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

     After my somewhat strange outing to Harrow this morning I spent the afternoon painting, getting on quite well. The light was different from the early hours of the day. The shadows from my plants had shifted, as from all the other subjects in the room of course. Looking out of the window I was startled by the change in the colours of the wall opposite my house. It’s a small brick wall, belonging to the front garden. I’d watched it being built two years ago. Now the bricks have mellowed into various shades of green, bluish greys, some with yellow tints.

     Watching the rather limited view from my loft window is becoming somewhat of a daily ceremony. There is the Hill and the church on the horizon and a few clusters of houses and trees behind the park and sports grounds stretching up to the railway-lines. Railway-lines always remind me of mathematics lessons at school. Parellels meet in the infinite. This statement has never quite ceased to preoccupy me, as I could never really grasp it. I’m still trying to visualize the infinite. Something without a limit, without an end, that isn’t a shape. I suppose I’m just not able to think in the abstract at all. (Or to think at all, according to one of Bob’s often repeated humorous’ remarks).

     Meeting in the infinite is another way of saying, not meeting. Parallels do not meet. It’s a very simple statement. Why did it have to be made so complicated by adding this possibility of meeting? Or by not ruling it out once and for all? Otherwise almost anything could be possible.

     Thinking about possibilities: it’s not possible to bring back to life people once they are actually dead, though even this has come a possibility in quite a few cases now. In fact the definition of death is not final either and may well be redefined. Though once a human body is burned to ashes or decomposition has set in, life is irrevocably extinguished. At least that’s what is still generally accepted. Or will we one day discover that all matter can be changed back to its original state, including the matter which makes up our bodies? It may be a crazy idea today and for a long time to come, but to me it is conceivable — or at least no less inconceivable than many of the things were which are now accepted facts in modern life.

     I’m also wondering whether everything that can be imagined by us could not become reality — or has been reality at some time or in some way. It’s a terrifying thought, but hardly more terrifying than life itself, where the most incredible things do take place.

     On the other hand it seems so difficult to trace a small metal object, taken away by a vicious girl from an old helpless woman. Or to find the girl. But to be fair, I haven’t been searching for long, though Mrs. Friedmann has left little untried, as I well know. According to recent information from Bella, obtained via Matron at Jerusalem House, no less than five solicitors have so far been involved in the search. Apparently a futile attempt has even been made at bribing the manager of one of the branches of Barclay’s Bank, where Julia has an account and which is her only available address for all communications, to reveal her whereabouts. Naturally Mrs. Friedmann would do much better to employ a detective agency. But this, I’m told, she stubbornly refuses to do. Anyway, she is now able to hang her hopes on me and, so far, no harm has been done.

     But supposing I did retrieve the tiger. Would this really make a difference to Mrs. Friedmann’s life, I wonder.

     Thinking about the tiger: I believe it’s the extraordinary significance it appears to possess which fascinates me so much. For Mrs. Friedmann, the girl Julia — and for me, too, of course. I’m even wondering whether this little metal sculpture could give out some kind of radiation which affected both Mrs. Friedmann and Julia, increasing their tolerance to the stresses of life to which they were exposed. Then, I might like to keep it myself! Oh well, as far as I’m concerned even the absent tiger appears to possess the power to stimulate my imagination to quite an unusual degree.

     As a child I used to treasure a ‘magic’ stick during a certain period of my life. Whenever I clasped it firmly in my hand I had the confidence to attempt various actions I would never normally have dared to do. Like jumping from the highest stone step in the park without getting hurt. Or going down the big slide into the deep end of the swimming pool. There were also one or two more heroic achievements which included flying and swimming right across the sea. But these my friends had to accept on trust, as they generally happened during the night . . . . .

