Pure as the Lily (25 page)

That’s very good, Youlden, but you’ve put the cart before the horse.

You’ve described the air raid, then you go on to tell us of the people’s feelings in the shelter before the air raid in a series of flash backs. That technique would work very well in a novel but it only complicates matters in this short essay. It is out of place with this commonplace, and I’m not using that word literally, subject. This subject requires straightforward treatment for its strength. You see what I mean? “ Tes, sir. “

“Nevertheless, it’s very good. You have got feeling into it ... You, Riley.” Crockford’s eyes were tight on him; he had a number of papers on his desk which spoke of some erudite exposition. He was willing him to say, “And you, Crockford.” Riley said, “I wasn’t able to, sir.”

“Why?”

The boy hung his head for a moment, then muttered, “We’ve had... to...”

“All right, all right.” He didn’t want to drag Riley’s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any man in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.

He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton< Telton! “ Yes, sir. “

Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.”

‘you have? “

Yes, sir. “

There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”

Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”

“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.” Yes, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:

“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed^ Capped; This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, “ With hands in pockets... *

The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at himn ;|[ and he went on:

“Why do the men Walk so?

Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “ Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:

“Was it as hairns, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?

“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”

There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.” You have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry.

Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless.

You used the word observation.

Poetry is

“All right, all right.” He didn’t want to drag Riley’s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any man in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.

He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton< “Felton!”

“Yes, sir.”

Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.” You have? “

Yes, sir. “

There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”

Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”

“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.” Ves, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:

“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed^ Capped; This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, ;

—? “ With hands in pockets... *

The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at hiniji and he went on:

“Why do the men Walk so?

Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “ Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:

“Was it as baims, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?

“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”

There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.”

‘you have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry.

Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless.

You used the word observation.

Poetry is

““ All right, all right. “ He didn’t want to drag Rile/s domestic life into the cold scrutiny of the classroom; Riley’s father was in the Navy and his mother considered her war work the supplying of the needs of any man in uniform, and so her moving was not caused by enemy action but through the moral action of her neighbours.

He swung his gaze from Crockford to Felton, “Felton!”

“Yes, sir.”

Felton stood up, moved from one foot to the other, then said rather sheepishly, “I’ve done a poem, sir.” You have? “

Yes, sir. “

There was a slight titter from one or two desks and Jimmy said coolly, “We won’t laugh yet, it may not have any humour in it. Go on, Felton.”

Felton, the paper in his hand, looked at Jimmy and began to explain, “It was when I was in the bus, sir, going from ...”

“Read your poem, Felton; it should tell us what you were doing.” Yes, sir. “ The boy began hesitantly:

“From Birtley to Prudhoe, Walking singly In two’s, Or grouped, Dark clothed, Capped; This Sunday morning Standing in sockets Of doors, With hands in pockets. ‘

The boy glanced up nervously and Jimmy nodded at him, and he went on:

“Why do the men Walk so?

Stiff from shoulder to hip, No easy stride . When forearm is locked To the side. “ Again the boy glanced up: then after wetting his lips he went on, with more confidence:

“Was it as baims, Their noses running cold, Blue, numb, Their eyes gummed with rime, Feet like long dead flesh, That caused their hands To seek burial?

“All along the way On this summer’s day Like manacled slaves they go, Hands in pockets Faces she wing no glow, The men of the North.”

There was silence in the class. Some of the boys had turned and looked at little Felton; then their eyes came back to Jimmy, waiting for his comment. When it didn’t come immediately, Felton gulped and stammered, “It... it, it was just an oh ... observation, sir, not real poetry.” You have no need to make excuses for that, Felton. If that isn’t poetry then I have never heard poetry.

Some clever people who might call themselves authorities would quibble and bamboozle you by saying it has no decasyllabic line, that it’s not pentameter tetra meter They would dissect it until it was gutless.

You used the word observation.

Poetry is

observation, Felton; observation put in a crucible and the essence that is drained from it is a something we can only describe as poetry.

I myself strive to put into words my observation but the resulting essence is, unfortunately, not poetry; but you, boy, have been given some essence; nurture it. “ Little Felton’s face was red with pleasure, his head wagged self-consciously once or twice, then he sat down.

Somehow Jimmy was reminded in this moment of his grandfather. His gran da had written poetry and he hadn’t one piece to remember him by;

the essence, and the result, which he had kept in two boot boxes had been blown to bits. Why hadn’t he talked to him years ago about poetry? Well, taking his cue from his da, he hadn’t thought much of it.

