by Miles Hadley
Gary had heard the song. ‘Nutter,’ he muttered under his breath, his grin getting broader.
Gary was now beginning to feel part of something. He was becoming absorbed once more in the narrative of the wildly gesticulating Bollard, whose voice soared through their nation’s past. All around; it was all around him. Those speeches that Bollard seemed to know off by heart. Those dates. Those battles. Those heroes and heroines, those statesmen and women. Those fellow Brits. It was as if these people were there right next to him, sometimes whispering their speeches, their quotes, into his ears.
Gary wanted to shut his eyes, to see them all in a clearer light. Like when he had pretended to be asleep on old Bollard’s couch. Yet, he would not, for he did not want to be seen to have been carried away by the narrative, especially there on a busy London street.
He did feel a bit self-conscious at times. What must the passers-by be thinking? he thought. Somebody they probably saw as a chav, being guided by a mad old man. He wished he had some different clothes. All of a sudden, Gary felt that it was not Bollard who was the visual misfit, but him. He studied Bollard’s clothes as the old man spoke. He wore posh brown shoes with little holes in them and corduroy trousers, a battered tweed jacket, a scarf and a flat cap. Fucking toff, Gary thought to himself, smiling.
Some Chinese tourists came up to them, thinking that Bollard was a proper tour guide. Bollard politely told them that it was a private tour. Gary and Bollard looked at each other and chuckled as the Chinese tourists left. It was like the moment with the orange squash bottle. It was the absurdity of the situation that was funny and they both gave a chuckle again.
‘You could be a tour guide, you know,’ Gary laughed.
‘Young man,’ relied Bollard. ‘My good lady wife would not like that! She’d get jealous if I was away too long. That reminds me – time for elevenses. Let’s find a place to have a quick cuppa. Then I’ll continue.’
After Gary and Bollard had their cups of tea in a nearby café, Bollard led him to Westminster Abbey. They looked at the entry prices.
‘That’s a bit dear for a dear old Abbey,’ Bollard said. ‘Talk about “we’re all in it together”!’
‘I’m sorry I can’t afford it,’ said Gary.
‘Nonsense, dear boy,’ said Bollard. ‘I’ll pay. It’s worth it, just to get that spirit, that feel of so many of our greats. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. Last time was with the lady wife.’
Gary was impressed by the grandeur of the building. Bollard led him into the Nave.
‘See that, young man? That is the throne upon which all of our monarchs are coronated! It dates from the reign of Edward I, the king who conquered Scotland and Wales. His nickname was Longshanks because he was a very tall and domineering chap. Of course, the term shanks means legs, so he was effectively the Daddy Longlegs of English Medievalism! It was during his reign that the Welsh were so suppressed that English feudalism was imposed upon them through sheer military might. If you go to Wales, you will find that many of its towns are dominated by huge castles that were built in Edward’s reign. In the town of Caernarvon, there is a huge castle where the Princes of Wales, the heirs to the UK, are crowned. Can you tell me who the current Prince of Wales is?’
Gary thought for a moment. ‘It’s old Charlie boy, isn’t it?’
Bollard smiled at him. ‘Ha ha! By Charlie boy, you do mean Prince Charles, don’t you?’
‘Princess Di’s husband?’
‘That’s right! The lady they called “the People’s Princess”.’
They walked a few steps further.
‘Now, beneath the throne,’ continued Bollard, ‘there is a gap where something used to be. Can you tell me what it was?’
‘No,’ replied Gary.
‘It was the ancient Stone of Scone, used for so many of the Scottish kings’ coronations. It was brought down and placed beneath the King of England’s seat, to demonstrate their over-lordship of Scotland. But do you know what happened to it?’
Gary shook his head.
‘In 1950, some Scottish students sneaked down to London and stole the stone! It was all terribly funny. Then the police searched for it and had to bring it back down from Scotland. Then, in the 1990s – now here’s the funny thing – it was taken back up to Scotland on the orders of the British Government!’
