Mr Vogel

by Lloyd Jones

  You may remember the story – Ulysses has survived incredible odds during many adventures, and after eons he returns to his home; Penelope his wife has foiled her many suitors by promising to marry one of them when the work on her loom is finished, but every night she unravels some of it so that it is never finished; no-one recognises Ulysses except his old dog, who wags his tail one last time when he sees his master and then dies. Paddy is taking the piss, of course.

  ‘Yaroo fuck and aye, the Frenchman blows his nose on a wet crow and attishoo we all fall down in the woods today, the bears are unbearable this time of year it’s the year of the hare.’

  ‘Yes Paddy.’

  ‘Ever read The Year of the Hare, carrot-head?’

  ‘No Paddy.’

  ‘Fucking ignoramus.’

  ‘If you say so Paddy.’

  ‘It’s about a Finn who fucks off with a hare.’

  ‘Really Paddy. That’s fascinating.’

  ‘Ho fucking ho and a pint of cold jam up yer bum, where has Spock boldy gone today anyway?’

  I describe my day in a few words, since talking to a drunk is only slightly entertaining for a short while. I’ve never drunk in my life, can’t understand why so many people want to be so very tiresome on a voluntary basis.

  ‘Anyway me ole china, you’ve got a big bucketful of e-mails from that American bint and a boxful of letters from Little Bo Peep. Should keep you busy for a while. Come to think of it, have you noticed, they always land on the food if there’s one of them chef programmes on TV?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Flies – they always land on the food. Not on top of the telly, or in the corner, but always smack in the middle of the screen where the grub is. Know how they land? They’ve got little hooks on their legs and they throw themselves at the glass, hoping the hooks will catch on a tiny scratch. There’s clever, whenever I try to throw myself at windows...’

  ‘For pete’s sake, Paddy, tell me about the bloody e-mails.’

  ‘Did you know, my little ambulant carrot, that glass is quite soft really and if you held your finger against it, quite hard, not gentle like, for a few dozen years it would go right through the gla–’

  ‘For Christ’s sakes Paddy, put a bloody sock in it. I haven’t got all night.’

  ‘Ah, getting impatient are we. Hold yer horses now. Patience is a pancake. Hang on a mo. Your little lovesick transatlantic bit of fluff is desperate, she says desperate to get in touch. You’ve got to phone immediately, if not sooner. Want to take her phone number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had our first little tiff have we?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Contact is kept to a bare minimum. She has already asked me for a photograph. What does she say?’

  Paddy concentrates and pushes through the curtain of his alcoholic haze.

  He explained that Anwen Marek had got in touch with a descendant of Anna Vogel, a woman called Jo-Anne Veronski, who knew the whole story. Vogel went to America, made a fair bit of money, and then disappeared. When she was winding up the estate, Veronski found a mass of documents dealing with immigration, setting up a business, wills etcetera. She also found some letters.

  ‘Turns out these letter weren’t between Vogel and his wife Anna,’ said Paddy. ‘Seems he had a dark secret, but the family have never fathomed it out. They want to co-operate. Marek has photocopied the letters and I have them here. They were all sent by Little Bo Peep to Little Boy Blue. It’s assumed that Little Boy Blue was Vogel.’

  ‘Thanks Paddy. I’m not sure what to do now. Don’t feel like coming back yet because I want to get to Monmouth.’

  ‘Rightyho me old Captain Invincible, onwards and downwards and all that, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, what’s that about Wales and fields...’

  Someone had once told him that true Wales was never more than a field away, no matter where you were in the land. Forever cynical, Paddy responded that true Wales was always a field away. He regarded my wanderings as bordering on the insane, but he was proud of me. ‘The land won’t love you back, you know,’ he told me once. ‘You’re just a fly on a fucking big elephant, it don’t know you’re there and it don’t care a fig if you ever lived. It’s one way. A figment.’

  But I got my revenge when he went all wistful about Glastonbury Tor. He’s a great friend, bit of a Walter Mitty, tells amazing tall stories, drinks far too much – I often have to help him with the first pint, hold it for him because he’s shaking so much. But everyone likes him. He’s one of those people who can swear and cuss and blackguard people without anyone taking offence.

