A World of Other People (12 page)

You close the front door behind you, follow the garden path that cuts the trimmed lawn in two, then hear the click of the front gate as it shuts once more. A bird lifts its head from under its wing, notes the shadowy visitor by the gate and follows, with keen night eyes, as the figure steps back into the wide, tree-lined, suburban street. All is hushed and still. The moon glances down and with the faintest of nods acknowledges the brief return of the native. There is no war here. Not in these wide, peaceful streets. The world is not at war, for the inhabitants of these streets sleep the deep sleep of a different history and the rhythms of their sleep rise and fall to a different measure of time.

The drone of engines enters the world of quiet, peaceful streets and his eyes slowly open to a dark room and, out there in the night, foreign fields. He has
slept long and deeply. It is almost two in the morning and the raiders he saw depart are now returning, one by one. And he counts them, knowing that their number will not be the same as when they left. And as he counts them in he is contemplating the question of which of the crews that left will not be there in the mess for breakfast.

Awake now, he steps outside, taking in the stragglers still landing, the revving of lorries driving out to the drop-off and pick-up zones and the distant glow of the runway lights stretching into the darkness like so many party lanterns on a pleasure barge. Then he is peering out over the farming fields, and further again, over land and sea, over mountains, deserts and jungles, to that world of wide, tree-lined, suburban streets and sleeping houses that acknowledges none of this.

And all the time, he is aware that she is doing something. Right now. And sadness, like the darkness, falls upon him. And this world of thousand-bomber raids, unfortunate villages and unlucky death comes down to this: the insistent thought that she is doing something, right now.

Winter has come and the air is bitterly cold. Surely it will snow soon. Perhaps tonight. His overcoat and hat don’t keep the cold out. South Kensington isn’t exactly Jim’s patch, nor is a poetry reading his idea of a night out when he’s on leave, but he saw the notice in the newspaper. A small one, saying that Mr T.S. Eliot would read from his latest poem. And it gave the name of the poem, but he’s forgotten it. And as much as Jim likes poetry, he would rather read the stuff than have someone read to him. It takes something away from the experience, he muses as he leaves the Gloucester Road Underground and walks towards the church on the other side of the street, rather than adding to it. Too much to look at, too much to take in.
Too many distractions, that’s it. No, there’s nothing like the experience of just the page and you. His studies in philosophy have told him, and he knows the idea goes right back, that stories and poems are best told. Or read aloud, presumably by someone practised in the art of storytelling. That words are meant to be heard. That there is written language and spoken language and that spoken language is better. It reunites us with that tribal experience of gathering in a hut or a cave and listening to some bloody hunting story or other about spearing a mammoth. We hear the words, sense the tone of the storyteller’s voice and see the gestures and whatnot that go with it. Reading a book alone in your room is supposed to rob us of this. But it’s all a distraction to Jim. He’d rather just the book and his room any time.

But he’s here now, and he stands in front of the church, St Stephen’s, reminding himself that he’d rather just read the thing and hear the voice of his own making. In short, he’d rather a private experience. But he knows that this is Iris’s church. Or, rather, the church she attended when she went to church. This is also Mr Eliot’s church. He learned this, too, from Iris. And the poet’s presence here tonight just might bring
her back. So the fact is he’s not here for the poetry or Mr Eliot or anything of the sort, but in hope. That she might be here. He can’t call her, or he is convinced he can’t. She doesn’t want to be called. But if they were to meet accidentally, if they were to bump into each other ‘accidentally-on-purpose’, as the phrase goes, that would be different. And so here he is, for the sadness that is too deep for anger and which will not go away has brought him here. He has never seen the church before, but since their separation it has assumed the status of a special place. Where she was to be found once. And where there still might be something left of her. Or where she might be found again. He lifts his coat collar and looks up, noting that light snow has begun to fall. For the air cannot stay this cold and not become snow.

Leaving the weather behind he steps inside the church, immediately surprised by the crowd and by the vastness of the church itself. It’s not exactly a cathedral, but it’s not that far short of one either. And that’s a surprise, for Iris never really let on about that, and so he’s always thought of her church as more intimate. At the same time he is asking himself if ‘crowd’ is the right word. Does a church play host
to a ‘crowd’? Like contemplations of reading and being read to, it takes his mind off things. And he is always relieved to have his mind taken off things, to learn that an hour, say, has passed, and that he hadn’t noticed. He looks around, hurriedly scanning the faces of the assembly that may or may not be a crowd, but he can’t see her. She will not come. He is convinced. It is a pointless trip. All the same, he is here now, and so he takes his place on a pew that he has pretty much to himself and waits.