‘What? All that over a stone? Sounds flipping barmy to me!’ said Gary.
‘Young man, it might sound barmy to you,’ replied Bollard, ‘but not when you think of all the history associated with that stone. All that symbolism, all those Kings and Queens of Scotland through the centuries. It’s actually rather important to the people “Up north”, you see.’
Bollard chuckled as his eyes looked up. He pointed to the throne again. ‘So that’s where our monarch sat in the last coronation to be crowned – Elizabeth II. What a ceremony it was! Televisions were rarely owned and I remember going to my neighbours to watch it, along with half the street! We crammed into their living room and, young man, what an occasion it was! Parry’s words rang out from the choir, “Vivat Regina!”’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Gary.
‘That, young man, is Latin for “Long live the Queen”. And she does seem to be living for rather a long time. Poor Prince of Wales! Who knows! Perhaps he’ll never be King Charles III!’
‘You told me lots about Charles I. Tell me more about Charles II,’ said Gary.
‘Charles II, young man, was the son of Charles I. He fled to the continent. Then, once the Cromwellian protectorate ended, he came back and brought what is termed “The Restoration”. He was quite a colourful king. He had several mistresses and tried to sponsor science and the arts through new royal societies, some of which still survive today.’
Gary looked to where Bollard was pointing. ‘Take a look over there, young man! It’s Poets’ Corner! That is where our literary greats are remembered! So important, young man, when you consider that English is so widely spoken. All of the greatest rappers of the age were there. Some wrote poems about love, others about noble causes. Over here, we have monuments to Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wilde, Dickens, the war poets, Ted Hughes – perhaps you will read their works before long! By the way, how is your reading coming along?’
‘S’all right,’ said Gary, shrugging his shoulders.
He received a stern look from Bollard. ‘Young man, I very much hope so. If you are to achieve your ambitions, you are going to have to read rather a lot!’
Gary smiled. ‘I’ve finished Little Arthur’s History of England.’
‘Well, that’s a start!’ replied Bollard. ‘Christine will be pleased! Gosh, how that brings me back to my childhood! My parents nearly called me Arthur, you know – my grandfather’s name. But do take some of what Maria Callcott says with a pinch of salt! Bear in mind she was a very biased writer of her age – the Victorian age. Nevertheless, she gives a good basic overview of the kings and queens.’
Gary and Bollard walked on until they were close to the alter.
‘I haven’t seen that floor before!’ Bollard exclaimed excitedly. ‘They’ve restored it! Look at it! The Cosmati stones! Depicting the universe, would you believe it! They depicted the planets in spherical form back in the 1300s. Today, alas, there are still idiots who claim the world is flat!’
Gary laughed.
‘Trafalgar Square next,’ said Bollard.
On their way to Trafalgar Square, Bollard could not stop talking and gesticulating wildly with his hands.
‘Look at this place!’ he said. ‘Oh, how I could go on, young man! I see it all! It’s all around us! I breathe it all! And yet, do you know what? The average Joe, they just walk oblivious to it all! Oblivious! Such a travesty! A tragedy! They forsake it! For what? The present moment, and they miss out on something! Our collective history – so precious that I cannot fathom how we all seem to throw it a
way! We forget what our Greats were about! They weren’t just about money, their egos, their possessions! They were about achieving mastery through higher ideals, like service to the country and forging legacies! See over there?’
Bollard pointed. ‘Nelson’s column! On the top is Admiral Lord Nelson, who rose from the humble rank of Midshipman to mastermind sea battle after sea battle! Do you know what he had semaphored, after a marksman had picked him off in the Battle of Trafalgar?’
Gary shook his head, but Bollard didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It was not something like “buy this or buy that”, or “pay me money”. It was something unselfish – something with gravitas! You can read it around the column – go on.’
Gary did so. He walked around Nelson’s column and read the words, ‘England expects that every man shall do his duty’.
