by John Clarke
By the time we came in there were some very concerned adults on the beach and we were put into dry clothes and we ran back along the beach to the house. For some reason the song ‘Hi-Lili Hi-Lo’ ran all the way back to the house, in my head, in time with my feet on the wet sand. I’ve never heard that song without the feeling that I’m running along that sand in the late afternoon in a big man’s jumper. And I’ve never thought of Susan without the idea that she and I are together, bobbing along, and that we’ll be fine.
The sparkling Christine Collins was a gifted actor with a particular understanding of the voice. She became an acting and voice coach in London but for many years before that she worked in Beckett plays, often as second voice with Billie Whitelaw as first voice. Many of these productions were directed by Beckett himself and Christine told good stories of working with him. One of my favourites concerned a meeting at Beckett’s seventieth birthday party which was held at Beckett’s apartment in Paris. Christine had met many of the guests before; they were academics, Beckett scholars, publishers or broadcasting and theatre friends. But she got talking to a very interesting man in the kitchen, whose understanding of Beckett’s work was remarkable. He seemed to have seen or read almost everything Beckett had done and seemed to have a been a friend of Sam’s forever.
‘When did you first meet Sam?’ asked Christine.
‘The first time I saw Sam,’ said the man, ‘he was sitting in a railway carriage between Foxrock and Dublin. He was trying to read and there was a lot of noise in the carriage, schoolboys and so on; so I went over to him and said, ‘Excuse me. If you’re trying to read, you might like to come with me. It’s a bit quieter in the next carriage,’ and I took him into the first-class carriage. There was no one in there and he had the place to himself.’
‘And where do you work?’ asked Christine.
‘Oh, I’m retired now,’ said the man.
‘I see,’ said Christine. ‘And where were you before you retired?’
‘I was a porter on the Dublin railways,’ said the man.
‘So you’ve known Sam for a very long time,’ said Christine.
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Except for the war I’ve been to every one of Sam’s birthdays since he was nineteen.’
When Beckett was a young man he studied languages, experienced matters of the kind described in his story ‘First Love’, was mentioned in Wisden (Dublin University v. Northamptonshire, left-handed batsman, left-arm medium-pace bowler) and went to Paris, where he met James Joyce and other exiles. Joyce was a generation older and his eyesight was problematic, and Beckett became an amanuensis. Much of what Joyce wrote in this period was dictated to Beckett. When asked many years later what the difference was between the two of them, Beckett said Joyce was a synthesiser whereas he was an analyser. In his own writing, he said, he tried to reduce things to the essential, whereas Joyce wanted to include everything; every sensation, every sight, every sound, every thought and feeling. As an example, he recalled that Joyce was dictating Finnegans Wake one day when a man arrived to see him and Joyce said, ‘Come in.’ When Beckett was reading this section back, he got to ‘come in’ and Joyce stopped him and considered the merits of a completely extraneous phrase. There followed a brief discussion and Joyce decided to leave it in.
Beckett had earlier appeared in a celebrated court case in Dublin in which the surgeon, athlete, senator and pilot Oliver St John Gogarty had been successfully sued for libel. When they were students, Joyce and Gogarty lived together in a Martello Tower and Gogarty appears as Buck Mulligan in Ulysses. The book begins in the tower with Buck Mulligan gently mocking Joyce while shaving and looking out at ‘the snotgreen scrotumtightening sea’.
Many years later, when Gogarty was a senator, he was captured by IRA gunmen and only escaped by diving into the River Liffey and swimming across. In one version of the story he was shot in the arm while swimming and when he turned up in the senate the following day with his right arm in a sling, he was questioned by opponents about what had happened. He reported that he had sprained his wrist falling from his bicycle and wanted to keep it immobile. When questioned further he removed the sling and rolled up his sleeve. There was no bullet wound and the matter was dropped. Gogarty had in fact been shot in the other arm.
While he was swimming across the river that night, Gogarty promised the Liffey that if he survived he would bring it a gift, and years later he and Yeats and President Cosgrove were photographed on the riverbank where Gogarty released two white swans, from whom the white swans on the Liffey today are descended.
When I was even younger than I am now, there was a book in our house called Plutarch’s Lives of the Greeks. I was a bit busy being a child at the time and didn’t read the book but a few years ago I bought a spoken word version of it and I listened to it in the car. As I drove, a world opened in my head.
Plutarch was a Roman and was writing about what we can learn from ancient Greece about how to run a society. Each chapter describes a particular individual contribution to the rise of ancient Greece. Themistocles for example. Themistocles’s response to the impending attack of the enormous Persian army was to order the construction of 200 ships. He sailed the ships across the Aegean to Persia and made loud and offensive threats before turning and sailing back toward Greece in full sight of the Persians who changed their plans and put their very large army on ships and set out after the Greeks. The Greek ships led the Persians into the narrow straits of Salamis where the smaller Greek vessels were more manoeuvrable and where the much smaller Greek army was positioned on the hills to welcome any Persians who managed to get ashore. The Persians were comprehensively defeated and Themistocles remains an example of how superior tactics can triumph over superior numbers.