     At this moment I can see myself walking along one of the roads in West Hampstead. Greencraft Avenue perhaps, or one of the avenues very much like it. I’m walking slowly. It’s afternoon and getting dark. The street lamps aren’t yet lit. I look at each house I pass, noticing the number, the colour of the front door, the curtains in the windows. There are hedges outside many of the houses partly obscuring the windows of the ground floors. I stop in front of an old red brick building. The top of this hedge is trimmed into waves. From where I’m standing I can get a good view of a large bay window. A light is switched on but the curtain remains drawn back. There’s a big clock on the far wall, like a moon with red hands. Like a picture book clock. A row of trees underneath the clock take up the whole length of the wall. Pine trees. They must be in pots, put the pots aren’t visible from outside the window. The clock seems to be lighting up the room. A dim light, I have to get used to it. I can see a door being opened and a woman enter the room. She is small with long tangled hair. She is wearing black tight-fitting trousers and a purple bra’. She is carrying something white in her arms. A white bundle, perhaps a baby. Now she lets herself drop into a large rocking chair quite close to the window. I’m expecting her to draw the curtains to stop me from observing her further, but she doesn’t. She lifts up the bundle with her two hands. It’s not a baby, it’s a little white dog. Quite a podgy dog, with a pink tongue hanging out of its snout. Now she is holding the dog in her right arm and lifts one of her breasts from the cup of the bra’. She puts the dog to her breast and suckles it. I step a little closer craning my neck. I wasn’t mistaken. The dog is drinking from her breast. I strain my eyes to see the woman’s face. I can’t, it is hidden by her hair. Now she moves her head closer towards the animal, half covering the little dog with her hair. I can no longer see the creature’s head, only its little rounded backside and its twitching tail. It’s getting cold, but I can’t tear myself away. A tight feeling constricts my throat and my mouth is filling with saliva. I may want to vomit. Suddenly firm footsteps along the garden path. A man’s footsteps, but I cannot see the man. A door-knocker is banged hard against the front door. It makes me jump. I hear a gruff voice: ‘Miss Julia Maples, please’. I catch my breath. I notice that the street lamps are now lit up and that the curtains have been drawn across the bay window. Only the outline of the moon clock is shining dimly through the material.

     At eight o’clock the ‘phone rang: ‘Donna Clara?’

     ‘Hänschen Sachinsky! Fancy you still remembering my nick-name from school. You must have an extraordinary memory’.

     ‘It’s not my memory, it’s my lack of ‘forgettory’. Have you found the beast yet?’

     ‘Which beast?’

     ‘The tiger, of course’.

     ‘How could I? Your Hampstead address was quite useless, I couldn’t find the damn place. It’s not even on the map’.

     ‘But I told you you wouldn’t find her there, didn’t I?’

     ‘I got some information about her in Harrow though’.

     ‘Clever girl. What did you find out?’

     That she’d been living there, even after her grandmother died’.

     ‘But do you know where she’s moved from there?’

     ‘She took her dogs to some farm belonging to a friend’.

     ‘A friend?’ He laughed.

     ‘D’you know him?’

     ‘Julia has no friends’.

     ‘He might have been a friend at the time, a friend of her dogs perhaps’.

     ‘You’re wasting your time, Clara’.

     ‘Perhaps I’ve nothing better to do’.

     ‘I thought you were a painter’.

     ‘I can’t paint all day long’.

     ‘Some people do’.

     ‘Some people, some people, I’m not some people. Anyway, I’m going to find her. So there.’

     ‘I’ve seen her’.

     ‘You have? Where?’

     ‘She’s taken to haunting my back garden at night’.

     ‘You mean your rubbish dump?’

     ‘I mean the open space at the back of this building’.

     ‘In this weather? Are you sure?’

     ‘Quite sure’.

     ‘Did you speak to her?’

     ‘Speak to her? Certainly not’.

     ‘Did you follow her home?’

     ‘No, my darling child, I did not follow her anywhere. I’ve got other things on my mind. I’ve got to get out of this damned place in two weeks. But I can assure you that she still comes here and spent at least part of last night at the back’.

