In Another Country (12 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Strong Enough to Help

 

 

 

B
ut that Saturday morning, end of October, instead of trying to write a poem, he suddenly and without knowing why began to write out all he could remember of the sayings and turns of phrase his mother and her mother and her sister had reached for to colour and solemnify their speech. They came in a rush in no particular order, he heard them in the women's voices, distinct voices, but any of the three women might have spoken them out of the stock they held in common for the family down the generations on the female side. Listening, he wrote: little pigs have big ears, least said soonest mended, enough's as good as feast, face like a wet Whit Week, love locked out, like death warmed up, the ever-open door, black as the chimney back, better to be born lucky than rich, pots for rags, he had a good home and he left, like feeding a donkey strawberries, waste not want not, made up no grumbling, rise and shine, sooner keep you a week than a fortnight, I'll make one less, it's as cheap sitting as standing—And there he halted. At the back of his head, or behind him in the room pressing on his neck and shoulders, he felt the vast reservoir of the women's unspoilt language, he felt it would bow him flat on the table top if he sat there any longer listening to those voices and transcribing what he heard. In the dining room where every Saturday morning he cleared away his breakfast things and folded back a certain measure of the cloth and seated himself at the dark table with his pen and sheets of paper, in that familiar room he was oppressed. Best stop, he said aloud. Better go out now and do my shopping. Carry on this afternoon perhaps. But then he looked at the last thing he had written. He said it aloud in Gran Benson's voice: It's as cheap sitting as standing. And he saw the old woman herself, white-haired, skewed, shrunken in her scuffed armchair by a bit of fire, the light behind her through the dirty windows from the yard, and the dog, Sam, on her right side against her feet. But that wasn't it. Her words were still in the air and he knew with a thrill of something akin to fear that there was a gap before them, a space, and into that space, before he could question it, with a shock of cold, with a starting of tears, came the words that belonged there: Sit thee down, lad. And that was it, her exact tone. The white-haired old woman in a shawl, the friendly mongrel laying its head across her feet, her left side faintly warmed by the few coals, she looked up at him as he came in and he stood there and, having kissed her on the cold smooth forehead, still stood there, at a loss no doubt, seeming unsure, and looking up she said: Sit thee down, lad. And added: It's as cheap sitting as standing.

So he sat at the polished black table in the dining room, among furnishings he had not chosen but had merely gone on living with, and loneliness, hopelessness, deep deep sadness possessed him utterly, froze him, the pen still in his hand, and he seemed to be seeing the opposite wall and his father's copied painting of a painting of Wastwater, not just through tears but through ice.

Then the doorbell rang.

The bell frightened him, it made no sense. In his own house he was elsewhere, facing something he did not feel equal to. What had the bell to do with that? It frightened him, he could not understand it ringing where he was.

The bell rang again. Merely obeying, he went to the front door.

There stood a black woman, wearing gold. Altogether her appearance was radiant. Mr. Barlow? she said.—Yes, he answered. I am.—Mr. Arthur Barlow?—Yes, he said.—Well my name is Gladys, she said, I'm from the DCMS and here—she lifted her lapel—is my Interviewer Identity Card, to prove it. I do hope I did not wake you, Mr. Barlow. You are my first port of call.—No, said Arthur Barlow, I get up at six every morning, weekends included, to read.—Gladys smiled very happily. You read, Mr. Barlow?—Yes, he said. Poetry. I read a lot of poetry. Who are you, if you don't mind me asking? You're not an estate agent, are you? You're not a religion?—No, no, said Gladys. Nothing like that. I'm from the Department of Culture, Media and Sport and I've come to ask you how you spend your time and what you think of the leisure activities and facilities available in this town. We sent you a letter about ten days ago, to tell you you were chosen.—Oh, said Arthur Barlow, perhaps I haven't opened it yet. When I'm very busy I tend not to open things like that at once.—It had a book of first-class stamps in, said Gladys, which was our little thank you to you, for agreeing to be chosen. Do you write letters, Mr. Barlow? The stamps will come in handy, if you do.—I send away for poetry books, said Arthur Barlow. So thank you very much, the stamps will come in handy for that.