Gary watched Bollard gesticulate even more wildly. ‘His dying words were “Thank god I have done my duty”. Do you understand, young man? That was the mentality of the age! We so often take such things for granted. But there, you see – the Admiral, who was once Midshipman, has his very own statue and column. This square is even named after the battle that he won!’
Gary looked around at all the tourists, the performance artists, the red buses and taxis.
Bollard carried on. ‘A square, where servicemen and women kissed their lovers once the Second World War was over. And why? Because they were thankful that they had been liberated from the evils of the Nazis and their concentration camps, where millions of Jews, homosexuals, gypsies and mentally ill perished. Why? Because, in the Nazis’ eyes, they did not fit the perfect Aryan description. All that racialism that had evolved culminated in a nasty little man with a moustache dictating – dictating evil!’
Gary listened in silence, caught up in Bollard’s words.
‘Do you know how we combated that evil?’ continued Bollard. ‘We turned to our history! It was no coincidence that Churchill was a keen historian! He knew all about evil dictators! He had studied his ancestor, the Duke of Marlborough, who had dealt with the autocracy and intolerance of the dictatorial French Sun King. La Roi Soleil! Read David Starkey, young man! He correctly points out that Churchill was more prepared than any other leader through his knowledge of history to deal with European dictators!’
Gary nodded.
‘Young man, it’s not just our home-grown greats. For centuries, we have not just been an island, but a symbolic life raft for people the world over to flee hatred and persecution. That life raft still floats, and every time hatred and bigotry rears its ugly head amongst our own, we sink beneath the greatness that was buoyed by our ancestors’ deeds. Yes, they were wrong at times, but when we were right, our life raft skipped across the stormy seas of evil and was seen the world over! “Freedom” it cried! Sweet tolerance! All driven by higher ideals that we are fast losing! Tolerance and love! Yes, we profiteered and exploited, but all the while there was a belief in something.
‘Government was trusted. It did not fear its population like today, when we have more cameras on the streets per square mile than any other nation. So Orwellian, young man! I blame Thatcher! At first I supported her. Yes, that’s right. I wanted more economic freedom. But what happened? Things were so dastardly deregulated that we succumbed to the destruction of a very important thing – society based on mutual trust. Now what do we have? Individualism so rampant that it’s no longer about the higher ideals of service like Nelson or Churchill, but simply “What’s in it for me? How can I make a fast buck?” Not “How can I help so and so?”, but “How can I screw over so and so as my economic competitor”! Not as a fellow human being with emotions, but as a mere economic unit.’
They continued strolling around Trafalgar Square. Gary looked around him, taking in the London sights, while still listening to Bollard.
‘We have been reduced, young man! Reduced not to stand on the shoulders of giants as it says on our coins, but to merely kneel to those coins that we now hold so dear. Ah coinage! The source of so much evil! So much division! Look at us, young man! We can barely afford to come here! But, so long as we may be bereft of money, we can still enrich our minds with history! History! Young man, know it, love it, breathe it! For the more you do so, the more eloquent, full of character and wise you will become, until you are the richest man in the world!’
27
‘But Poll, it will be wonderful. You and I... alone in the wilds of Africa.’
‘Well... it does sound rather romantic, Arch, but I’m torn. Part of me wants to go, but the other is reluctant to take part in the continued post-colonial narrative of white-controlled theme parks.’
‘But Poll. Don’t be silly! A game reserve isn’t a theme park! It’s the real McCoy! Wild animals, tribespeople. What the hell are they feeding you at Cambridge?’
‘...and wealthy white owners touting it all to wealthy white tourists.’
‘Poll. You think too much about these things! If you carry on thinking like this, you’ll never do anything! Poll, I so want you to come with me. Besides, you did say that you’ve always wanted to go to Africa. It will be great for taking photographs. Might even take some shots for my portfolio – Poll? What’s the matter? We’re privileged! So what! We shouldn’t feel guilt over doing such things. It’s so...’
Archie heard Polly laugh down the phone, followed by a short snort.
