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

    It is the first time that Charles Dickens has come to our bedroom, to the house itself, I think.  Usually it is when I am travelling in the car with Ray, or if I am walking alone somewhere. He comes I suppose when my attention is free for him and all his questions.  So many times he has joined us in the car that his first amazement at the sights of the motorways, the car itself, the speed, the lights, has faded down to an intelligent appreciation.  I must say I never tire of answering his questions, as far as I can.  It is always pleasant to show someone round when what is all new to him is all familiar to oneself.  One catches a little of his fresh approach.
 
    Charles said, this morning, as he settled his portly but insubstantial figure between Ray and me - Do you think Ray will mind?  Ray was sitting up himself, we had our tea, but Ray was hardly awake nevertheless.  He doesn’t know you’re here, I said, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.  He knows you’re with us sometimes in the car, but he’s not really aware, just a little amused!

    This is a very nice bed, I must say, said Charles, but I won’t bother you too much about details.  I’m sure there’s something different about these sheets, the material, and I see you have those cold lights in your house as on the motorways.  But you often use the word ‘plastic’.  What exactly is that?  We used the word in my time for something pliable, soft, not rigid.  We then indulged in a few words about plastics, of which despite their familiarity and constant use, I know little except that the material is not mined or grown, but I think, as I told him, mineral oil has something to do with it.  I explained the term ‘man-made’, which term displays our naivete, despite all our clever knowledge.

    But Charles Dickens had another tack this morning, which he wanted to follow.  He said - You call me Charles, now, and at first it was ‘Mr Dickens’.  Well, I said, we are friends now.  But do you mind my using your first name?  No, he said, frankly.  He is always very straight.  But why Charles Dickens?  Because - I hesitated - that’s who you are, aren’t you?  How did you know?  he asked next.  I didn’t introduce myself.  I said, I seemed to know inside my head who you were, right from the first.  I have read and re-read so many of your novels, which re-create the past for me, and when you started coming like this I felt pleased to see your surprise and interest in everything today.  It often makes me see things differently, in a new light.  But are you saying you’re not Charles Dickens?

    I’m not sure, he said.  I remember my life on earth, remember all that writing, reading my tales to audiences, all the work, and my wife, poor soul, and the children.  I was so incensed at the cruelty of life to poor women and children, and men too, and I remember my own bitter pains as a boy, and how I expiated them in my novels.  Yet in the end I too inflicted unfairness, cruelty even, on a number of people, and with deep regret I remember that.

    I have Peter Ackroyd’s life of you, I said.  It stands on my shelf, still warm, waiting to be read.  Were you aware of Peter when he was writing that great book of your life?  Of course, said Charles.  We were together often, over a period of years, but now I think his attentions are elsewhere.  He’s very busy writing, just as I was.

    You must find visiting me a very poor substitute for your relationship with Peter.  No, he said, it’s different, perhaps more pleasurable.  He thought for a moment, then continued.  With Peter, it was a question of his dragging me through my past, the good and the bad.  I even experienced the agony of my last moments, again and again.  But I also met a number of interesting characters in that fertile brain of Peter’s - Shakespeare, Moliere, Shelley - it was amazing.  But I rarely saw anything of this world except Peter’s untidy, stifling study.  Though my own writing corners, it would put to shame!  But coming to you I have seen so much, learned so much.  But I wonder why you called me, when you could be familiar with so many other writers and poets of the past?

    I thought hard about this, but I could not remember that I had called.  You came, I said, but whether I called you or not I can’t say.  You came - I thought - Here’s Charles Dickens! - and we started to talk.

    Charles had another line of thought - he seems unsure of his own identity.  I think I am a figment, he said.  I remember more and more of other lives I’ve led, and I can even remember what must be your future, or the world’s future.

    I looked at Charles, for he was losing me.  I was accustomed to this pleasant soul who would appear beside me, and want to know so many details of our present daily lives.  I could see him plainly, now dressed in his outdoor clothes, a little splash of egg on his cravat.  Yet through him I could see the sheets, the flowers on the quilt, my husband’s arm where he dozed in ignorance of our bedfellow.

    A figment?  I asked.  To me, you’re a real person.  We converse, don’t we?  Or do I imagine your questions?  But Charles had gone.  I felt we had explored in all the wrong directions.  I could have told him more about plastics, the new, or newish craze for the duvet, the indispensable ball-point pen.

    I hope he comes again, my friend, Charles Dickens.