by Philip Terry
I’m sending a few of my apprentices that way
To deliver the new menus – they can show you
The way, they won’t mess you about again,
Not after what I’ve said to them.’
At that point Jamie began to call out
Orders: ‘Right – Wings, Hogswash, over here,
Itchy, Dogbreath, put those pans down, you’re
Going with them. Mothballs, you’re in charge,
Take them to the café, along with the menus,
And don’t get lost. Curly, Frosty, Windbutt,
Pisspants, Sniveller – take a box of menus each
And careful you don’t drop them in the soup!’
Worried, I turned to Berrigan, asking:
‘Can’t we go on our own? Surely you know
The way? Don’t you see how they’re grinding
Their teeth – I’m sure they’re up to something.’
But Berrigan brushed my worries aside,
Saying: ‘Let them grind away.
They’re just doing it to frighten the students
Cooking in the soup – it’s not our worry.’
As they started off round the broth, each one
Blew a raspberry, and Jamie signalled back in kind.
CANTO XXII
I have heard the bagpipes played at the Edinburgh
Tattoo, I have heard the Orangemen blow their flutes
On the twelfth of July, I have watched
Military funerals roll by to the beat of
A drum, I have heard the hunter’s horn sounded
In Mahler’s First Symphony, a gong beat at
Dinnertime, a buzzer ring when my pizza’s ready,
But I never heard a fanfare quite as strange
As the bugling of these Kitchen Devils.
We moseyed along with the ten chefs by
Our side, we were in bad company, but
As the old saying has it: ‘With saints in
The church, with boozers in the tavern.’
As we went I kept my eyes glued to the
Soup vat, to see what the deal was in this pit.
As dolphins arch their backs leaping through the
Waves in the Bay of Biscay, as they come out
To greet the latest ferry from Portsmouth,
So now and then, to ease the pain, some student
Stuck in the broth poked his back above the surface,
Then dived under again as quick as lightning.
And as frogs sit with their muzzles poking out
Round the edge of a pond or a ditch,
So the students here gathered at the vat’s rim,
But as Mothballs drew near they dunked their heads
In the soup. One of them was a bit slower
Than the rest, just as often one frog lingers
A little longer at the pond’s edge, and I
Saw – it still makes me sick thinking about it –
Itchy, who was standing level with him,
Stick his hook into his shoulder and yank
Him out, turning him about in the air:
He looked just like the Orford Merman.
By this point I’d got their names by heart,
For I’d listened carefully when they were picked,
And listened carefully now as they called out.
‘Hey, Sniveller, dig your claws into his back
And peel the skin off him!’ some of them shouted.
And I: ‘Berrigan, if you can,
Find out who that sucker is
who has fallen into the hands
of his adversaries.’
Berrigan strode over to the side of the vat,
Beneath where he dangled in the air,
And asked him where he was from.
‘I was born,’ he replied proudly, ‘in Gosport, Hampshire,
My father sent me to Alverstoke, I
Graduated at Trinity Hall;
Later, I became an MP, that’s where
I learned my graft: perhaps you’ve heard about
The pond feature I claimed for,
That was my finest hour, a floating duck island,
Worth nearly two grand.
Now I pay my bills by boiling in this soup.’
Then Dogbreath, who had two canines jutting
Out from his mouth, like a fox,
Let him feel how just one of them could rip the flesh:
The duck had fallen into the hands of the foxes.
Yet Mothballs grabbed him now in an armlock,
Saying: ‘Hold off now, while I have him pinned.’
Then turning to us, he added: ‘If you’ve
Any more questions, you’d better ask them quick,
Before the rest of the lads get stuck in.’
And so Berrigan, my guide, asked: ‘Do you
Know if there are any from Essex
Simmering in there beside you?’
‘From Essex?’ he replied, ‘You’ve got more than
Your fair share in here, I can tell you, you’re
Top of the league tables for grafting.
Just a moment ago, I was talking to
One of them, I wish I was still with him now,
Then I wouldn’t have these prongs to worry about.’
Then Windbutt cried out: ‘OK, we’ve waited
Long enough!” And with a meat hook he ripped
Into the muscles round his upper arm,
Tearing off a lump of flesh. Sniveller, too,
Was keen to join in the fun, taking a swing
At the MP’s legs, but now Mothballs
Wheeled round, giving them the evils.