‘Oh, all right, Mr Hodgkin-Smith,’ she said. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Well, I’d like us to go to Tanzania,’ replied Archie. ‘The Hursden-Fowlers? I mentioned them before? They own a reserve and it’s got everything. Big game. Even proper Chagga tribespeople. I don’t mean the ones who dress up every now and then for the tourists. I mean real ones.’
‘Archie! Please! You’re putting them at the same level as the big game!’
‘Polly!’ said Archie, as if he was warning Bella or Smidgeon to behave themselves. ‘What was I just saying?’
Archie could hear a silence before he heard a laugh and a snort. ‘But really, Archie.’
‘Polly,’ he said again warningly.
‘Oh, all right, you win,’ said Polly. ‘My mind is made up. We’re going to Africa. But seriously, Archie, get with the times. Much as I love you, I am rather liberal.’
‘Oh, liberal smiberal,’ replied Archie. ‘If we carried on being so liberal, we would just let our entire culture go to the dogs! We can’t just adapt to suit everyone else’s agenda.’
‘I like to think in terms of there is no one “else”,’ said Polly.
‘Polly. Seriously? If you carry on like that, your family will end up in shit alley and you know it!’
‘I can’t help being an idealist.’
‘Polly, there are idealists and realists. I subscribe to the latter camp.’
Archie was surprised to hear Polly snap. ‘Well, fine! Maybe we should agree to differ, then. Sod Africa. Sod going to see your quaint Chagga tribespeople. Truth be told, I’ve got a lot of essays coming up and I’m rather stressed.’
‘Oh, really?’ Archie said sarcastically. ‘Any more Virginia Woolf follow-ups? Next you’ll be telling me you have a pin-up of Germaine Greer in your bedroom.’
His phone went silent after that. ‘Polly? Polly? Don’t be such a dumb bitch... Oh, she’s fucking hung up on me.’
Archie began to feel quite panicky. He suddenly felt a tear well up in his eye. ‘Maybe she doesn’t love me. Oh, shit, what have I done?’
He immediately dialled her number again, but was put through to her answerphone.
‘Polly. Look. Listen. I’m so sorry. I spoke out of turn – went too far. Look, Polly, please call me. I love you.’
Afterwards, Archie thought about what he had said. ‘Oh shit,’ he muttered. ‘That sounded wrong.’
He called her number again. Once again, it was the answerphone service. ‘I really mean it when I say I love you. Polly...
please.’
A minute later, Archie got a text message from Henry. Fancy a drink at Morrelli’s tomorrow evening?
‘Oh, fuck off, you fucking fag!’ Archie yelled at his phone. He threw it on his great Jacobean oak bed. He then threw himself on his bed and yelled ‘Fucking shit! Shit! Shit!’
He thumped his pillow with his fists, pounding the eiderdown feathers into the air for all their floating worth. He needed air. To breathe. Fresh air. His anger propelled him off his bed and he stormed out, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
He thumped down the great oak staircase, past the imperious stares and glares of his ancestors. Then down, down into the kitchen. His cosy, comforting haven. The ancient Aga was giving off perpetual heat. Smidgeon and Bella were there, curled up in their dog baskets. They each opened up an eye and thwack, thwack, thwacked their tails. Bigsy, the cat, came to be stroked.
He looked at them. Somehow, their harmless innocent stares calmed him right down and he could not help but yield to their expectant, wide eyes.
‘All right then,’ he sighed sadly. ‘At least you don’t give me liberal crap. Walkies!’
For days he did not hear from her. Archie bombarded Polly’s Cambridge flat with bouquet after bouquet of expensive flowers. They were sent from a florist shop on the King’s Road that Henry had recommended. When he felt that these were not enough, he went to the gardens at Risely and ordered the doddery old gardener to pluck the best flowers that he could find. Archie had them delivered to Cambridge as well.
He had not written a poem since childhood, but decided to take the risk. A love poem was not his thing, but he was desperate. Desperate to be back with her. The poem went as follows:
* * *
I have only eyes for you
I look at no one other