed out a huge sigh of relief. She was okay! “My darling! Oh my darling you were struck by lightning! Are you alright?”
“Yes I feel fine,” she said, rubbing her head, “miraculously so actually.”
She was right. It was a miracle. And as if to confirm as much the sun emerged from behind a cloud and beamed a shaft of light down upon us. It had stopped raining. We spent the next few minutes holding each other, laughing over what had just happened. We’d remember this moment forever.
“Wait until I tell Father,” I said. “He’ll think me a bloody idiot for bringing you up here.” I smiled because for once I couldn’t care less what my father thought. My future was with Fuffy. It was turning into an extraordinary day.
“Now, my love,” I said, “open your present.”
Fuffy looked at me disapprovingly, but there was playfulness there too. “Okay then, silly! Let’s see what it is.”
I passed her the neatly wrapped package and watched, grinning, as she carefully peeled away the layers of brown parcel paper. As the final layer came away Fuffy pulled out the large box that contained her gift.
“A kite!” she said in surprise. And then “a kite” again, but this time a bit more deadpan.
“That’s right,” I said, “and there’s no time like the present to try it out!”
“You mean now?”
“Why not?” I said enthusiastically.
Two simple words that still haunt me to this very day. If I could turn back time, I would have never suggested that Fuffy fly the kite at the top of a hill just after a violent electrical storm, especially since she’d already been struck by lightning once. But I was young and foolish back then, and knew nothing of mesoscale convective systems.
I shall not go into detail about what happened next, save to say that lightning can strike twice. All that was left of my beautiful love was a pile of ash and a pair of smoking open-toed sandals. As I looked at the empty space where Fuffy had just been standing, holding the kite aloft, pretending to enjoy it but secretly wondering why I’d chosen a kite as an engagement gift over, say, a ring, I felt a terrible sadness. I knew that this was to be a seminal moment in my life, one that would shape my entire destiny.
It was as if I could feel my heart char and blacken. I’d walked up that hill the happiest man
alive. I walked down it alone forever more. After this day I would never love again.
__________
I confess it wasn’t easy writing that. As you know, Fuffy’s death had a profound effect on me. I spent the next ten weeks completely mute but discovered a new and liberating way to communicate – through poetry.
I will be publishing a full anthology of my poems at a later date, but in the meantime I intend to include a selection in this memoir.
__________
The Kite. 1939
This is one of my most personal poems. It’s been described (by me) as ‘searingly honest’, and ‘achingly poetical’. In many ways it’s a poem’s poem. It rhymes, and all the words are in the right place.
The Kite was written shortly after Fuffy was cruelly taken from me by that wretched lightning bolt. It’s less a tribute to her than a protest poem aimed at dangerously negligent Health and Safety legislation. Despite a lifetime of lobbying, the government persists in allowing the manufacture of kites in this country. What cruel and bitter irony that the British Standard for safety should become known as the kitemark.
It’s like they are mocking me.
The Kite. (1939)
Oh Weapon of Death,
Why aren’t you banned?
Sailing high,
Into the sky,
Like a deadly,
Super-conducting butterfly.
To electrify,
My,
Fuffy.
Oh, Fuffy.
I cry, as,
Five hundred thousand volts,
Fry, and,
Fry, and,
Fry.
Oh Fuffy,
Why?
Why indeed. I have written countless times to the Prime Minister demanding that kites be re-classified in the same category as hand grenades and industrial lasers, but to date no action has been taken. Shame on you Chamberlain, Churchill, Attlee, Churchill again, Eden, Macmillan, Douglas-Home, Wilson, Heath, Wilson again, Callaghan, Thatcher, Major, Blair, Brown, Cameron and May.
Swedish Batteries. 1982
This verse was written as an elegy about two of my favourite Swedish songstresses. Although they’re not dead, our love is. It flourished briefly one night in 1982 but it had a profound effect on me. It was the reason I grew a beard that year.
Something that struck me when writing this was that in all the different genres of poetry, threesomes appear to be criminally under-represented. Unfortunately there is little more I can say about this because ABBA is currently suing me, and so it’s for the courts to decide. All I will say is that the two women deny any liaison ever took place – which is their legal right, apparently.
Swedish Batteries. (1982)
Agnetha and Anni-Frid.
My double AAs.
On my bed,
I lay thee side by side,
Like a couple of double AA’s,
Positive one way,
Negative another.
Swedish batteries,
Oh how you keep me going,
And going,
All night long.
You like my meatballs?
Yah?
Zen, lose the Simian twins,
And run into the night with me, forever.
We can all live together in Stockholm,
Or Gothenberg,
Or Malmö,
Oh!
How my torch burns bright for both of thee.