Gladys opened her bright red folder, but said: Are you all right, Mr. Barlow? Would you rather I came back later, or another day?—No, no, said Arthur Barlow. Nothing to worry about. I've had a bit of a shock, that's all.—Oh dear, said Gladys. I'm so sorry. Some bad news? A bereavement?—You mean my suit? said Arthur Barlow. No, I always put this on when I read poetry, or try to write poety, which is what I always do on Saturday mornings only today something else happened and it gave me a shock. It's true I wore this suit to the funerals but when I apply myself to poetry I put it on because it's the best I've got and I do think a person should dress up when he reads poetry or even tries to write some of his own. Mother bought me this suit for my interview and of course I wore it for the funerals but the interview was years and years ago so, as you see, I haven't put on weight, there's that much can be said in my favour.—If anything you must have lost some weight, said Gladys. By the looks of it. So you think you could answer my few questions, Mr. Barlow, if the shock you've had hasn't upset you too much? And she opened her folder again and looked him full in the face.—If you've sent me a book of first-class stamps, said Arthur Barlow, I can surely answer your few questions.—Gladys smiled.

But then Arthur Barlow had a thought, his pale eyes bulged, his thin face, the wispy beard, the thinning colourless hair, all his physiognomy expressed unease. They're not private things you'll be asking, are they? he said. I'm not one for talking about private things.—Nothing of the sort, said Gladys emphatically. I would never take on a job like that. Only about activities and facilities. Your name and address will be kept separate from your answers. No individual will be identifiable from the results.—Then do you want to come in and ask me? Arthur Barlow asked. Or shall you ask me here on the doorstep?—Entirely as you wish, said Gladys.—Come in then, said Arthur Barlow.

But as soon as he had closed the door behind Gladys and led her into the dining room Arthur Barlow knew that the shock was still with him and if he'd been alone he would have said aloud, Oh dear, this is very serious. By mistake he motioned her to sit where he had been sitting, at the head of the table, facing the wall and the picture of Wastwater, so that he stood uncertainly for a moment and folded back another half yard of cloth before seating himself at her right hand, facing the window and the garden fence.—And these must be your poems, said Gladys, not liking to put her folder down on Arthur Barlow's fountain pen and papers. I've never sat at a poet's table before. Not so far as I know, at least.—Arthur Barlow removed his belongings. It's not exactly a poem, he said.

Now, said Gladys briskly. This won't take long. Your age, please, Mr. Barlow?—Fifty-five.—Single, married, widower, divorced?—Single.—And the ethnic group will be white British, will it?—I suppose it will, said Arthur Barlow.—And your occupation, Mr. Barlow?—Filing clerk at the hospital. Though not for much longer.—A career move, Mr. Barlow?—Not exactly, said Arthur Barlow. They're making me redundant after Christmas. There's less and less call for people like me.—Oh, I am sorry, said Gladys. But at least you'll have more time for your poetry.—That's what I tell myself, said Arthur Barlow.—Now, said Gladys: leisure. Are you more sport or culture?—I suppose I'm culture.—You don't watch football, you don't go swimming, you don't play golf or engage in any other physical competitive activity, you don't go to the gym, nothing like that?—Nothing like that.—Culture then, said Gladys. When was your last visit to the cinema, the theatre, opera, ballet, any kind of concert, an art gallery, a museum?—I don't do any of those, said Arthur Barlow. I go to poetry readings when there's one I can get to on a train or a bus.—And how many hours a week, on average, do you spend watching television?—I don't have a television. I have a wireless and a tape recorder. I listen to poetry programs and to tape recordings of poets reading their work.—Do you have access to the Internet?—No, said Arthur Barlow, nothing like that.

Gladys put down her biro and looked Arthur Barlow full in the face. It struck him that she was beautiful and radiant with life. Weakened by the vision (as it might be called) of Gran Benson in her scuffed armchair and now by Gladys's manifest sympathy, Arthur Barlow shrugged and said, There's not much to me, Gladys, I'm afraid. Only the poetry. Really, that's all there is to me, the poetry.—The public library, said Gladys. You surely belong to the public library, Mr. Barlow?—That I do, said Arthur Barlow, animated. Couldn't live without it. Especially the reference section. I use the dictionaries, you see, to try to follow the translations of foreign poets word by word. And from the lending library I borrow things that I can't afford or can't get hold of through the catalogues. And of course it's in the library I find out who's coming to read anywhere round here within striking distance. So at least you can put me down for that, Gladys. I'm a great user of the public library and the staff could not be nicer. They know me in there. They're very kind to me. It's a home from home. I've got my own library here, of course, but I couldn't live without the public library too. Once a week at the very least I walk there and back, whatever the weather, so that keeps me fit, you might say, as much as going swimming would or playing golf.

