‘OK.’ Stella flung a teabag into a mug. ‘But I think I ought to warn you that Harriet’s still pissed off about the whole idea of soup.’
‘I know. But then she dislikes the group, full-stop. It just happens to be working, though, whatever she might think. The numbers are up every week, and hot soup helps to bring the punters in.’
‘Yes, but she’s worried that books will get nicked by what she calls “undesirables”.’
He bristled in annoyance. ‘What Harriet fails to understand is that there’s only a thin line between so-called normal people and those who end up sectioned, or in prison, or on crack-cocaine or whatever. All it needs is enough bad luck, or some unhappy twist of fate. Just because she’s been cushioned all her life, she—’
‘We’ve no evidence for that, Eric. She never gives a thing away. And, actually, I suspect it’s more a fear thing. People with mental-health problems probably make her feel vulnerable or threatened.’
‘I’m sorry, that won’t wash. It’s her job to do away with stigma, not contribute to it.’
‘She’s not likely to change, at her age. Anyway, just bear in mind she’s been complaining to Trevor – she told me so herself.’
‘Well, she would do, wouldn’t she? As the boss, he’s bound to back her up.’ Thank God, he thought, he was no longer a manager. He’d detested the whole headache of financial planning, cost-benefit analysis, performance indicators, health and safety issues, dictates from the council – all that endless stuff that kept him away from actual books and readers. And, as for sorting out spats between staff, it invariably left him both guilty and embarrassed. OK, he’d had to accept demotion and a cut in salary, but being free to do the work he wanted was well worth the disadvantages.
‘The trouble with Harriet’ – he lowered his voice to a whisper, although, in fact, they had the staffroom to themselves – ‘is that she’s so set in her ways, she opposes any innovation, on principle. Everything’s been a threat to her – videos, DVDs, computers, Baby Rhyme-Time, whatever – and you can bet your bottom dollar she’ll be agin the next thing, regardless of what it is. And, anyway, she’s so close to retirement, I suspect she simply wants an easy life. She’d probably prefer it we didn’t open the doors at all – kept the books in and the public out!’
‘She does have a point, though, about use of council funds.’
‘The soup’s sponsored – I told her. Waitrose foot the bill. And if she has any more complaints about the shopping or the washing-up, it’s me that does both those, as she damned well knows, in fact.’
‘It’s not the soup as such. She says you’re using up resources on lame ducks, who do little for the issue figures, when you should be—’
‘Stella, I don’t need Harriet to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be doing. And they’re not lame ducks. We’re attracting people we’ve never reached before.’
‘That’s the trouble, though, as far as she’s concerned. She says we’re meant to be librarians, not social workers or psychiatrists.’
‘The two things go together – reading as therapy. Hell, she must know that by now – with all those “Books on Prescription” schemes and a load of other groups nationally. One of my little lot has actually decided to come off Prozac, and just because of the sessions. And she called them “a shaft of light in a dark cavern”, which I thought was rather poetic.’
Stella dunked a biscuit into her tea. ‘Eric, I’m on your side – you know that. But let’s forget libraries for a sec. We need to talk about the dating thing.’
He hid his face in his hands. ‘Haven’t time,’ he groaned.
‘How about a quick drink after work, then? Are you free this evening?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. No queue of leggy blondes fighting for the privilege of taking me to bed!’
‘Well, all the more reason to put that right. See you in the Dog and Duck at six, OK?’
‘OK, and thanks a million for doing the soup. Just heat it in the microwave, in batches, and bring it in at quarter to one.’
As he left, he glanced back at the staffroom: tatty lino, shabby chairs, no proper storage space. Toilet-rolls were heaped up in one corner; a pile of battered box-files in another. It all came back to lack of funds, of course. With more resources, he could work minor miracles; not with carpeting and cupboards – they were inessentials – but with every ‘undesirable’ and ‘lame duck’ in the borough.
‘My own heart let me have more pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind….’
