Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     My days are beginning to fall into a new pattern. As soon as there is sufficient light in the morning I hopefully climb into the loft to work on my painting. The progress is erratic and involved. I may spend long spells pacing restlessly up and down; or just staring in front of me, getting a strange satisfaction from the smell of the paint and the various objects in the room. I enjoy looking at the plants which I keep on my window-sill, of which I have a great variety, among them a grapefruit tree and a pine, both grown from seeds and quite a remarkable size. I finger my collection of pieces of drift-wood and pebbles, picked up in all parts of the world. I watch the light-effect on my three Mexican masks pinned to my timber-panelled wall. I shift my African animal sculptures on the top of the bookcase under the window into different positions, arranging new relationships . . . . .

     All this I’m quite used to doing as a preliminary to settling down to my painting. But instead of being able to clear my mind it now gets crowded with more and more interfering thoughts and images. In this the tiger and the girl Julia appear to be playing an increasing part. For a time I was determined to keep them out at all costs and get on with what I really wanted to do. But I soon found out that I can’t paint if I have to use my energy for keeping things out of my mind. Only if I admit whatever wants to enter it have I a chance of expressing anything at all.

     So now I have a pile of notepaper on my table and when I find myself unable to get on with my painting I produce short pieces of writing, consisting of all kinds of fantasies and memories. Much of this I completely forget after jotting it down and, if it weren’t for recognising my handwriting, I might often even deny that these pieces were written by me.

     This morning, quite clearly before me, the interior of the house in Adelaide Road. Julia walking from the first floor to the second, slowly like a sleepwalker. Her eyes closed or covered by hair. I’m not sure which it is. Flaming red hair. My immediate thought: it must be a wig as, according to Mrs. Friedmann’s description, she has mouse-coloured hair. For a moment I’m irritated by this, as it tempts me to compare what I see with what I was told beforehand. I want to follow my fantasy undisturbed and I cling to it, the way a dreamer clings to a dream when prematurely awakened.

     There she is still on the dim staircase, clutching in her left fist a taut black thread the end of which is knotted around the neck of a white mouse by her feet. My eyes now focus on the mouse. It’s quite small with a pink twitching nose and red eyes. It follows her obediently. Each time Julia mounts the next step she tugs lightly at the thread, helping the mouse to ascend the stairs together with her. At the top of the landing she stops, picks up the mouse and stuffs it into the pocket of her black leather jacket. As she bends down her red hair falls forward, swallowing up her face like a flame. There is no sound. Until she straightens herself up and stamps hard on the floor. Her feet are bare. I’ve only just noticed it, and their contact with the wooden floor boards echoes through the house like drum beats. She stamps again and again, raising her hands. ‘George’, she then calls out, ‘I’ve come up. Where are you? Open that blasted door or I shall’.

     No reply.

     In front of the multi-coloured door she calls again: ‘George, why don’t you answer me, you big fat tom-cat you. I brought you a toy, you bastard’. She now kicks against the door which immediately springs open.

     Laughter from within the room. ‘Come in, you bloody bitch, I’ll lay you with my own little toy’.

     Julia stamps into the room, shaking her red hair, slamming the door.

     The picture has faded. I’m straining my ears as though I’m expecting sounds from behind the closed door to reach me. After a brief hesitation I dip my largest paintbrush into a pot of black paint, then choose a second brush which I pick up with my left hand and, using both hands with both brushes together, I now watch two powerful lines moving towards each other, meeting in the middle of the board and getting entangled into a knot.

     I suddenly feel exhausted. I look out of the window. The sky is thick with grey clouds. It’s starting to rain.

     Soon afterwards I went into the kitchen, had a quick snack and left the house. I took the car to Hampstead, but found George Sacks’ information about Julia’s former cottage quite inadequate. I couldn’t even locate Grove Place NW3, in my A—Z, though I didn’t discover this until I had parked the car at Jack Straw’s Castle. I could have made further inquiries and I still don’t know why I didn’t. By then the rain had stopped. The Heath was quite deserted and I felt a strong urge to walk among the trees rather than among people, which I did, finding it most refreshing. Later I took a short cut through one of the old parts of Hampstead and passed a number of cottages of the type Julia Maples might have inhabited. One even had a dog’s kennel in the front garden, but painted green not red. And there was a girl nearby, fitting Julia’s description, I thought, until I looked more closely and realised that it was a boy with long hair.

     During my walk I had come to the conclusion that I needed much more information about Julia and on various other points. As I was already in the neighbourhood, I decided to drop in at Jerusalem House without ’phoning first.