When they’d laid off, Berrigan, my guide,
Began to question the wretch, who still gazed
At his fresh wound. ‘Who’s the one from Essex,’
He asked, ‘that you left behind in the soup?’
‘Tucker,’ he said, ‘a vicar from Basildon,
Bent as a ten-bob note – he took bribes from
Inmates at Wormwood Scrubs to put in
A good word for them. He hangs out with
The Professor, a retired maths don at
The university, notorious
For fiddling his research expenses.
Go away! Look how he’s licking his lips!
I could tell you more, but I’m scared that one’s
About to take a slice out of me.’
But then Mothballs rounded on Curly, whose
Wild eyes showed he was about to strike,
And shouted: ‘Hands off, you old soup stirrer!’
‘If you want to see some Essex boys,’
The frightened shade resumed,
‘I can call some over,
But the Kitchen Devils will have to back off
Or they’ll be afraid to surface –
All I need do is whistle,
That’s our signal when the coast is clear.’
Pisspants let out a loud laugh and shook his head:
‘We’re not going to fall for that old chestnut, mate,’
He said, ‘we weren’t born yesterday.’
‘So you don’t fancy some Essex rump, then?’
Said the MP. ‘Enough,’ chipped in Wings,
Who couldn’t resist the challenge.
‘Call them up! But if you make a run for it,
Be warned, I’ll not come after you on legs,
But flying through the air with this meat hook!’
The Kitchen Devils all stood back from the
Vat, jumping down from the rim,
And the first to do so was Pisspants,
Who had been so against it
from the start.
The MP’s sense of timing didn’t let him down –
He leapt
and was gone.
The Kitchen Devils were all pissed off,
None more so than Wings
Who’d given the MP the nod,
‘Just you wa
it, you wanker,’ he cried,
‘I’m coming for you!’ And at that he flew
Off and dive-bombed the soup
Swinging his hook into its depths,
But there was nothing doing –
The minister had vanished in the brew.
Wings was now stuck in the vat himself
Yelling out for help. Frosty, who was nearest,
Just laughed, and rather than offer him a hand,
Poked him under with his prong, calling:
‘Come and get it! Deep-fried Devil!’
But Wings was in no mood for joking,
And with a yank on the fork had his
Companion in the soup beside him.
They began to wrestle with each other
Digging their claws into the flesh,
But quickly the heat made them separate,
‘Help!’ they cried, ‘We’re burning!’
To put an end to the sorry mess
Mothballs sent a party to the rescue:
They flew over the soup
Stretching their forks and their ladles out to
The simmering chefs, who were already
Scalded within the crust.
We slipped off while they were still at it.
CANTO XXIII
Silent, apart, and without escort
We went on, the one before, the other
After, as haiku writers on a long journey.
I was trying to explain to Ted how the whole thing
Reminded me of a fable of Aesop’s,
The one where a frog offers to take a mouse
Over a river, but ends up drowning it,
Finally getting eaten itself, by a
Passing kite – the more I talked the less
Convinced he looked – when, one thought leading to
Another, as sometimes happens,
The whole thing suddenly came clear to me:
‘It’s not like what we just saw, it’s like us:
You’re the frog, I’m the mouse, the Kitchen Devils
Are the hawk: to put it bluntly,
We’re in danger, because after what we
Made them do, and everything that happened,
They’re going to be pretty pissed off with us!’
I was so frightened I kept glancing back
Over my shoulder; but now Berrigan
Looked more convinced: ‘I get your drift,’ he said,
‘We’d better split.’ Berrigan had scarcely finished
Outlining his plan when I heard them coming,
Wings spread, intent on catching us.
He grabbed me by the arm instinctively,
Like a mother waking to the sound of a smoke alarm
Who pulls her son close to her and runs
Without even a thought of getting dressed,
And we dashed out through the café, leaving behind us
A trail of upturned tables and spilt cappuccinos.
No sooner were we outside than Berrigan
Turned to me, saying: ‘Hold on!’
Then we both leapt down the scree
We had descended once before,
This time sliding down on our backsides
Like kids on a hill walk when the snow comes down.