He glanced around the circle of faces, trying to judge their reaction. It was definitely a risk engaging with a poet as difficult as Hopkins, when some of the group hadn’t opened a book since leaving school. But his own experience as an undereducated lad had taught him that, even if you didn’t grasp the meaning of the words, the spirit of a poem could still seep into your soul. He refused to accept that great literature should be the preserve of a small cultured elite, instead of open to all and sundry.
‘Well,’ he asked, once Alice had read the second verse, stumbling over the challenging last lines. Incredible that she was reading it at all, when, a month ago, she had sat in silence throughout the sessions, literally shaking with nerves. ‘What did you all think of that?’
‘Couldn’t understand a word!’ Graham protested, shaking his bald head.
‘Too downbeat for me,’ Marjorie put in. ‘We need cheering up, not made to feel worse still.’
‘You’ve missed the whole point,’ Barry countered. ‘The bloke who wrote that is trying to cheer himself up, deciding to be kinder to himself. There’s a lesson there for all of us.’
‘I agree,’ said Rita. ‘He’s saying we should have pity on ourselves, and I, for one, approve of that.’
‘But I don’t get the bit about thirst. What he’s on about?’
Eric took the words apart and tried to fit them back together in a simpler, more immediate way. ‘The language is difficult – for me as much as you. I’m not always sure what it means myself, but that’s OK. We’re learning as we go along. Hopkins has been called “obscure”, so we shouldn’t expect to grasp it all immediately.’
‘So why choose an obscure poet?’ Graham demanded, rocking back on his chair.
Eric took his time replying. He’d deliberately avoided self-help books, despite the fact that many of the members were suffering from depression and the like. So-called ‘prescription literature’ only told sufferers more about their pain, whereas poetry could transcend it; endow it with depth and meaning. He had proved that in his own case – although he could hardly explain in this particular setting that Gerard Manley Hopkins had helped him through his divorce. During those grim months, he had often lain sleepless, repeating, ‘O, what black hours we have spent this night … I am gall, I am heartburn’, and all the other desolate stuff he’d soon come to know by heart. To read of someone else’s anguish, depicted in astounding words, had been weirdly comforting; made him feel less isolated; less alone with grief.
‘Because Hopkins is deeply passionate,’ he replied, at last, to Graham, ‘and cares about the important things in life. And he’s a true original. His style is so strange, it shakes you up. And if you want to know why poetry rather than prose, well, sometimes just the rhyme and rhythm can induce a sense of calmness.’
‘Yes, I find poems helpful,’ Warren declared. ‘And I like the way they mean something they’re not saying.’
An astute comment, Eric thought, from a guy who claimed never to have read anything except the backs of sauce bottles.
‘The first poem was easier, though,’ Marjorie observed. ‘The one that Graham read.’
‘Pied Beauty?
‘Yes, the words were really beautiful. In fact, I’d like to hear it again.’
‘Well, we do have time, before we break for our soup, if the rest of you don’t mind?’
Several people nodded their agreement, althou
gh anorexic Lee looked highly nervous, as usual, at the mention of the soup. She especially hated the buttered rolls and, while the others were eating, sometimes felt compelled to leave the room.
‘Hannah, would you like to read it for us this time?’ Another risk, since Hannah had a speech-impediment, as part of her cerebral palsy. But it gave her enormous pleasure to read aloud and have people actually listen – something unknown in her daily life. And, anyway, since everyone had copies of the poem, they could follow it for themselves, even if they couldn’t quite decipher her distorted words.
In the brief silence after she’d finished, Sue cleared her throat, shuffled her feet, and suddenly said in an embarrassed tone, ‘I wish I’d known about that poem all the time I was in Springfield. I’m sure it would have been a comfort.’
All eyes turned to her. Sue had not contributed a word, as yet, to any conversation or discussion, nor revealed a single fact about herself, yet here she was admitting to a stay in the local psychiatric hospital.
‘And the other poem even more so. I mean, just to realize it’s OK to feel such huge despair. You say Hopkins was a priest, yet he still comes very close to losing hope.’