This lesson was not lost on Alexander the Great, who was waiting in the wings of history. Before he was great, Alexander was nevertheless thought to be heading in that direction. One day his father Phillip of Macedon was presented with a magnificent, huge, strong and beautiful horse. Unfortunately, at the presentation the horse was wild and unmanageable. Alexander was twelve or thirteen but he demurred and said it hadn’t been established that the horse was unmanageable. Phillip snapped at his son and the conversation went something like this:
‘Alexander, since you’re such an expert, would you like to have a crack at riding the horse?’
‘Happy to, yes, by all means,’ said Alexander.
‘It’s an easy boast, Alexander,’ said Phillip. ‘Talk is cheap. What will you give us if you can’t ride the horse?’
‘How about I give you the value of the horse?’ said the boy, who didn’t have the money.
The horse was then brought out again and Alexander walked out to the horse, talked to the horse, stroked the horse, got on the horse and rode the horse, to amazement on all sides.
Asked later how he did this, he said that when first presented, the horse had been petrified. There were people yelling all around his head, robes flapping and men pulling him this way and that. Even more terrifying to the horse was an enormous monster moving about on the ground. Realising that this was the horse’s own shadow, Alexander dropped his robe and turned the horse to face the sun. The enormous monster disappeared. Alexander was given the horse, which he named Bucephalus, and together they conquered the known world.
I watched a movie called Clueless the other night. I’ve seen it before and it’s twenty years old but it still holds up as an amusing cautionary tale about a pampered young woman with nothing better to do but manipulate the lives and feelings of her friends in the belief that she is assisting them to find love, about which she knows nothing. In order to enjoy the movie you don’t need to know that it is an adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma, (and a very good one, too). I also recently watched a movie called The Queen, a drama starring Helen Mirren, about the behaviour of the queen at the time of the death of Princess Diana. I struggled not to see this as Toad of Toad Hall. The queen, who is Toad, lives in an enormous house and is toler
ated only because in the English social structure it is a sustaining pleasure for the poor to look upon the wealthy with love and admiration, as is also the case in Australia and in many other egalitarian nations. When the queen/Toad behaves badly however, Blair/Badger needs to go and say, ‘Excuse me. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re in a fabulous position and everyone wants you to stay there but if you’re not interested, the media/stoatsandweasels will completely take over and tear the place apart. Do exactly as I say or you’ll have this whole thing in the ditch’. The queen then does as she’s told and Badger goes out and deals brilliantly with the stoats and weasels. Nothing changes. Reform has been averted. Big win for Badger, who wins the next election going away. Diana is nationalised as ‘The People’s Princess’ and Ratty and Moley go back to buggering about on the river.
A few weeks ago I took some photographs of shore birds, many of which are migratory and fly to the arctic in our autumn to breed. Some of the godwits I photographed had orange leg tags and when I zoomed in I could read the letters and numbers, so I reported these on a website that tracks migratory birds and which tells me these birds were tagged one year ago, in exactly the same place. This means that during 2016 they flew from here, up over the South Pacific and southern Asia to China where for millions of years they have fed on the mudflats in the Yellow Sea between the mainland and the Korean peninsula. Then they fly further north to either Siberia or Alaska. And after the breeding season they fly all the way back. Recently a small transmitter was put in a godwit which flew from Alaska to New Zealand in one go without stopping to eat or rest. As a result more research is being done about how the birds sleep. We used to think that each godwit would take a turn at the front, go like the clappers for a while and then slip back into the peloton for bit of a rest while fresher godwits moved forward and took over. Not the case apparently. Microsleep is the current wisdom. Exactly how they do this, and here’s an ornithological term, is anyone’s guess. Godwit numbers are down this year and the curlew sandpiper and eastern curlew numbers are so far down both species are now classified as critically endangered. The reason is that the birds can no longer feed on the mudflats in the Yellow Sea on the flight north. The mudflats aren’t there anymore. Despite international agreements on the crucial importance of the feeding grounds of migratory birds, the area has been reclaimed for housing.
For some reason I’ve been to a few florists lately. Last week I went into one about an hour out of town and was having a look around when a man came over and asked what I’d like. I said I wasn’t quite sure and he said that was fine and he pointed and said he’d be over there if I wanted any help. I thanked him and in fairly short order I moved away from the arrangements and settled on some fresh flowers. I caught his eye.
‘Worked it out?’ he asked, coming over.
‘Yes, I believe I have,’ I said, indicating my choice, ‘I think I’ll just have a swag of these.’
‘Lilies,’ he said. ‘Yes, beautiful. Good choice.’ And he collected a generous handful and we went over to the counter where he began to wrap them.
‘You’ve been out of the florist game for a while, haven’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, I have,’ I conceded.
‘Thought so,’ he said, and continued wrapping. ‘We’ve pretty much given up the term “swag” these days.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘What expression do we use these days?’
‘Oh,’ he drawled, in what A. A. Milne would call a wondering kind of way. ‘“Bunch”, mostly, these days.’
‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘“Bunch” of flowers?’