     ‘Was she on her own’.

     ‘Quite on her own’.

     ‘Without a dog?’

     ‘She wouldn’t bring a dog out in this weather. What do you take her for?’

     ‘Is she there now?’

     ‘She might be. It’s dark’.

     ‘But you saw her in the dark before?’

     ‘There was a moon last night, for a while anyway’.

     ‘If she comes tonight . . . . . you couldn’t possibly give her . . . . . ask her . . . . . ?

     ‘Don’t be a fool, Clara. There’s nothing I can do or want to do. But I offer you a chair by my back window. Either in my work room or in the basement. Only the basement is very damp and there are mice. Gwen said she saw rats too, but she isn’t reliable, she exaggerates’.

     ‘Did she come back from the mental hospital?’

     ‘No, not so far. Are you coming over?’

     ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been out all morning, listening to mad accounts about Julia . . . . .’

     ‘You didn’t tell me that. Who did you talk to?’ ‘I went to one of the pubs on the Hill’.

     ‘Did you see Rainer?’

     ‘I don’t know his name.’

     ‘An elderly chap with a very bald head?’

     ‘Yes, that’d right’.

     ‘That’s John Rainer’.

     ‘D’you know him?’

     ‘Everyone knows him. He’s a shocking liar’.

     ‘Ohhh’.

     ‘What did he tell you?’

     ‘About Mrs. Brentford’s funeral. He said it was all in the local paper. Julia attended in a motorised invalid car with a whole bunch of dogs. D’you think he has made it all up?’ I made my account as brief as possible.

     ‘I’ve never heard about it before’.

     ‘He also said that Julia had been seen near the church with some bearded character, not so long ago. That wouldn’t have been you by any chance?’

     ‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘What an idea! Well, are you coming over?’

     ‘Is Louise there?’

     ‘Louise? Who is Louise?’

     ‘Never mind, it doesn’t make any difference anyway. I might drop in. I’m expecting a ‘phone call from abroad. If I get it soon, I’ll come afterwards. D’you want me to ring you first?’

     ‘No need for that. I’ll be in’.

     I left the house at nine, getting to Adelaide Road half an hour later. I parked the car at the corner of Winchester Road, approaching the house on foot. I was wearing rubber-soled shoes which made me walk almost soundlessly. Keeping in the shadow of the garden walls, I stopped every few yards to take a careful look around. Hardly anyone about. Once the 31 bus passed me, in the direction of Swiss Cottage. For a moment I thought I could see Louise on it, in animated conversation with a West Indian woman. But she was fashionably dressed in a bright green coat, her red hair covering her shoulders. It was mainly the way she held her head which made me think of Louise, and the red hair of course, and her very white skin. Though thinking back to it now, the picture strikes me as much too bright for the time of night, even if the bus was well lit. But there it is.

     The front of the house was completely dark. A street lamp lit up the garden. The side gate stood ajar. I wished there would have been snow on the ground, so I could have seen whether any fresh footmarks led to the back of the house. I tiptoed to the gate feeling most uncomfortable. I’m not afraid of the dark, but it does seem to hold potential threats. The gate creaked slightly. I waited, holding my breath. There was hardly any wind to absorb the sound of the moving gate. I decided to wait until a car or another bus would pass the house, and then enter the back garden under the cover of the sounds from it. I didn’t have to wait long. Two cars drove up braking sharply in front of the house opposite. Doors were banged. I couldn’t see the people leaving the car as by then I was already on the inside of the gate. Everything pitch black. At least for a while, until the light from a top window of the new block of flats picked out a narrow strip along the hedge to my right. The noise from a train speeding along the tracks between Adelaide and King Henry’s Road encouraged me to move a few yards forward. More milk bottle crates to my left. Cold iron and glass. Grit and dust sticking to my fingers. Unwashed bottles obviously. Then a man’s loud voice from the road: ‘Oh come on, Ginny, don’t play the fool’.