All at once, several people started talking – Rita chipping in about her own spell in a mental ward; Graham remarking that religion couldn’t always help and sometimes made things worse; Barry letting out that his shrink had been worse than useless and they had almost come to blows.
Eric watched as Warren, with his ear-stud and tattoos, leaned across to comfort Rita, in her tweeds and sensible shoes. It gave him a sense of achievement that this disparate group were confiding in each other; beginning to forge bonds. On paper, it shouldn’t work – too big a difference in background, age and social class, yet they were actually sharing secrets, opening up, finding confidence to express opinions, when, at the start, they’d been tongue-tied, wary, highly nervous and mutually suspicious. Meeting in this small upstairs room, away from the main library, was definitely a plus-point, in that it afforded privacy to speak one’s mind, and encouraged a certain intimacy, since they were all sitting round the table, like one big family – not a happy family, perhaps, but at least communicating.
He could do with some help, of course; needed to recruit a volunteer, to assist him once the project took off. And he was determined that it should succeed. He was aiming for higher numbers altogether; wanted more men in the group and more from ethnic minorities. And he planned to invite a poet along, to talk to them about producing their own poetry, and maybe set up a separate Creative Writing group, as well as develop his new idea of music therapy.
It would all take more funds, of course – funds they didn’t have – demand energy on his part, but just give him time and he’d damned well make it work.
chapter three
‘I thought we said six,’ Stella tapped her watch in disapproval. ‘I was just about to give you up.’
Eric plonked himself down on the faded red-plush banquette. ‘Sorry, really sorry. Trevor kept me – I just couldn’t get away.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Well, to tell the truth, he gave me a bit of a bollocking – you know, how I mustn’t let my ideals run away with me. And how my attitude to Harriet leaves a lot to be desired. Well, what about her attitude to me?’
‘Poor Eric! Let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, I’ll buy you one. It’s the least I can do, after keeping you waiting.’
He fought his way to the bar, annoyed that all his earlier elation should have been punctured like a balloon. This afternoon he’d been flying high, ready to let go of any controlling string, so that he could soar up to the stratosphere, yet now he’d been reduced to a few shrivelled scraps of rubber. And the season didn’t help. Just eighteen days to go till the Big Day of hype and hypocrisy, and every shop and restaurant and public place was trumpeting the fact full-force; this pub no exception. Normally, he loved the Dog and Duck; a cosy refuge within minutes of the library; what he didn’t like was its ersatz Christmas overlay. The oak beams were wreathed in tinsel, sprigs of plastic holly blighted every table, and the bewhiskered barman (a Father-Christmas lookalike) sported a Santa cap. Even at home he couldn’t escape; the dreaded C-word cropping up with depressing regularity every time he turned on the TV. Last Christmas had been bad enough, but at least his wife and child had been around.
‘Cheers!’ said Stella, raising her glass of vodka and Coke.
‘Cheers,’ he muttered morosely, feeling anything but cheerful amidst the aggravation of canned carols tinkling from the sound-system.
‘Now, listen, Eric, we’re here to talk about your love-life, not – I repeat not – about work. So will you please switch off and give me your full attention.’
He did his best to comply, although he was still smarting from Trevor’s strictures and not exactly overjoyed to have to confront the desert of his love-life. Still, he thought, at least he wasn’t condemned to a life of permanent celibacy, like poor Gerard Manley Hopkins, who had once described himself as a eunuch.
‘You won’t get anywhere, you know, unless you rewrite your profile. The existing one isn’t working.’
‘You’re telling me!’ Perhaps a vow of chastity might actually make things easier. From what he had read about eunuchs, they led quite a cushy life, with nothing to do in the harem except look after gorgeous girls.
‘Mainly because you insist on sticking to the truth. Most people big themselves up, so you’re putting yourself at an instant disadvantage.’