Until an hour ago Iris had every intention of being there. She too had read the notice in the paper. And although she too prefers the privacy of one’s room and one’s chosen book, she’d felt drawn to the reading. She was even looking forward to it. In spite of the cold. But then one of the women in the office, who was rostered for fire-watching duties that evening, fell sick. And Iris, asked to fill in, could find no reason not to. So instead of going to the church, accidentally bumping into Jim and sitting with him through the reading and following the night to whatever conclusion it might have come to, she is standing on the rooftop of the Treasury, looking for firecrackers.

There is disappointment in her heart; she hasn’t looked forward to much lately, but she had been looking forward to this evening before her plans were upended. And it wasn’t just the reading or Mr Eliot that she was anticipating, but also the church itself. Her old church. She hasn’t been inside a church, her own or anyone else’s, for a long time — for nowadays she feels as though she needs a reason to be in one. And so, with every good reason for being there, she is not exactly disconsolate, but peevish, even grumpy, as the evening begins.

And while she is registering the disappointment of not being there, she is also contemplating those occasional impulses to return to the church, for she has long since ceased to believe any of it — God, Holy Ghosts and virgin mothers — and she’s also wondering how on earth she could have believed any of it in the first place, or when we ditch the whole business, if something always stays on: the lingering incense, the comfort of ritual, the superstition of the atheist. Is it, she’s wondering, eyeing the dark, silent city spread out in front of her as she does, that when belief dies the emotions that attend that belief die long afterwards? You don’t just get up and go. A
searchlight fans distant clouds. She shrugs, lifts her coat collar and watches her breath disappear into the night. Surely it will snow.

It is at this moment that the woman beside her, from the office but whom she doesn’t know well, passes her a whisky flask. She welcomes the whisky, but silently acknowledges she would rather Pip beside her. These days, she muses. These nights. Searchlights, dark, labyrinthine streets, the brittle walls of brittle houses and all those brittle lives huddled inside or in the shelters. The memory of Jim, stroking the soft coloured cushions on her bed as if never having seen such wonders before. The clutch of a stranger’s hand. Love like faith, which demands nothing less than everything. The extraordinary abnormality of these days. Will we ever, she asks herself, will we ever live like this again? And will we miss it?

She passes the flask back and feels the whisky doing its work. It’s a rooftop thought, one that will do to pass the hours up here, if it doesn’t snow soon and drive them inside. Then, as if she has conjured the snow from the clouds, the first flakes fall, and the two women look at each other and nod in silent agreement that it is time to leave the roof to the weather.

Jim is not unfamiliar with churches, but he is not entirely at ease in them. Even when taking in the tourist sights on holidays. And so, feeling out of place, he glances round awkwardly, wondering if there is any point in staying after all. There is a lectern at the front of the church, beneath gilded figures — saints, angels and the like, Jim assumes — and a glowing crucifixion hovering above it all. Somebody is placing a glass of water on a table beside the lectern. But there is no sign of Eliot. Not that Jim would really know, for he has only ever seen photographs of him. And heaven knows how old they were. He checks his watch, noting that everything should have started by now. But the church is still filling, although ‘filling’ is hardly the word — for no poetry reading could fill this vast place. Not tonight, at any rate, in this cold. He can hear a group of Americans nearby and turns in their direction; some in uniform, some not. And behind him a heavy European accent that he thinks must be Polish. Or Hungarian. In laboured English a man is telling his companion that he never steps inside churches. Not ever. Jim looks around. But
there is no sign of her. Of course. He always knew she wouldn’t come.

Dully, he becomes aware of a shift in the atmosphere. A change of mood. The church has turned silent. All heads are straining towards the lectern and suddenly Eliot is there. He’s sort of materialised. And Jim concludes that he must have entered through a back door. Eliot places his briefcase on a chair and looks around the church over the rim of his spectacles. And straight away Jim doesn’t like him. Not so much doesn’t like him as doesn’t like being in his presence. Even at this distance. There is something disquieting, even distasteful, about it. And a major part of him would like to get up and leave. Odd, how these things can hit you immediately. You like someone, you don’t like someone, all in a split second. And at first Jim’s not sure why. It’s not what Jim decides to think of as the ‘act’ (the suit, the briefcase, the brolly — the uniform of just anybody, which he clearly isn’t) that causes this. That might spark incredulity, but not dislike, not discomfort. No, it’s not that. It’s something in the thin lips, the plastered-down, carefully parted hair, the tall gaunt frame. The pale skin. Something deathly there. No, not deathly. Cold. A cold fish.

After a brief welcome on this cold evening from a church official who speaks of Eliot — Jim can’t help but notice — with a reserved but proprietary air, and a quick nod of thanks from the poet and a smile to someone in the front row, Mr Eliot announces the title of the poem he will read: ‘Little Gidding’. And straight away Jim knows it’s a place not far from his airfield. From his base. He’s never been there, but he’s seen the signs. Or has he noticed it on a map? He doesn’t have time to contemplate this further because Eliot turns to his opening page.

As soon as he begins to read the poem his voice changes. And Jim wonders how on earth anybody gets a voice like that, because nobody could be born with it. This is Eliot’s ‘poet’s’ voice. A voice, it occurs to Jim, that is the equivalent of his three-piece suit. Something he puts on when required. It is a deadpan voice. An unemotional voice. An above-it-all voice. One that does not involve itself in the emotions that poetry springs from. It’s almost like a machine speaking. The opposite of what you’d expect a poet’s voice to be. This voice stands back, not unlike a butler introducing the guests at a party, lords and commoners all accorded the same monotone. There is meaning
here, the voice says, but you must find it yourself. I will not guide you. I will provide no emphasis, no clue. The idea being, Jim assumes, that an audience will listen to the poetry free of the distraction of the poet’s voice. And although in denying itself affectation it
becomes
an affectation, Jim prefers this to the shrieking and howling he has occasionally heard from poets who read their work. For although much of the time the poem Eliot is carefully enunciating sounds like a philosophy lecture on metaphysics (not Jim’s field at all, and one for which he has limited tolerance), there is something else going on here. Prim voice, precise words, but all, he senses, sitting on top of messy emotions. Yes, that’s it. All those messy emotions swirling about underneath, only ever alluded to, but
there
, all the same. You can tell. That’s what’s
really
going on. That’s where the power of the poem is coming from. Eliot never says what the emotions are, but you know they’re there. And Jim concedes that all that buttoned-up reserve and restraint, all the precisely this and precisely that, impart a certain tension to the poem. The emotions, like the murky currents beneath the still surface of a stream, threatening to break through at any moment.
Yes, it’s something along those lines, Jim mumbles silently to himself. Almost as if the poetry is a refuge, an escape from all those emotions. Almost as though if Eliot didn’t have the poetry he might fall into that murky stream of messy emotions and drown there. But, at the same time, it’s hard to ignore the voice. And Jim finds himself, time and again, not so much listening to the words as returning to the intriguing question of how on earth you acquire such a voice.

There are no gestures. No waving of the arms. Just a very gentle rocking, from side to side, of that tall, gaunt frame upon which the three-piece suit hangs. It’s almost imperceptible. You have to be watching. And Jim is. But at the same time, Jim is looking around. More than once during the reading, he turns and scans the crowd. For the attendance has grown even while the reading has been in progress, and Jim decides that it is now definitely a crowd. And absentmindedly concludes from this that a church can indeed play host to a crowd. But there is no sign of her in the crowd. She has not come and he wishes he hadn’t either. Wishes he could just get up and go. Right now. Suddenly the crowd is intolerable. And he will. Who cares if he creates a scene? Who cares what
they, this crowd, think? He has stopped listening anyway. And he is about to rise when something stops him. Not physically, but as forcefully, all the same, as a firm hand on the shoulder. And at first he’s not sure what it is. It is a puzzle that preoccupies him for a moment. A second. Less, perhaps. And then the puzzle solves itself. He has not risen from his place because he is listening to the poem again. And the hand that restrained him, it seems, is that of the poet himself, reaching out over the heads of the audience. And as the poet’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and urges him to remain still, a voice is also telling him that he will hear this out. That he must.

But what? What are the words that sit him down? It is a mystery. And then his mind registers a single word and he is shaken as his ears take it in. ‘Dove.’ He has heard the word ‘dove’. And although ‘dove’ is a harmless enough word, it is not to Jim. No, ‘dove’ is one of those words that shakes him. It has a private meaning that will not be found in any dictionary or book of symbol and myth. For he no sooner hears it than he sees, once again, the side of his kite, ‘F’ for Freddie. The dove his wireless operator had painted on the fuselage of the plane for some paradoxical reason
that, in the sheer intensity of those days, he never got around to inquiring about. And so it is the word ‘dove’ that sits him down, and keeps him immobile, incapable of rising even if he wanted to. He is listening to the brief story of this dove. As it breaks through the clouds and into sight, for this dove is descending. And flames, the poem is telling him, flames are lapping about it as it slowly falls from the heavens to earth. A solitary dove in a wide, empty sky. Aflame. And although the poem moves on and the voice of the poet continues, he hears none of it. Over and again, he sees it: the dove breaking through the clouds, slowly descending, bright yellow and orange flames lapping about it. Again and again: the dove, the clouds, the flames.