We landed with a bump in the underground
Car park, next to a door marked CAST ONLY.
As we looked back up the slope we could see
The Kitchen Devils waving their prongs,
But they didn’t dare follow us,
We were out of their jurisdiction.
Within we found a painted crowd, who walked
Round at a snail’s pace on a raised stage,
Weeping, their look worn-out.
They wore huge cloaks which, on the outside, shone like
Gold, like something you might see on a catwalk,
But inside they were of lead, so heavy
That by comparison a suit of armour
Would have seemed as flimsy as a shellsuit.
At first I thought we had interrupted
The rehearsals for some Beckett play,
And I turned to Berrigan and said:
‘Is it some new interpretation of Quad?’
But Berrigan, my guide, motioned with his head,
As though to say ‘If only…’, then added:
‘See if there’s anyone you recognise.’
I looked up at them from where I stood in
The pit as they trudged slowly by,
Then one of their number, who saw me gazing,
Called out: ‘You, who seem to move so freely
In the dark air, perhaps you have come
To be fitted with a cloak?’
Berrigan told me to stay still, and as I
Continued to gaze on the gilded shades
I saw two who showed by their look
Great eagerness to be with me,
But their heavy load held them back.
When at last they drew up alongside us
They looked at me for a long time
Without uttering a word, then they turned to
One another and said between them:
‘By the way he moves his throat, I’d say
This one was alive; and if they are dead
By what right do they go without the heavy stole?’
Then they said to me: ‘Breather, for that is
What you seem to be, welcome to the Hedge School
Of the hypocrites. Tell us who you are?’
And I to them: ‘On the slimy banks of
The Lagan I was born and grew up in that
Strife-torn city, and I am in the body
That I always had. But tell me, who are you
Who distil such sorrow as I see running
Down your cheeks? And what punishment is it
That shines so brightly on your backs?’
And one of them replied to me: ‘Our gilded cloaks
Are lined with lead so thick that it makes us
Creak as we walk. We are from the ranks of
Hypocritical academics, who did not practise
What we preached: my name was Jeremy,
I was a well-known Marxist historian
Who sent my son to a fee-paying school
To give him a head start; my friend here was
Once a famous theorist, a translator
Of Derrida, espousing radical politics,
Who treated all she met with scorn.’
‘I know your type…’ I began, but said no more,
For now my eyes fell on one crucified
On the stage with three stakes driven into the ground,
And when he caught sight of me he writhed all over,
Blowing into his beard with sighs,
And Jeremy, who witnessed this, said:
‘That impaled figure you see stretched out
In pain is the man who advised the VC
To raise the fees to £9,000 a year.
Naked, he lies stretched out across our path,
As you can see, and as we pass over him,
He must feel the weight of our heavy cloaks.’
I saw Berrigan staring contemptuously
At this forlorn figure, stretched out on the stage,
The one who had raised fees now unable to raise a hand.
Afterwards, Berrigan addressed the
Historian: ‘Tell me, buddy,’ he said,
‘Is there any way out of this place
That doesn’t go through the café?
We had a bit of a disagreement
With some of the catering students.’
‘I can show you out through the green room,
If you like,’ the Marxist replied,
‘From there you should be able to scramble
Up to Square 5, from where it’s a short walk
To the next pit. It would be impossible
Wearing these heavy cloaks, but you two,
Who are light on your feet, s
hould make it.’
At the thought of the climb Berrigan looked
Peeved, and let out an exaggerated sigh.
We left the Hedge School behind with heavy footsteps.
CANTO XXIV
In that part of the youthful year, when the
Hoarfrost copies his white sister’s imprint
On soil, image that soon fades,
The farmer, down on hay, looks out over his
Fields, and curses; but after a power shower,
When he looks out again, he sees the grass is green
And with a spring in his step he heads to the 4x4;
Just so, Berrigan made me lose heart
When I heard him sighing, but just as quick
He whipped out the plaster to heal my wound;
For when we reached the foot of the mountain
Of rubble he smiled and threw me a rope.
With this I clipped myself to him, then we
Began the ascent, moving carefully from
One slab to the next, Berrigan in front,
Me behind; pulling me towards the top
Of a great splinter of concrete, he said: