her kind blue eyes. Her big blonde face looked washed out, pale.
“How old are you, Lally?” he asked.
Twenty-five, going on twenty-six, but . but I know I look older. “
She smiled pathetically.
“I’ve just got to look in the glass an’ I know I look older.... It’s the misses you see, miscarriages,” she explained to him in a whisper, and he nodded at her as he thought. And Briggs’s fist to help things along.
Tunny about names, you know. I bet you don’t believe me’—she was leaning across the little table towards him Taut I don’t know yours, honest, honest I don’t.
You don’t? “
“No. No, not your first name. Sometimes I’ve listened to try and catch it, well you know when, when your wife’s’.... She lowered her head and shook it from side to side, then she raised it and, looking at him, finished quietly, “ We all go on at times, but I could never catch it. “
His own face was soft now as he gazed back at her. She had listened trying to catch his name while Betty was going for him. But if she had read the court report she would have known.
“It’s Jimmy.”
“Jim-my! jimmy! No.”
Yes. What’s wrong with Jimmy! “ He drew himself up in mock indignation.
Well! “ Her full bust wobbled as she tossed herself from side to side.
“Jimmy! Aw now’—she put out her hand, her face serious—” no offence meant, but Jimmy! anybody could be called Jimmy. Jimmy. well, it’s ordinary. “
“I’m ordinary.”
“No, no, Mr....” She laughed again, then went on softly, “No, you’re not ordinary.”
They were gazing at each other silently when the barman came in and asked for their order.
After a while he said, “What are you going to do now?”
“Oh, just carry on. I’m goin’ back to me job. The doctor says I shouldn’t for a few weeks, I’ve got debility, but I get
fed up in the house. The days are long, and you can’t keep cleanin’ all the time, can you? “
Don’t mind me asking,” he said, ‘but how are you off?”
“Oh, I’m all right.” She looked at him without speaking for a moment “It’s nice of you to ask. But shortly I’ll be better off than ever I’ve been in me life, they’re going to give me com pen for Albert. And then’—her chin flopped on to her chest and her body shook with silent laughter before she raised her head slowly and looked at him from under her eyelids “ I can go daft again. I go daft when I have money you know. I just want to go out and buy and buy. Not that you can buy much now; but it’s like a craze I just want to spend. I don’t want to buy things for myself so much, you know, but I like buyin’ presents, givin’ things. “
She was one big present Just being herself she was one big present. He wanted to stretch out his aims and pull her into him, feel the bigness, the softness, the warm ness of her.
As they had walked home through the black-out he had kept a distance from her, not letting his arm touch hers.
When they entered the lobby Betty was at the door and at the sight of him she turned her back and marched into the house, and as he followed her he said, “I met her at the corner of the street.”
You’re a damned liar! “
“All right, I’m a damned liar.”
Do you know what you are? “
What am I? “ He began taking his clothes off.
“You’re a bloody fool. People are talking, they’re laughing. Mam says they’re laughing about the school teacher being seen with a woman like her, Doo-lally-tap! But if you want my opinion there’s not much to choose between you. There’s a couple of you, both doo-lally-taps. But let me tell you, you’re not going to show me up. I’m wa ming you now, if you don’t stop seeing her I’ll....”
“Yes, Betty?” His voice was quiet, ordinary.
“Oh!” She gripped the rolling pin that was lying to the side of the draining board, and he said, still quietly, “I’ve warned
you, Betty, never to throw anything; the repercussions might be surprising. “
That was last Thursday, over a week ago, and every night since she had been at him, and he had seen neither hilt nor hair of Lally. She hadn’t been in the pub this Thursday, so he guessed she couldn’t be well. He had nobody of whom he could inquire and so had been tempted to knock on the door and find out what was wrong with her. But on six of the seven nights he had arrived home from school he had found his mother already in the house. The bone of her contention and her main topic now, as it had been for months, was the fact that Alee and Mary were together.
“Shame to waste two houses on them!” she said in one breath, and in another, “That bitch has just taken him in to spite me further.”
His mind became like a battlefield, his principal enemies being Betty and his mother, but their reinforcements were many and came in the shape of the Headmaster who sent for him at least once a week about some petty misdemeanour, some members of the Common Room, and on the fringe of them, arrayed in all their young armour, the boys, nerveracking, bloody, although he told himself he shouldn’t hold anything against the kids. Except one or two like Crock—ford. And Crockford, that young swine! had better look out, he was getting under his skin.
It was Friday afternoon again. The exercise for this after noon had been an essay, the subject to be chosen from past School Certificate papers, or alternatively, a poem.
As he said, “Well, Youlden; let’s hear it, your epic,” he thought to himself. Five past three, just another hour.
Today, more than ever, each individual nerve in his body had a frayed end, each seemed to be rubbing against the skin causing him to twitch.
Twice when his neck jerked upwards out of his collar he had drawn the eyes of some of the boys towards him. Little Felton had looked at him with some concern, and Burrows had stared at him so long that he had indicated with a pointing finger that he continue with his work.
His head was muzzy, he felt tired. He had been fire-watching till late, and then, when he had got to bed, he hadn’t closed his eyes until five o’clock this morning. When the alarm went he couldn’t believe he had to get up. He hated getting up in the morning, for the torment would start again.