There had been an excuse for his da because he’d had no foundation on which to stand and judge, but he himself should have recognized something, that special something in his gran da And he had done just before the end. One night he and the old man had got talking and the decades between them had melted away. For a brief moment they had recognized in each other the meaning of truth, and he had known that what he possessed had come from this dauntless man. He remembered vividly one line he said;

“Waste is the essence; what we use today is the waste of yesterday. A simple lump of coal is the essence of rotting trees.” He had known all about the process, as every schoolboy did, whereby coal came into being, but he had never thought to put it into poetic language.

“Waste is the essence.”

Crockford’s eyes, like a magnet, were drawing his now. Crockford, he was like a thorn in his flesh. He had mentioned him yesterday to Melton who took history. There was a Crockford in every class.

Melton said, in fact he had two of them. He said at times he hoped the war would go on long enough so that his two would be called up, then blown up. He laughed as he said it, although there was in him, as in him self with regard to Crockford, the germ of desire that this could come about.

The classroom door opened and a boy came in. When he came up to the desk Jimmy said, “Well?” and the boy said, “Can I get the file, sir, the form file for Mr. Smith?” Jimmy looked at him. It wasn’t only that he had to have a target to take his mind off Crockford for the moment, it was this business of grammar. How often had he rammed it home and to this very boy. He turned a cold eye on him, “What did you say?”

“Can I get the file, sir, for Mr....”

“What did you say? Your name is Beechwood, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy was looking surly now.

Well what did you say, Beechwood? “

Beechwood glanced at the class. Most of the faces were bright, expectant, they were in for a bit of fun.

They knew what Lanky Walton was after, they’d all had it. Beechwood should have been prepared.

“Say it again.”

“Can I... have... the... ledger?”

“Say it again ... again.”

Light dawned on the boy and his chin jerked to the side as if he had just woken up out of sleep and he said, in a muted tone, ‘may I have the ledger for Mr. “ His voice trailed away.

“Yes, you may, Beechwood. Remember you are not asking yourself the question, Can I get the ledger?

Of course you can get the ledger; you are capable of getting it, aren’t you? But you are asking my permission to get the ledger: May I have the ledger. You follow me, Beechwood?” Tes, sir. “

“Then take the ledger.” He pointed to the other side of the desk. The boy took the ledger and as he went out, the class made a quiet tittering, and Jimmy felt slightly ashamed of himself. This was the kind of thing for which he blamed Bennett, sarcasm. There was an excuse when you were putting it over in a lesson. Now for Crockford.

The door opened again. It was the head boy.

“Sir, the Head would like to see you if you have a minute.” Very well, Ramsay. Burrows, you take over, and if any of these. gentlemen play up, make a note of it.

That goes for you, Milligan, especially. “

“Yes, sir.” Milligan grinned from the back seat, then added cheekily, “But you needn’t worry, sir, I haven’t got me gas mask case.”

Jimmy stopped near the door and stared at Milligan, then went out. And he was tempted for a moment to look through the small glass panel in the door to see what Milligan might be up to. It would be easier to intimidate a regimental sergeant major than Milligan. Why did Milligan always carry that empty gas-mask case? It couldn’t be his original one, that must have been kicked to bits very early on. He smiled wryly to himself, then wondered what the Head wanted with him now.

When a few minutes later, the Head handed him his monthly cheque he thought, I must be ip a bad way he had forgotten it was pay day.

He had reached his class room again; his hand was going to the door knob when, looking through the panel, he saw a figure standing behind his desk and facing the blackboard. It was Crockford. He was writing something on the board and Burrows was apparently remonstrating with him because he kept flinging his arm towards the door.

When Crockford’s hand stopped moving on the board and he stroked the chalk with a great flourish across the bottom of it, Jimmy recognized the impersonation of himself. Then Crockford was standing there where he usually stood; rising on his toes now, swaying gently, bending his long length for ward, placing his hands on his hips, then pushing one hand after the other through his hair. This was himself to a T. He felt a flame of anger sweep over him.

He thrust the door open, and his entry was made in total silence. The boys sat stiffly, wide-eyed, some with mouths agape, waiting. Burrows began to say something.

Jimmy lifted his hand, palm upwards, to quieten Burrows, then walked to the front of his desk and looked at Crockford, who was standing now to the side of the board and for once appearing unsure of himself, even looking a little scared. Then he turned his eyes to the board, and what he read was:

“Wet Lanky Walton’s whistle with whisky and he’ll waffle about Warwick, Westmorland, Wellington, or Watt; not forgetting poetry poetry, prosody, pentameter—the sot. Why doesn’t the Salvation Army call him up to empty their dustbins?”

He couldn’t read the last words for the flame of his anger.

What happened next was done so quickly that the boys didn’t stir from their seats for some seconds.