     Why shouldn’t she play the fool, I wondered. It’s not always easy to play the fool. To play the fool well . . . . . to play anything well, realty convincingly . . . . . one has to believe in it, in some way at any rate.

     Now, a woman’s voice a little closer: ‘Why can’t you leave me alone? Leave me alone, will you. Go away, piss off!’

     ‘Ginny!’

     ‘O.K., so I’m not a lady. What the hell d’you want?’

     For a moment I expected them to come into the garden, but they passed the house. They were both laughing, both playing their game.

     I was now leaning against the trunk of a large horse-chestnut. The shadow of the tree swallowed me up completely. My eyes had got used to the dark. None of the windows at the back of the house showed any trace of light. I couldn’t imagine that George Sacks was in — unless he’d gone to one of the front rooms the moment I’d come to the back, looking out for me from there . . . . .

     Apart from the occasional rustling of leaves or old newspapers, there was no sound and no movement around me. Until a cat came jumping over the fence. A black cat, very slim and graceful and obviously familiar with the neighbourhood. It saw me, arched its back but ignored me a moment later, concentrating its attention on the milk crates. Gwen might have been in the habit of putting milk or scraps out for it. But Gwen was no longer about and the cat lost itself in the dark.

     I began to get impatient and had just decided to leave the garden when I noticed some movement on the scrap heap with the tattered umbrella. Suddenly I saw her clearly before me. She had grown out of the rubbish pile, a small slim person, as they’d described her to me. She was holding the umbrella over her head, the broken spikes with the torn cloth hiding most of her face. When the wind moved the flapping cloth I managed to get a brief glimpse of it. It was a very round face with large eyes, like two dark holes, and a gaping mouth. I thought I could hear her call out, and I bent forward anxious to catch what she was saying. The same instant a train rattled past and immediately afterwards a car drove up outside the house. Its head lights reached a corner of the back garden through the half open gate, picking out another crate with empty bottles I hadn’t noticed before. A second later the lights were switched off, the motor stopped and I could hear voices. First, undoubtedly, George Sacks’, saying cheerfully: ‘Well, here we are, Charlie’. Then another voice, presumably Charlie’s: ‘Come on, Sonny, wakey, wakey!’ The banging of two car doors, footsteps through the front garden, up the stone steps to the entrance. George’s laughter, very deep and good humoured, probably in response to some remark from Charlie or Sonny. I expected the front door to be closed forcefully, but no sound came.

     A few minutes later two large squares of light fell on the garden from the two top windows. I welcomed the light. I would be able to see her better. But when I looked again there was no sign of her. Only the torn umbrella flapping in the wind and a sheet of white paper stuck to the branch of a small prickly tree. My hands and feet were numb with cold and I decided to go into the house.

     I found the front door on the latch and walked straight upstairs. The light-switch didn’t work, but I didn’t mind the dark. I could hear voices from the upper floor, a relief after my eerie wait in the garden. When I reached the third landing I called out by way of announcing myself: ‘Anyone in?’ Immediately I felt selfconscious. Obviously, someone was in. I could hear them talking. My presence wasn’t noticed until I’d knocked firmly at the multi-coloured door. A voice said: ‘George, a knock. You’re not expecting anyone, are you?’

     Then the other voice: ‘Lord, it isn’t Julia by any chance? I’m off’.

     And George’s voice: ‘Don’t be a fool, she can’t be in two places at the same time, can she?’

     ‘That’s what you think’.

     I knocked again, half opening the door. ‘Hallo’.

     The three men were standing between table and window, their faces turned towards me. George called out: ‘Come on in and shut the door. This is Charlie and Sonny. Donna Clara’.

     They nodded, staring at me with their mouths half open. I nodded back. ‘Hallo. I hope I’m not disturbing’.

     ‘And what would you do if you were disturbing us?’ George appeared clearly hostile. I decided not to take him seriously. Charlie seemed embarrassed. I could see he wanted to please me. He was dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a white shirt, his smooth brilliantined hair tidily parted in the middle. He had the manner of an efficient salesman. ‘Get the lady a chair, Sonny!’ He directed the puny young man in dark green very tight trousers with a frilly bright orange shirt. George immediately butted in: ‘Perhaps the lady doesn’t want to stay’.

     I heard myself say: ‘The lady wants to stay a little while at least, since Mr. Sacks kindly asked her to come and see him’.

     Half embarrassed looks between Charlie and Sonny.

     George said: ‘That was several hours ago’.

     ‘Meanwhile, I’ve been keeping a watchful eye on the house and the garden’.

     George turned to the two men with a peculiar grin on his face: ‘Clara is looking for Miss Maples’.

     Sonny sniggered: ‘Not for Julia?’

     Charlie, quite puzzled, looked first at George then at me, shrugged his shoulders and, finally with a gentlemanly gesture, brought me a chair. I thanked him, unbuttoned my coat, sat down and said: ‘So it seems the lady is known to you all’.

     ‘Lady? She’s no more a lady than I am — well, a lot less, I think’.

     Charlie disapproved of Sonny’s remark, saying: ‘Now now, watch your lip, boy’.

     George inquired: ‘Well, did you see her?’

     ‘I didn’t see her leave. When you drove up in the car she’d suddenly disappeared. So I came upstairs. I’m wondering whether I imagined it all’.

     Sonny said gleefully: That was her, all right’.

     ‘Did you ever see her in the garden?’ I asked him.

     ‘Sure. And she looks a real sight. She never stays long. I think she came round the back through some hole in the fence. Climbs up from the embankment’.

     I could see Charlie raising his eyebrows doubtfully and George obviously taking in the whole situation with unconcealed pleasure.

     ‘Did you ever follow her?’ I asked Sonny. ‘D’you know where she is living at present?’

     He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Could be a number of places. She never stays long in one place. She thinks someone is after her’.

     ‘Have you known her long?’

     Sonny laughed. ‘A darn sight too long, if you ask me’.

     ‘She used to work for me before I met Mr. Sacks’, Charlie explained politely.

     ‘Yes, I had to buy her off him’.

     ‘In a manner of speaking’.

     ‘I see’. But I had no idea what to make of the whole conversation.

     Charlie looked at his watch and then at Sonny: ‘We must be off, we’re late already. Well, let me have three of them, George. Red frames again, the same size. O.K.?’

     ‘I’ll give you a ring when they’re ready’.

     ‘Thanks. As soon as poss’.

     ‘He’s counting the days’, Sonny sneered.

     They left, having first bowed to me respectfully.

     I knew George was watching me and I could sense that he enjoyed my confusion. I didn’t say: You’re keeping strange company. I didn’t say: Who are they, brothel keepers or art dealers? In fact I was suddenly no longer sure how much of the past hour I’d imagined and how much I’d experienced. Then I heard George say: ‘You’re tired, Clara’. ‘Yes, I’m very tired’, I heard myself answer. ‘It’s all a wild goose chase, isn’t it?’

     George laughed. ‘I don’t know. You tell me’.

     ‘Did you really see her in your garden?’

     ‘Well, didn’t you?’

     ‘I’ve never met her, so how can I tell?’

     ‘But you thought you saw her?’

     ‘I thought I saw someone — for a few minutes only’.

     ‘Well, Sonny was quite sure it was Julia. You heard him, didn’t you?’

     ‘And who is this Sonny? Charlie’s lap dog, anything more?’

     ‘They’re all members of a club’.

     ‘What kind of a club?’

     ‘I can’t tell you’.

     I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Why not? Is it against the law? Anyway, I’m not a policewoman’.

     He looked at me with acted suspicion. ‘I’m not so sure’.