     This time I got a very different picture of the Mrs. Friedmann I had seen a few days before, when Bella had first introduced me to her. The moment I opened the door to her room I felt an intruder. I think she must have asked me in after I had knocked, but she was obviously not expecting anyone and appeared completely withdrawn into a world of her own. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you’, I said apologetically. ‘But I was nearby, so I thought I might as well call to get a little more information from you about the girl’.

     ‘The girl? But we’ve made all possible inquiries and they were all negative. They’re not even sure what camp they took her to in the end. After she was arrested near the Austrian border in March 1943, there seems to be no witness alive to tell what happened to her. I’m still wondering whether she mightn’t have survived under a different name. She might even have lost her memory. It’s conceivable, don’t you think?’

     I gradually realised that she was talking about her missing daughter. Bella had mentioned to me briefly that both her husband and her daughter had lost their lives at the hands of the Nazis. Her husband, a well-known socialist leader, was arrested in 1934 and died during interrogation. The daughter. Steffy, who was considerably older than Alexander, was also politically active and had continued to work as an underground journalist, refusing to leave Germany when her mother and brother did.

     ‘I don’t really know whether it’s better to keep on hoping against hope or to accept things as final, Mrs. Friedmann, ‘I said quietly. ‘It’s all a very long time ago now’.

     She sighed. ‘It will never be a long time ago for me

     ‘I know how you feel. But after so many years, it would surely be better . . . . .’

     ‘But I can hear her calling me again,’ she interrupted me. ‘Now after all these years. And I get so confused. It didn’t happen any longer when Alexander was alive. But then he was always very strict with me, telling me that I had to face facts. Though what facts, I can’t remember’.

     ‘He must have made all possible inquiries’.

     ‘Yes, that’s what he said. Only I’m not so sure now. He never allowed me to think about it after a time. I remember him coming into my room one afternoon I believe it must have been a Sunday. I was sitting by the window, just staring out. It was getting dark and I didn’t want the light on’.

     ‘It’s dark now’, I said in a low voice. ‘And you’re sitting by the window again’.

     She nodded, then continued: ‘He didn’t see me at first, until he’d switched on the lamp. ‘You’re here all on your own”, he said, “and I thought you’d gone out”. “I’m never quite on my own”, I told him. He took me by the hand, insisting that I came up to his flat. Julia was there. She was arranging his collection of stones on a new shelf. “I brought Mother”, he said to her. “She was brooding again”. As he spoke he picked up the little bronze tiger from his desk and, carrying it in one hand, he led me to his big armchair by the fireplace. “We can’t change things, Mother. We must live in the present”, he kept on repeating. “You’ve still got me — and the little tiger”. Then he put the tiger on my lap’.

     ‘But it was never anything more than a small metal sculpture, wasn’t it?’ heard myself say quietly but firmly.

     She shook her head emphatically. ‘That’s what everyone wants me to believe, but I’d hoped you might perhaps understand. It was part of our family’s history. Something I could hold in my hand’. She was now speaking German.

     ‘Ich weiss’, I said after a few moments’ silence. ‘I know’. Then I asked her for permission to switch on the light. As she didn’t object I lit her reading lamp and drew the curtains. ‘A lovely sunset, did you notice? We should have a better day tomorrow’, I commented gently.

     Gradually I was able to steer the conversation back to the present, realising clearly that even this was in fact very much an extension of the past. I told her that I’d been to see George Sacks, who mentioned that Julia used to have a place in Hampstead which I wanted to visit needing, however, further information to locate it.

     Having first expressed her amazement that George Sacks was still living in Adelaide Road, when the house had been due for demolition quite some time ago, Mrs. Friedmann proceeded to enlighten me that Julia’s cottage in Hampstead had long been taken over by other occupants for whom her son had actually modernised it, without getting a penny for his work. This, too, she blamed on Julia, as ‘no good had ever or could ever come through a girl like that’. She was equally convinced that George could have had nothing but trouble with her.

     ‘Wouldn’t it be wiser for us to keep well away from her now?’ I suggested somewhat hesitantly. realising as I spoke that I had referred to her and me as us’ quite unintentionally.

     She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s not the girl I’m interested in’, she said and it sounded to me almost as though she was trying to convince herself. ‘It is the tiger. I simply must get it back. Can’t you see, I have no choice’.