‘Yes. A lot of people call them bunches now.’
‘Goodness,’ I said, and I paid him and left.
I’ll be going back there. He’s good.
A friend’s house was burgled the other day. A couple of replaceable modern devices were taken and a small amount of cash but the main contribution to her sense of shock and violation was that there was stuff everywhere, books pulled out of bookcases, accounts and professional records tipped out of folders, the filing cabinet upended and the contents tossed about and clothes hauled out of wardrobes and cupboards and thrown all over the floor. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men were quickly on hand and eventually order was restored.
When she was explaining the drama to her neighbours, one of them reported that his brother’s house was completely cleaned out while he was away over the summer. Everything worth anything was stolen in broad daylight. The police investigation revealed that entry was effected by jemmying the back door open and the rest of crime was committed as follows: a large van was backed up to the front of house at about 9.30 in the morning and for the next hour or so, several men carried things out of the house and put them in the van while another man mowed the lawn.
In 1972 I was driving a delivery van for Barkers, which was a titanic London retail institution in Kensington until encountering an iceberg one night in dense fog about a decade ago. Some of the people to whom we delivered were very grand and a bit Miss Havisham but a great many of them were kind and interesting. Lady Fremantle, for example, was about eighty-five and she had a maid who was hot on her heels, so when I arrived with the week’s groceries I’d carry them through into the kitchen. We’d often have a chat and on a cold day we’d sit at the table and have a hot chocolate. If they needed anything shifted, lifted or removed, they’d ask me but ‘only if it would be no trouble’ and if anything needed to be posted, I’d drop it in the mail. Lady F was from a naval family and hanging in a slightly askew frame on the wall was the first order Nelson had written with his left hand after he’d lost his right arm. There was also a couple called Lord and Lady Graves, who were in films and were stars on the London musical stage and to whom I was delivering one day when I was invited in. ‘Come in,’ said Peter Graves. ‘I’m Peter Graves. You’re a New Zealander, aren’t you?’ I said I was and he said, ‘Yes, please come in. We’re very sad today. It’s the anniversary of the death of our dear friend Inia Te Wiata. We’re just going to have a quick drink. It would be great if you could join us.’
A bottle of whisky was produced and Peter spoke about the great baritone and we had a quick drink. They then both told some excellent stories and we had a couple more quick drinks before speaking of a great many things and there was some very enjoyable singing at some point and I think we had some salmon as a few more quick drinks were put away. I then left and continued my delivery round, of which I have no clear recollection.
During the 1980s I worked on a television series on which one of the senior writers was James Mitchell, who’d written Callan and When the Boat Comes In, and whose experience in writing series television was very considerable. After the first script meeting Jim came over and said, ‘We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Yes, we have,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘I used to deliver your groceries, Jim,’ I said. ‘You live in Bedford Gardens.’ James was a working-class Tory and was inclined not to speak to people who delivered things, but he was always very nice to me after that first script meeting.
One advantage of the Barkers job was that if I wanted to go somewhere in London, to the National Gallery or to the Tate or to the V and A, I could drive up to the front door and, provided I left one of the back doors of the van open to indicate I’d just ducked in to deliver something, I could park there as long as I liked.
Long before winning the Nobel Prize, Seamus Heaney was aware of the danger of allowing oneself to be elevated by others. He told the story of Antaeus, a great warrior in ancient Greece, enormously strong and born out of the earth itself. Antaeus would challenge his opponents to a wrestling match in which he would neutralise them, wrap his arms around them and crush them to death. Antaeus was eventually defeated by Hercules. Hercules was a famous warrior too, but he was also very smart and he’d been studying Antaeus. He had worked out that when an op
ponent threw Antaeus down on the ground, it made Antaeus stronger because he drew his strength from the earth. So when Hercules and Antaeus fought to the death, Hercules defeated Antaeus by lifting him off the ground and holding him up.
Something else we get from ancient Greece is the story of Narcissus, although perhaps our understanding of it has drifted slightly from its mooring.
In a nutshell, Narcissus is out hunting one day when Echo sees him and falls in love with him. She follows him and talks to him. She has never seen anything as beautiful as he is and she declares her love for him. When Narcissus rejects her, Echo is brokenhearted and disappears, leaving only her voice.
Then Nemesis, the goddess of revenge, punishes Narcissus by leading him to a pool in which he sees an image so beautiful he becomes enchanted and visits the pool each day to gaze at it. Ultimately he realises that the image cannot love him and cannot even exist independently of his act of looking at it. As with Echo, Narcissus’s love is obsessive and unrequited, and he kills himself.
Oscar Wilde, who was a Greek scholar, recognised that characterising Narcissus’s obsession as ‘self love’ misses the fact that what he is enthralled by is a reflection. It is not himself as he knows himself to be. The image is reversed. He is beguiled by a perspective of himself he hasn’t seen before.
In order to highlight this otherness, Wilde added an addendum to the story in which, after Narcissus dies, the pool weeps and becomes salty with its tears.
The forest creatures gather around and sympathise. They understand that the pool would mourn for so beautiful a young man as Narcissus.