The word ‘truth’ induced the usual surge of guilt. How duplicitous he was, posing as a truth-teller, yet concealing so much from Stella – indeed, from all his friends. Yet the few times in the past he’d come clean about his background had not been a huge success. Those he’d told had viewed him very differently thereafter – with pity, with suspicion.
‘I mean, you’ve put “average” for appearance, but that doesn’t do you any favours. Can’t you say “above average”?’
‘No, because then they’ll be disappointed. In fact, I reckon lots of people must get quite a shock when they compare the descriptions with the reality. Actually, I’m thinking of writing a guide to all the terms in current use, if only as a warning. “Lively and outgoing” means a noisy, manic, show-off. “Articulate”: never stops talking. “Independent”: bossy. “Honest”: tactless. “Creative”: out of work.’
Stella fiddled with a strand of her fairish, wavy hair. ‘Mm, I suppose you have a point. I met this guy who described himself as sensitive, and he turned out downright moody. And another said he was thoughtful, but “dull and utterly boring” was a damned sight nearer the mark.’
‘Yes,’ said Eric, warming to his theme. ‘“Caring”: soppy; “scrumptious”: vain; “free-spirited”: unruly; “home-loving” agoraphobic”.’
With a sudden laugh, Stella began joining in herself. ‘“Spontaneous”: tactless; “entrepreneur”: crook; “fun-loving”: vacuous; “no baggage”: stony-broke.’
‘“Family-oriented”: mother of six; “down-to-earth”: uncouth; “curvaceous”: hugely fat.’
‘Come off it, Eric, I used “curvaceous” myself.’
‘Sorry! I forgot. You are curvaceous, Stella – in the true meaning of the word.’
‘You can lay off the flattery, thank you very much! Anyway, it got me quite a few replies.’
‘Yes, but neither of us have met anyone remotely suitable.’
‘What d’you mean, “neither of us”? You’ve only had one date so far; I’ve had seventeen.’
He reached for his packet of crisps; crunched a couple despondently. ‘Frankly, I’ve lost heart, Stella, after the fiasco with Olivia.’
‘That was your own fault. I told you – twice – on no account to invite anyone to dinner.’
‘She invited herself.’ He was forced to raise his voice above ‘Silent Night’. Hardly silent. The large party in the corner – office revellers, by the looks of them – were whooping and guffawi
ng, and had just started pulling crackers, shrieking with excitement at every little bang.
‘Well, you should have made some excuse, just settled for a quick drink after work.’
If only. The final bill, paid by him in total, and including service and three desserts for Olivia, had come to £325. Which meant none of his friends or colleagues would be getting much for Christmas beyond a card or calendar.
‘If you go to a restaurant, you can get stuck with someone for hours, even if it’s obvious you’re not going to hit it off. So, best to meet in a bar, order one quick beer, then scat within the first ten minutes if you can see the vibes are wrong. Still, I admit you were unlucky with Olivia – you clearly met a weirdo.’
Another pang of guilt. Perhaps he’d been unfair – too critical, judgemental. There was a school of thought that believed greed was simply fear of scarcity, often associated with a lack of parental love. For all he knew, Olivia might have had a history not unlike his own.
‘To be honest, I’m plain jealous of the woman. I mean, from what you say, she can stuff herself, yet not put on a single pound in weight.’
He glanced at Stella, who, despite her buxom breasts and ample thighs, seemed to exist on little more than cottage cheese, with the occasional bar of chocolate as a treat. As usual, she had refused to share his crisps; declined his offer of a sandwich or scotch egg. Of course, he had no idea what she ate in private, and he’d learned long ago that most people had a secret life, sometimes totally at variance with the façade presented to the world.
‘Anyway, just because you drew a blank the first time, doesn’t mean there aren’t loads of decent women, panting for a date with you.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘But you won’t attract them without a punchy headline. “A great catch!” – or something on those lines.’
‘I’m not a great catch.’
‘You are, Eric! If only you could see it. You’re loyal, honest, generous and passionate about your job.’
‘Try telling that to Trevor!’
Broken Places Page 3