     ‘I’m not so sure’, I mumbled half under my breath. Then, quite suddenly, the wish to find out more about the girl began to obsess me in the most extraordinary way. I still don’t know how it happened, but I was aware of a tremendous curiosity, almost like an itch which needed relief; or a greed for food, stimulated by the smell of cooking. Mrs. Friedmann was certainly co-operative and I soon obtained the following information:

     Julia’s family situation was quite involved. Her parents had split up, the child having been brought up mainly by her grandmother, a Mrs. Brentford who, Mrs. Friedmann assured me, had also had her share of trouble with the girl. She described her as a frail old lady, quite at a loss to understand her granddaughter for whom she felt, nevertheless, very responsible. Mrs. Friedmann had gone to see her, as a last resort, she said, a few months before the old lady’s death. Alexander, when he had found out about it, was furious with her, although Julia had been a real burden to him for quite some time even then. ‘I could never make Alex out over that girl’, she sighed. ‘He seemed to hate her, really hate her. And yet if anyone would try to help him get rid of her, he immediately turned against that person. We had terrible scenes. He swore he would have nothing more to do with the girl and the next day invited her to the theatre or even took her with him on holiday. And when her dog was sick, it was unbelievable the trouble he went to over that dog of hers. He insisted on getting a vet he could really trust, a top man. Nothing was too expensive or too difficult. I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have gone to that much trouble if the girl herself had been ill — or anyone else for that matter’.

     ‘Well, maybe he wanted her to have the tiger after all’.

     Mrs. Friedmann glared at me as though she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How can you say such a thing’, she said at last, trying hard to control herself.

     ‘Well, he obviously didn’t hate her all the time. You said so yourself’.

     ‘Alex couldn’t hate anyone all the time. He was kindness itself, that was the trouble. She simply took advantage of him — she had a terrible effect on him too’.

     ‘Was she never kind to anyone?’

     ‘Only to animals. I don’t think she knew that people have feelings. Only she had feelings and they had to be satisfied. In the end she generally got things her own way — except for one particular matter’. There was a malicious smile on Mrs. Friedmann’s face which I hadn’t expected. ‘She couldn’t possess Alex. He refused to belong to her exclusively’.

     ‘You mean, he wouldn’t marry her’.

     ‘He certainly refused to marry her’.

     ‘But she never gave up hope either’.

     ‘No, she didn’t. She tried again and again, she just wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was nothing she left untried. She even managed to make herself acceptable to me — for a time’.

     ‘Was she ever pregnant?’

     Mrs. Friedmann shook her head. ‘Alex had too much sense for that. When he noticed her iron determination to cling to him, he had no further physical contact with her’.

     ‘That must have been hard on her’.

     ‘She survived, but he didn’t’.

     ‘Have you any real proof that Julia did, in fact, take away the tiger?’

     ‘Who else could have taken it? It was gone after she’d left. Besides, I know that she was crazy about it. You should have seen her eyes the day Alex put that tiger in my lap. George Sacks is also sure she took it. Didn’t he tell you so?’

     ‘Not conclusively, I think’.

     ‘Well, such a thing can only be conclusive when you’ve retrieved it. That’s obvious, isn’t it?’

     This time I sighed and shook my head.

     ‘You’re not doubting my word, are you?’

     ‘I don’t really know what to think. I wish you could forget the whole business. It seems out of proportion to hang your heart on this . . . . . well, it’s only a piece of metal when all is said and done. Why must you cling to it so much?’

     ‘The tiger has to go to my sister’s children’.

     ‘To America?’

     ‘To wherever they are’.

     ‘Have they seen the tiger? Do they know anything about it?’

     ‘That’s beside the point. It belongs to the family and they are the next link. If you don’t understand this, I can’t explain’.

     ‘Perhaps I do understand. I’m not sure’. I took out my notebook. ‘Will you give me the late Mrs. Brentford’s address? I should like to have a look at the cottage. One of the neighbours may be able to tell me something about Julia, surely they’ll remember her, even if she has moved away’.

     She nodded. ‘It was in Harrow, in West Street. I don’t remember the number though. You could still find it in one of the old ‘phone books, I should think. Anyway, West Street isn’t very long. It was almost opposite a little greengrocer’s shop’.

     ‘I’ll find it. I know the district quite well, my own home isn’t very far away. It’s a little old village street. The labourers from the big estate used to live there once upon a time, I believe’.

     I then questioned Mrs. Friedmann about Julia’s training and occupation and learned that she had been to an art school and afterwards worked for some friends in Carnaby Street, window dressing. Also that she never seemed short of money. ‘People with money are generally more elusive than those without’, I commented, but added quickly a little more hopefully: ‘I’ll see what I can do’.