  And so it came to pass that on the morrow I conquered the White Castle and led my imaginary troupe of vagabonds, troubadours and pilgrims through the stubble of a newly-reaped cornfield and across the exquisitely fortified Monnow Bridge at Monmouth on a day of supercilious beauty. If life is a maze and a walk is an attempt to get out of it, I want to be caught in this Welsh maze of mine, this green labyrinth, for ever. My mind, my body and the world around me have struck a perfect chord.

  I attach a selection of the letters sent to me from America by Anwen Marek, together with the covering letter which came with them. It’s hard to make sense of it all. This is the way I read it so far: Vogel was a little boy who was treated by Dr Robert Jones. Then he went to America, where he became manager of a violin factory. He got married to Anna Vogel but then disappeared. During his time in America he received a series of letters from someone signing herself Bo Peep. And it becomes clear from those letters that Bo Peep was a little girl who had been in hospital at the same time as Vogel in the dim and distant past, when they were both children.

  The box contained 24 photocopied letters written in a neat copperplate, together with this accompanying letter:

  Dear Ms Marek,

  These are the letters I mentioned in our conversation. It’s nice to think that we may be able to throw some light, at last, on this episode in our family history. As I told you, this man Vogel left his wife Anna in the lurch, with a young child (my Mom) and a home which was far from completed. She was a resolute person and she took on her husband’s violin-making venture. She later married the manager and had two further children. Vogel disappeared without trace and was declared legally dead after the statutory period. He was never heard of again. As a family we only have a few pieces of information about him. It is said that he moved about on sticks or crutches and had a quick temper – if teased by the local children, who apparently called him Long John Silver, he became angry and threw his sticks at them. The children would then throw his sticks in the river, so he had to be helped back home by a passer-by, who often stayed for hours afterwards, and sometimes all night, listening to his music and his yarns. My mother said he was of Welsh ancestry, but came here from one of the major English cities, where his parents had gone in search of work. This Vogel was also a bit of a scruff, a drunk and a layabout, wasting away his hours playing fiddle music with his cronies in the saloon, and reciting poetry, rather than working. He always maintained that he came from a long line of Welsh bards and the small items he left behind include a framed poem in the Welsh language. Its title, we were told, means The Song of the Shepherd. Obviously, we do not know this because we do not speak the language, but I can give you the title, since I still have the poem – it is called Can y Bugail.

  I look forward to hearing from you again, and I enclose a pair of gloves which I assume to be yours – I noticed them on the hallway table after you had left. This British connection of yours sounds interesting – I would like to know why he is researching the Vogel name. Let me know as soon as you find out yourself!

  Yours in expectation,

  Jo-Anne Veronski.

  Five of the letters are reprinted below.

  LETTER 1

  Dear Boy Blue,

  I write this letter full of sadness. It seems such a long time ago since I said goodbye to you, yet it was only this morning. My last glimpse of you at Gobowen Station will stay in
my memory for ever. I feel so miserable! I don’t know where you are, or whether you will receive this letter. I will continue to write to the Post Office until you have a proper address. I hope you are in better spirits, and that your parents are well. I have some news which is likely to change my life greatly! Agnes Hunt called us into her room to tell us that a Training School is being set up in another part of the hospital. We will sleep in our own little dormitories and each of us will have a locker and a nice green coverlet on our beds. We will have our meals with the matron and the servants. We will make splints and surgical boots in a workshop. Agnes Hunt is in charge, under protest, since she feels she is too old and tired, and there is no money. But as she says, work is the best medicine for us, otherwise our treatment will have been for nothing. And we can be most useful!