Gladys closed her folder and began to button up her golden coat. Thank you, Mr. Barlow, she said. I don't need to take up any more of your valuable time.—You'll see my books, won't you? said Arthur Barlow. Then you'll have a good idea how I occupy myself. There's some next door, in the parlour, as Mother used to call it.—Gladys followed him through. The parlour was cold; the books lined all its walls; a three-piece suite, a glass cabinet, a stand for a pot or vase, had been moved away from the walls to accommodate the books. This is the third room, Arthur Barlow said. Alphabetically, starting upstairs, my bedroom and the spare room are the first two, it begins with S down here, the anthologies are in that corner by the window.—And all poetry?—And things to do with poetry, the lives and the letters of poets and what they said about poetry.—And not much space for any more, by the looks of it.—No, said Arthur Barlow. And that's a big worry to me. I'm afraid I may have to use Mother's bedroom after all, which I hoped would never happen. And pardon my asking, Gladys, would I be right in thinking that you don't belong in these parts? Are you not from where I'm from, more or less?—Moss Side, where else? said Gladys. But I'd say you were more Ordsall way, across the river, more Seedley or Weaste?—Ordsall, said Arthur Barlow, but with the clearances we went to Pendleton. But the shock I referred to earlier came to me from Weaste. It was Gran Benson in her end-terrace house in Weaste. When I was a boy the trains ran past her gable end, so near and fast they shook the house. But when I visited her just before we left, the line had gone and they were building a bit more motorway and they wanted where her house stood for the width of it. What a noise, day and night! And the dust and the lights! My real gran, Gran Nuttall, was dead by then and Gran Benson, her sister, wouldn't come down south with us. She said she wanted to die among her own people. Not that she had any by then, only Sam, the dog. Her daughter was dead long since and so was her son-in-law. And the grandsons went to Australia so there she was on her own with Sam. Mother kept calling in to see to her and trying to persuade her to come down south with us. But she was adamant. She might have gone into a council home only they wouldn't let her bring her dog. So she stayed put. Not that we wanted to be in the south, you understand. But Father thought we might be better off and the hospital said they'd move him down here if he liked, filing.—I must leave you, Mr. Barlow, said Gladys. I have another call on your street, at Number 97.—One last thing, said Arthur Barlow. Did your grandmother or your grandmother's sister ever say, ‘Sit thee down, lass' or ‘Nowt lost where pigs are kept' or ‘I'll make one less'—and go slowly off to bed?—Gladys laughed, such a resplendent laugh. Bless you, Mr. Barlow, of course they never did. They said things like, ‘Walk-good keeps good spirit,' ‘Hungrybelly an Fullbelly dohn walk same pass' and ‘When lonely man dead, grass come grow a him door.'—Oh Gladys, said Arthur Barlow, you could read me the Caribbeans! I've only got the one voice and it's very poor. If I could hear you read the Caribbeans, how those strong men and women would come off the page and be alive in the room with me!—But Gladys buttoned up her golden coat against the cold and shook Arthur Barlow's hand and left his house.

 

Arthur Barlow went into the kitchen. It was the time when he made his cup of coffee. He had been on the verge of asking Gladys would she join him, when she left. The place was neat and clean. His use of its facilities and utensils was regular and precise. Never an unnecessary pan or plate or spoon. The vision, still working, resumed in him, greatly intensified by all that Gladys had brought in, and he saw that he would no longer be able to decide for himself how much of his future life he would deal with at any one time. His rota henceforth would not be able to hold out the flood of loneliness of the years still needing to be lived. He might say I will read and write for two hours then make a cup of coffee, same for a further one and a half hours, then make some lunch, after which I will at once go shopping and visit the public library, he might say all that aloud in the empty house and raise it as a bulwark against the days and weeks and months and years to come, but he knew the tidal wave was building and might at any time break in and bring it home to him in the here and now what the life of unalterable loneliness would be like. He looked out at the garden. It was rather a dank day. A yellow rose, still going strong, blooming abundantly over the right-hand fence, was the one bright thing to see. The kettle clicked off. Top of the list of my New Year Resolutions, said Arthur Barlow, is: restore this garden to its former glory.