     ‘I suppose you’re a member too?’

     ‘They would like to think so’.

     ‘But you’re not?’

     ‘I’m not sure’.

     I shook my head. ‘You’re not sure of me, you’re not sure of them. What are you sure of?’

     ‘I’m sure of not being sure’. He looked sad.

     ‘You’re so different from the other night, George. Everything’s so different’.

     ‘Everything is different all the time. Haven’t you learned that yet?’

     ‘In my experience things don’t change much at all. It only seems as though they do, from time to time’.

     ‘Does that please you?’

     ‘Please me? That’s hardly the point, is it?’

     ‘Well, do you like to find things unchanged or do you prefer the unexpected?’

     ‘It depends on the unexpected’.

     He smiled. ‘Hm, I suppose it would do’.

     I looked around the bare walls of the room. ‘Strange that you don’t have a single painting here . . . . . Where d’you hide your work? I would like to see some’.

     ‘It’s all gone. I couldn’t wait for the last moment. The house is due to come down any day now’.

     ‘But you’re still here’.

     ‘So it seems’.

     ‘Where will you move to?’

     ‘No fixed address’.

     ‘Like Julia?’

     He laughed. ‘I must go up to Scotland for a bit, I’ve got some of my early work in a friend’s hut on Lewis. If any of it is left, that is. Then I might go abroad for a while. There are some people in East Germany who keep pestering me to come and see them. I haven’t quite decided’.

     ‘When will you know?’

     ‘Want me to tell you?’ He suddenly sounded very gentle.

     I nodded. ‘It seems sad that this house has to come down. It’s still a nice house and it has quite an atmosphere’.

     ‘It’s just a house. Perhaps they’ll build a better one’.

     ‘Was that club ever here? I was just wondering . . . . .’

     He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact it started in the basement, that was before Alexander Freeman bought the house. It was hardly the right district for it anyway’.

     ‘But what sort of a club is it?’

     ‘It’s for people who want a change. Who want to try out being someone else’.

     ‘Transvestites?’

     ‘Not necessarily’.

     ‘What do they do? Dress up and do play acting?’

     ‘Yes, that sort of thing’.

     ‘And Charlie and Sonny, for instance, what sort of costumes do they dress up in?’

     ‘Well, you saw them’.

     ‘D’you mean to say, they were not themselves?’

     He laughed. ‘They were themselves all right, but not their everyday selves’.

     They chose to dress and act in this particular way?’

     He nodded. ‘There’s nothing very special about that, is there?’

     ‘I don’t know. It depends on what they really are. What are their jobs?’

     ‘I mustn’t tell you that. You would hardly recognise them if you saw them.

     ‘Extraordinary’. I shrugged my shoulders. ‘And you, George, d’you also lead these different lives?’

     ‘What d’you think?’ He looked me curiously up and down.

     ‘I’ve no idea. I’m just wondering whether I could have run into you when you were in some guise or other. You couldn’t have been Louise . . . . . You might have been that bottle exchanger . . . . .’

     He chuckled. No, that’s Sid. He no longer belongs to the club, he plays his game on his own now. He says it’s cheaper’.

     ‘And these paintings of yours in red frames, what have they got to do with all this?’

     ‘You really want to know everything, Clara’.

     ‘Well, I find it rather puzzling’.

     ‘I can see that’. He smiled. ‘The paintings are fancy-dress portraits — more or less. A remunerative side-line’.

     ‘And Julia Maples, how did she get mixed up in all this?’

     ‘That’s a very long story. Let’s say, she helped with the costumes. She is very good with her hands’.

     ‘And now she is walking about in a hundred guises so that it’s quite impossible to find her ever’.

     ‘It probably makes it harder’. George looked at his wrist watch. ‘I’m sorry, I must go out again’.

     ‘Can I give you a lift?’

     ‘No, thank you’.

     We left the house together, he hurrying towards Camden Town.