  Miss Hunt looked tired and moved slowly this morning. I heard her crutch scrape on the yard outside my window just after dawn. When I asked her how she was, she shrugged her shoulders and said ‘Every night I put a wet towel on my head and try to form plans!’ How typical of her. I will do my best to help her. Our jack of all trades, the Factotum, is going to make our first surgical appliance tomorrow – from an old iron bedstead! Miss Hunt has a great plan – our Gang (pity you’re not here too!) will make all the appliances needed by the hospital, saving a considerable sum of money. It is nice to be useful after all these years of inactivity. And I get paid – isn’t that incredible! My speciality is the surgical boot, which needs a nimble pair of hands. I so miss you. Another of our Gang, Edwin, is here also and he still makes us laugh with his japes and silly antics. He got into terrible trouble yesterday – it was very hot and he came in for a drink of water to cool him down. Miss Hunt asked him to go to her room to get that carving she has on her wall, the wooden one of Christ on the Cross with his robes painted blue, but Edwin dropped it and split it. What a commotion! To make matters worse he hid it so that Miss Hunt wouldn’t see the damage. It was found the next morning under his bed!

  I hope the journey was not too terrible for you; no doubt you were forced to lie in your cabin for most of it. Did you play your violin?! Is America as vast and dangerous as they say? Have you seen any Red Indians or buffaloes? Send me your news soon!

  Miss Hunt says she has seen Buffalo Bill in Rhyl! I have picked the first snowdrops of spring and put them in a blue vase by my bedside to remind me of you leaving in the snow. Rupert is safe and well and snug as a bug under my pillow. I will kiss him goodnight every bedtime at ten, as you requested! Tonight a storm has blown in, bringing icy winds which moan around the wards. There is talk of war, all over the hospital I hear the adults whispering about it. It’s horrible. Write soon!

  With fondest regards,

  Yours &,

  Bo Peep.

  LETTER 4

  My Dear Boy Blue,

  It is Sunday and my poor dear mother has been to visit me. I was overjoyed to see her, it was her first visit for nigh on a season. She brought me some cake and sweetmeats, and a pair of woollen mittens which will be extremely useful for my work in this cold weather. The regime is much the same as on the ward – plenty of fresh air, come rain or shine, and all the doors and windows are flung open before we start. This morning snow fell on my hair – I am immediately by the window – and when it melted the water ran like a cold knife down my neck, giving me such a shock I cried out loud! Angelica’s bed was empty when we woke up. We’re too afraid to ask why. Do you remember how she used to scream and cry so terribly when they injected her? They haven’t taken away the little mirror they put above her bed so that she could see what was happening around her. I can’t get her face out of my mind. She’s like a ghost, I can still see her mass of red hair and freckles, her bent little back, and her mouth open, screaming. It’s terrible. Nosy Parker is bereft. For once I feel sorry for him. Without his sister he’s small and pathetic, not the swaggering know-all we’re so used to.

  The empty bed reminds me of that little lapwing we saw on one of the jaunts up Twmpath Lane in our beds when we were little, with the nurses pushing and teasing us. Do you remember? We had a picnic in the heather by the roadside and we must have been near a nest, because one of the birds pretended to be injured and limped about, trying to draw us away from her little home. Do you remember?

  They’re getting rid of those open-sided horse boxes we started off in, before the wards were built. How cold they were, but the germs must have thought so too because they never touched us!

  Miss Hunt has asked me to write down all my memories (I think this is a ruse to keep my fingers agile!). Today I have written about my tenth birthday, and what a lot I had to write about! It was the year we performed our first play – The Court of Oberon.

  Do you remember – I was a bat with wings made from old umbrellas! – and since it wasn’t a leap year and I would miss my birthday again, I was allowed to go with the older children to Rhyl to camp in tents on the beach. What huge fun we had watching the nigger minstrels with their banjos, and the Punch and Judy, and I rode on a donkey with Goody holding me; she told me that she and Miss Hunt went out to nurse their patients in the country on two ponies called Bacillus and Germ!

  I must end now because prayers will start soon and then it will be lights out as usual.

  I miss you so much. So does Rupert – I thought I saw a tear in his eye last night when I kissed him and hid him under the pillow to await your safe return.

  Yours etc., with fondest regards

  Bo Peep.