     Mrs. Friedmann stretched out her hands towards me as though she was begging for alms. ‘You will find the tiger for me, won’t you?’

     ‘I said, I would try. You may still have to resign yourself . . . . .’ I suddenly felt extremely tired.

     ‘No no. You mustn’t talk to me of resignation. I have no time left for that, don’t you understand?’

     ‘I’m trying to, Mrs. Friedmann. I’m trying to understand all kinds of things’.

     As soon as I left Mrs. Friedmann’s room and set foot in the passage I saw Bella coming out of her door, her eyes big with curiosity. ‘Well, any news? Come and tell me all about it, Clara’.

     I shook my head. ‘You and your crazy ideas. At long last my life becomes reasonably peaceful and, immediately, you send me off to hunt tigers’.

     She giggled, pulling me into the room. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Clara, it’s only one tiger, isn’t it?

     ‘I suppose one isn’t enough for you. Anyway, there’s that mad girl Julia Maples who sounds worse than ten live tigers. George Sacks, alias Hans Georg Sachinsky, certainly hates her guts’.

     ‘How d’you know? Did he get in touch with you?’

     ‘No, I went to see him’.

     ‘Did you say his name used to be Sachinsky?’

     ‘I did. And he recognised me. He was my art master at the Grunewald Schule in 1938. Incredible, isn’t it?’

     ‘I knew him too. My brother arranged an exhibition for him, at my sister-in-law’s villa in Nicolassee. She was a great art lover and a millionairess, you may perhaps remember. There was always something or other going on at the house. And Leo was quite an admirer of Sachinsky. He thought he was a young man with real talent’.

     ‘He isn’t a young man now. And with regard to his talent, well, I didn’t see his work . . . . . It was all packed away, ready for the move, I imagine, as the house is due for demolition at any moment’.

     ‘And was he able to tell you anything about the whereabouts of that girl or the tiger?’

     ‘Not so far. I’m just trying to fill in the background a bit, and I’m very doubtful how much further I can get. It’s a crazy idea anyway

     ‘But you like crazy ideas, Clara. You’ve always been full of them’.

     ‘That’s why I could have done very nicely without this one. I wish I knew where that damned girl has got to though. And I find it a bit hard to imagine how I’m supposed to succeed where, apparently, a whole fleet of solicitors weren’t able to do a thing’.

     She laughed. ‘So you’ve become interested. And I’m sure you’ll think of something. You haven’t exactly a limited imagination, have you?’

     I ignored her remark. ‘Tell me something about the Sachinsky you knew. What was his work like? Did it appeal to you?’

     ‘To tell you the truth, it’s so very long ago, it’s hard for me to recollect what it was like. But I do remember Leo being most enthusiastic about it and, in that case, I could have hardly cared for it. I’m pretty certain most of his paintings were very unconventional, violent colour and violent feeling, the sort of thing that appealed to my brother, which he seemed to value more than anything else’.

     ‘I suppose that’s why he married Liane Wolfsohn’.

     Bella laughed. ‘Yes, probably. I never thought about it that way’.

     ‘What about his family?’

     ‘But Leo had no children, apart from his step-daughter, who was about his own age. His wife was nearly twenty years older than himself’.

     ‘Amusing’.

     ‘My mother didn’t find it quite so amusing’.

     ‘I suppose millionairesses can get away with murder’.

     Bella shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well she certainly survived her young husband by many years.’

     ‘But she didn’t kill him?’

     ‘No, I didn’t say that. She was as heartbroken when he died. It was all so very unexpected of course. Heart-failure at thirty-five . . . . .’

     ‘I know. Terrible’. After a moment of fitting silence, I said: ‘I was actually asking you after Sachinsky’s family’.

     ‘Sachinsky’s family? No, I don’t think I’ve ever met any of them. His wife might have been at the opening of the exhibition, but it’s well over thirty years years ago, you know. I’ve got an idea that there was a little girl, in fact I’m almost certain about it. And if I’m not mistaken, Sachinsky’s wife and child went to America before he had a chance to get out of Germany’.

     ‘How old would Sachinsky have been at the time, I wonder?’

     ‘Hanschen Sachinsky? In his early twenties, no more’.

     ‘Clean-shaven?’

     ‘Oh yes. Why?’

     ‘That’s how I remember him too. He looks different now’.

     She sighed. ‘People change in over thirty years. And outwardly often more than inwardly’.