He wished he could unburden himself, really unburden himself to Mary, tell her about Lally and how he felt, but he knew that he was afraid of the look he would see on her face because, at one time, he had laughed about Lally; like everybody else he had made game of her. And anyway, Mary had her hands full at present. She seemed changed since Ben had gone. Naturally, she would be; but she was making life harder for herself. Cousin Annie had played up since Mary’s rethinking on the ration business. And then there was his da, gliding like a lost soul about the house, wanting to be helpful, yet only succeeding in being ineffectual in whatever he did.
That’s very good, Youlden, but you’ve put the cart before the horse.
You’ve described the air raid, then you go on to tell us of the people’s feelings in the shelter before the air raid in a series of flash backs. That technique would work very well in a novel but it only complicates matters in this short essay. It is out of place with this commonplace, and I’m not using that word literally, subject. This subject requires straightforward treatment for its strength. You see what I mean? “
Tes, sir. “
“Nevertheless, it’s very good. You have got feeling into it ... You, Riley.”
Crockford’s eyes were tight on him; he had a number of papers on his desk which spoke of some erudite exposition. He was willing him to say, “And you, Crockford.”
Riley said, “I wasn’t able to, sir.”
“Why?”
The boy hung his head for a moment, then muttered, “We’ve had... to...”
“All right, all right.” He didn’t want to drag Riley’s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any ma
n in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.
He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton< Telton! “
Yes, sir. “
Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.”
‘you have? “
Yes, sir. “
There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”
Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”
“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.”
Yes, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:
“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed^ Capped;
This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, “ With hands in pockets... *
The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at himn ;|[ and he went on:
“Why do the men Walk so?
Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “
Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:
“Was it as hairns, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?
“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”
There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.”
You have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry. Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless. You used the word observation.
Poetry is
“All right, all right.” He didn’t want to drag Riley’s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any man in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.
He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton< “Felton!”
“Yes, sir.”
Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.”
You have? “
Yes, sir. “
There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”
Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”
“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.”
Ves, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:
“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed^ Capped;
This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, ;
—? “ With hands in pockets... *
The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at hiniji and he went on:
“Why do the men Walk so?
Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “
Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:
“Was it as baims, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?
“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”
There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.”
‘you have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry. Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless. You used the word observation.
Poetry is
““ All right, all right. “ He didn’t want to drag Rile/s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any man in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.
He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton, “Felton!”
“Yes, sir.”
Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.”
You have? “
Yes, sir. “
There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”
Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”
“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.”
Yes, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:
“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed, Capped;
This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, With hands in pockets. ‘
The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at him, and he went on:
“Why do the men Walk so?
Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “
Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:
“Was it as baims, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?
“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”
There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.”
You have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry. Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless. You used the word observation.
Poetry is
observation, Felton; observation put in a crucible and the essence that is drained from it is a something we can only describe as poetry.
I myself strive to put into words my observation but the resulting essence is, unfortunately, not poetry; but you, boy, have been given some essence; nurture it. “
Little Felton’s face was red with pleasure, his head wagged self-consciously once or twice, then he sat down.
Somehow Jimmy was reminded in this moment of his grandfather. His gran da had written poetry and he hadn’t one piece to remember him by;
the essence, and the result, which he had kept in two boot boxes had been blown to bits. Why hadn’t he talked to him years ago about poetry? Well, taking his cue from his da, he hadn’t thought much of it. There had been an excuse for his da because he’d had no foundation on which to stand and judge, but he himself should have recognized something, that special something in his gran da And he had done just before the end. O
ne night he and the old man had got talking and the decades between them had melted away. For a brief moment they had recognized in each other the meaning of truth, and he had known that what he possessed had come from this dauntless man. He remembered vividly one line he said; “Waste is the essence; what we use today is the waste of yesterday. A simple lump of coal is the essence of rotting trees.” He had known all about the process, as every schoolboy did, whereby coal came into being, but he had never thought to put it into poetic language.
“Waste is the essence.”
Crockford’s eyes, like a magnet, were drawing his now. Crockford, he was like a thorn in his flesh. He had mentioned him yesterday to Melton who took history. There was a Crockford in every class. Melton said, in fact he had two of them. He said at times he hoped the war would go on long enough so that his two would be called up, then blown up. He laughed as he said it, although there was in him, as in him self with regard to Crockford, the germ of desire that this could come about.
The classroom door opened and a boy came in. When he came up to the desk Jimmy said, “Well?” and the boy said, “Can I get the file, sir, the form file for Mr. Smith?”
Jimmy looked at him. It wasn’t only that he had to have a target to take his mind off Crockford for the moment, it was this business of grammar. How often had he rammed it home and to this very boy. He turned a cold eye on him, “What did you say?”
“Can I get the file, sir, for Mr....”
“What did you say? Your name is Beechwood, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy was looking surly now.
Well what did you say, Beechwood? “
Beechwood glanced at the class. Most of the faces were bright, expectant, they were in for a bit of fun. They knew what Lanky Walton was after, they’d all had it. Beechwood should have been prepared.
“Say it again.”
“Can I... have... the... ledger?”
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