  LETTER 7

  My Dear Little Boy Blue,

  What a day it has been! Miss Hunt came into our dormitory in high spirits at breakfast time to tell us she had received great news – the hospital would not be used to house the injured Tommies who are beginning to return home from the first battles in France. But at 5 o’clock in the evening a telegram arrived to say that soldiers were coming on the hospital train in only a few hours! Imagine the panic as nurses ran everywhere at a gallop with sheets and blankets. The charwomen fetched out their scrubbing brushes, and I had to pack my belongings quickly since I am to be taken to a nearby farm, which may be my home for the rest of the war. I shall make a little pig of myself! Shortly before midnight there was a great commotion and we saw lamps bobbing among the trees along the drive, and we heard voices strengthen. There were 27 of them. Four on stretchers – the rest were walking wounded. They looked at the wards, completely open to the elements on one side, with disbelief but they seemed mollified when they were given plenty of blankets and hot water bottles. They have septic wounds which need careful dressing. It has brought the world to our doorstep in a sudden and frightening moment, like a gust of cold wind.

  The smell of their bandages reminds me of the operations when we were little, when there was no proper operating theatre. I have written it all down in my book of memories – how we knew when children were going to be operated on the following day because the staff took all the furniture from the dining room and took all the pictures from the walls and scrubbed everything. I still remember the smell of the instruments being boiled in the fish kettles. Then they lit candles and operated on dining room tables pulled together. But Dr Robert Jones was so kind we trusted him, somehow his eyes told us that pain was on the way, but it was unavoidable and mostly for the good.

  The children still greet Dr Jones with cheers and shouts of joy, and it is still considered a great honour to be operated on by him, rather like winning a prize! There have been no changes – the children are still allowed to choose their own supper on the evening before an operation, and they are still given special toys (like Rupert!) on the morning of the operation.

  Today my fingers are numb because I have made an extra pair of boots for little Julius the German boy, who had a hole in the sole of his right boot, the one which drags and which used to annoy you so! Jack has been made tea boy because he is strong enough to pull the urn around the workshop, and he has taken over a little room as his headquarters. When he goes into the room he kick
s the doorframe and walks in clutching his head, pretending he has struck his forehead on the lintel – which is ridiculous, since he hardly reaches the doorknob! His room has become the meeting place for all the Welsh children on the ward, who gather there like swallows waiting to return home in the autumn.

  Lights out in a moment – I will continue in the morning.

  LETTER 7 (CONTINUED)

  Dear Little Boy Blue,

  An eventful night – but I slept through it all. One of the soldiers ran away and was found in a public house at Burlton, hiding in a heap of malt. He was taken to Shrewsbury jail under escort. We are now marking out our new territory in the farm buildings. We are to rent an adjoining field for chickens, and Jack and I will be allowed to collect the eggs. Jack says he will help me along when my limbs get tired and naughty and won’t listen to orders! Jack, Nosy Parker and some of the other children will help out in the garden also, so that we have sufficient fresh vegetables. We have a small well and the Factotum has to spend three hours every day getting enough water for all of us; since we cannot have baths we make do with bowls of tepid water and a flannel!

  This afternoon Miss Hunt ordered the Factotum to harness Bobby and hitch her to the wagonette, which was stuffed full of children and we went on a great quest, calling on the well-to-do people of the area. One of the families was very rich and they lived in a big house on an island, with a moat right round it, and it had its own little bridge over the water! They gave us little presents of clothes they could spare and toffee etc. It was so enjoyable travelling up and down the country lanes. I could see a ribbon of grass with buttercups and daisies passing underneath me, through gaps in the planking. We crossed a big hump-backed bridge and some of the children were so scared they cried and I had to comfort them. We stopped at the inn so that Bobby could have a drink. You know the place – it has red flowers in the window, and a nurse carried you inside it one day, I think you had a fainting fit during an outing in your bed.

  Diphtheria has broken out and some of the children have been removed to tents on the other side of the farm. Five large marquee tents, sent by the War Office, have been put up in a field to take more soldiers. All is hustle and bustle wherever you go. Miss Hunt is adamant that our routine will not change and we still have school lessons outside on our beds in the morning. Sometimes it’s so cold the nurses have to wear gloves when they’re making our beds! Miss Hunt discovered Jack’s little lair and ticked him off, but allowed him to continue. She said it reminded her of an incident when she was a district nurse. A local lady allowed Miss Hunt to hold a clinic in her home every month, but one day the husband, who didn’t like cripples, came home suddenly and found his drawing room crammed with between thirty and forty children! He was very grumpy about it but he didn’t throw them out.