     It was hard not to get involved into a long discussion about age and change with Bella. As always, she tried to tell me that she didn’t really feel as old as she might look. And as always, I sympathised. I managed to steer the conversation to a slightly different subject: Bella’s childhood in Berlin. Since she was inclined to dwell more and more on her past, generally complaining that there was no future left for her in any case, I had recently persuaded her to start on an auto-biography which I was typing for her in instalments. For a time we’d both enjoyed this work but, recently, my enthusiasm had diminished considerably and I always felt rather dishonest when I encouraged her to continue, trying to convince her that her reminiscences were both interesting and valuable, and not just to me alone. It was therefore a relief when the gong went for the evening meal and I could get away.

     Having left the car in the Swiss Cottage car park, as the parking space outside Jerusalem House is generally very limited, I walked leisurely along Eaton Avenue. Much of the pavement was covered in fallen leaves from the plain trees lining the road, and I was deliberately dragging my feet through them, deriving special satisfaction from the rustling of the dry leaves. Moving mainly in the shadows of the trees I was hardly visible in the poorly lit-up road and, for a time, I dwelt in a world of my own, filled with a strange sense of wellbeing.

     Suddenly there is the tiger before me, but it’s large and alive. The rustling from under my feet continues, though I’m now walking through waist-high grass. (It is a somewhat different sound of course, but that doesn’t strike me until later). The sun is burning straight down on me and I feel the heat like a heavy burden. I continue in spite of it, my narrowed eyes following each of the tiger’s movements, the distance between us always remaining the same, with the tiger apparently quite unaware of my presence. Then the grass vanishes and the tiger with it. Voices reach my ear. But they remain dark sounds which I cannot identify. Are they orders or exchanges of information? Will I ever see the speakers?

     I walk on slowly until I find myself in front of a house with a big black man standing in the open doorway. He is wrapped in a fur rug. Looking at me with large shining eyes he now beckons to me with both his bent index fingers of his hands. His feet are bare. Large well-shaped toes. I want to touch them. I open my mouth. Because I suddenly feel thirsty. Because I must speak to him. No word comes. I’m trying to shout, but the air in my lungs is insufficient. The black man smiles at me and reveals his bare body under his fur wrap. It is a powerful body. His penis is errect, pointing at me. I stretch out my hand. The penis has turned white — or else a moon beam is reflecting from the wrap. I don’t know. My eyes smart as though I’ve been looking into the sun and I can no longer distinguish any details of the man’s body.

     I want to ask the black man a question. It is burning in my mind, in my mouth, but what it is I don’t know. What could he tell me? To my surprise I now hear myself whispering without really recognising the voice as my own: ‘Where is the tiger’.

     The black man steps back into the house. I can feel his eyes on me. Like searchlights moving from limb to limb, but avoiding my face. Any moment now I shall feel his eyes pin-pointed on one particular part of my body. Where will it be?

     After a while my eyes no longer smart and I can open them fully. I can open them fully. I can see the man nodding to me repeatedly. I know he is expecting me to follow him into the house. I’m resisting. I’m standing stiffly to attention and can hear my own voice speaking up clearly: ‘I’m looking for Julia Maples’.

     The man’s mouth opens wide and his words reach me like slow rain drops from a dark sky before a storm. ‘I have turned her into a tiger’.

     ‘That’s impossible’, I argue. ‘The tiger in question is too small’.

     ‘Size is irrelevant’. The man laughs out aloud. I can see his bare belly shaking with laughter while I’m peering into his navel. A dark purple navel. I’ve never seen one like it before. I step nearer. Suddenly from its depth a green forked tongue flicks forward towards me.

     Immediately I recoil. ‘I’m not playing with fire’, I can hear myself say sternly.

     It was 7.30 p.m. when I passed the clock at Swiss Cottage Station. I had to drive with special care between the road barriers, part of the road-widening scheme which has been under way for at least five years now. I felt hungry and stopped outside a small restaurant in Finchley Road for a snack. As it happened I met a former patient from the physiotherapy unit and couldn’t escape his invitation to a meal. It was all quite enjoyable, but I found it hard to concentrate on casual conversation. Mr. S. is a pleasant enough person, about my own age, and very keen to see me again. He has a new car and his wife is visiting her ailing mother in South Africa, for the next few weeks — at least. (He added the at least with a special emphasis!). He was obviously lonely, suggested taking me to the opera or the theatre, as he can get tickets through some special contact. Tempting propositions, I suppose, except that they didn’t tempt me. I made various excuses, finally wrote down his ‘phone number, in case I found a free evening after all.