Everest. 1947
This next poem was written as a tribute to the eight Sherpas who lost their lives trying to get me to the top of Mount Everest, or at any rate very nearly there. I will write about the expedition in detail later on. This poem has caused controversy in some quarters because of its misogynistic overtones; specifically in the way it portrays the mountain as an unforgiving, cold-hearted woman. For the record this version is tame compared to an earlier draft where I personified the mountain as a butch, shaven-headed lesbian who rebuffed my advances.
Everest. (1947)
Icy strumpet.
Who tempts so many men,
To fall at her feet.
Frozen mistress of death.
You are the one we all want,
To bed,
To mount
To climb
To wed?
To drive our flags into your peak,
To tame you,
Claim you,
Conquer your unassailable,
Deadly beauty.
Glacial She-devil.
Inhospitable Succubus.
Frigid Harlot.
How many men have died and fall-en?
What it is about your icy gaze,
Your frozen face,
Commanding men like me,
To race?
Scrunch, Crunch, Grunch,
Boots in snow.
We fight for breath,
In thinning air,
So we may tumble to our death,
With grace.
Screaming Death From Above. 1958
This was my first foray into children’s poetry but I struggled to find my authentic voice. It’s a kind of love letter to my pet golden eagle who was a gift from the Sultan of Brunei.
This was part of an early collection of children’s poetry, also entitled Screaming Death From Above. Sadly the British Publishing Association issued guidance that it was not to be sold to under-eighteens, which hurt sales somewhat.
Screaming Death From Above. (1958)
Your beauty blinds,
As do your claws.
Oh feathered assassin.
Flying like a bird,
Un-caged you soar and tear up the sky,
You fly.
You are my,
Majestic Death.
Circling above,
On thermals wait,
To dive and claw and kill,
Too late,
Man down.
I am your master,
Yet do you know my name?
What keeps you from leaving me?
Is it the rabbits of Bluebell Manor?
Or my love?
Or neither of the above?
After writing this poem back in 1958 I read it to Majestic Death and I think I saw a small tear in her eye. Of course she appeared to have no heart, but had it not been for her sacrifice we all would have died on the banks of the Thames.
I hope it’s a fitting tribute to this ruthless, implacable killer who enjoyed nothing more than plucking out a man’s eyeballs and swallowing them whole. I miss her so much.
It’s the first time I’ve looked at some of these for a while and what’s remarkable is how powerful they still are. I have just written to the Education Secretary to insist that this small selection is included in the National Curriculum.
Yours sincerely,
Major Victor Cornwall
Nimbu Towers
Pullen-under-Lyme
Gloucestershire
16th September 2016
Dear Major,
Do I have your attention? I need to ensure you are absolutely and completely giving me the full shilling when you read this next sentence:
Do not send me any more of your poetry.
I am sorry about the great love you laid to rest, but now all those years have passed you can probably see it was a good thing that Fuffy was burned to a crisp by a billion volts, incinerating your only chance of happiness with a woman.
Had she lived, you’d have married, and had, perhaps, a wonderful few years. Then she would have come to resent you for your fantastically selfish lifestyle and utter refusal to compromise. At some point, she would have commenced divorce proceedings, having first instructed a legal rapier like
Massingberd Q.C., and hauled away three-quarters of your assets.
You’d have been unable to afford the basics, like a manservant, chauffeur, gardener, maid and chef. Good lord, she may even have ended up owning Hellcat Manor. It would have been horrific.
Chaps like us aren’t bred for captivity, Major. The demands of the job dictate it. Scoundrels are always best stalking the jungles as apex predators, spraying our scent across a wide territory, falling on the most succulent prey and tearing it apart, before stealing off into the night.
Perhaps it has been reading all about your early life that has made me dwell on my own beginnings. At any rate, my mind has been on my old Ma and Pa who departed this earth so suddenly, leaving me as rich as Croesus with one of the finest Palladian houses in England to keep up.
I’ve surprised myself by writing about the loss of my folks in the same chapter as the man who became our nemesis. I’m beginning to see how peculiar a life can seem written down.
__________
CHAPTER 4
The Bull And The Little Austrian Boy
Nimbu Towers, Gloucestershire, 1931
I felt cold and claustrophobic inside my metal prison. I tried to move my head left, but couldn’t; right, but couldn’t. It was agony to inch my feet forward, and the chainmail I’d shrugged on so easily half an hour ago now felt like it was dragging me down to the floor. I’d dropped my rondel on the East Upper corridor, and it was all I could do to drag the spiked mace along the red carpet, tearing the threads. I could see a very limited amount from my visor, but I knew Eustace was nearby. I was determined to bludgeon him to death.
Exhausted, I stopped at the top edge of the Main Staircase and straightened my back hoping to get a glimpse of my quarry. Through the narrow slit in my helmet I could see Masterson, the valet, smoking one of my father’s cigars in an alcove and rubbing the shoulders of Betty, my mother’s maid. How on earth did knights fight in these things? I could barely see.
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