King's Worcester
Michael Pye
voice
From my oasis to yours across the desert of Worcester, and more in sorrow than in anger. There are things which must be said now, things to discuss, which can be dealt with only in the context of a project like this magazine. Things which involve the survival of any sort of activity in this school apart from pulling boats upstream. Things like the desert, and why the oases are running dry.
"Voice" is very much an interim magazine; it has been redesigned, but only in part; there is a new accent on relevant prose and pointed verse, but neither is in the majority; it reports and comments far more than did its predecessors, but pays for that intention by losing the coherence of theme between articles. Like the other magazines in this series, it is an independent channel of communication, concerned only to say what members of the school want said. It depends entirely on the school's creative and polemical resources - your resources; it depends on your interest. Why, then, the apathy to one of the few ways of getting through open to us, certainly the only one we control for ourselves? The image? The people involved? The lack of time ? Or is it mere indifference ?
These magazines have unjustly acquired the usual ridiculous but sticky tags that the uninterested use to excuse their laziness; "too-intellectual" and "cliqueish" and "pseudo", whatever that may mean. Other editors have disposed of those charges; I can only repeat the practical arguments. All Editorial Committee meetings are open and announced; everybody, critic, contributor or mere cynic has been welcome at them. Our unfortunate image certainly involves the names associated with these magazines; far too few have stood at the centre of this school's intellectual life, and they have tended to be those divorced from the usual run of school activities; far too few have organized too much, but only because there was nobody else interested enough to take on the tasks involved. Apathy and apathy alone creates cliques; and that clique which was forced to take on so much, to control so much during the past year, has now dissolved. If image or personalities have discouraged you before - and both are reasonable enough objections, however irrational - then in Autumn, take your opportunity.
Almos t ever y pos t i n ever y schoo l societ y wil l be vacant , certainl y th e magazine , th e Literar y Society and the Debatin g Society wil l al l b e without officials . And thos e foundations ar e i n themselve s littl e mor e tha n names ; they commi t no-on e t o any specifi c programme . On the m ca n b e built , anythin g tha t you want. And remembe r this ; if you want th e socia l pleasure s of externa l debates , the n ther e mus t b e interna l meeting s t o provid e and trai n speakers ; if you want a magazin e which you can fo r once enjoy, you mus t a t leas t b e prepare d t o tel l th e Editoria l Committe e what i t i s tha t you want. "Selection " o r th e "Salopian" , "Privat e Eye " o r "Mesopotamia " do not happen spontaneously . Only you r activ e suppor t could mak e simila r magazine s possibl e i n thi s school . Next year , you can do mor e tha n suppor t th e Committee ; you can compris e it . But if you think th e school' s activitie s outsid e classroom s and off th e playin g fields , pointles s and valueless , the n b e warned . Next term , ther e wil l b e no inne r rin g to carr y on th e wor k whose by-product s you enjoy. Your apath y can kill , for-th e societie s hav e neve r bee n mor e vulnerable .
And when they die , what excuse s wil l you offer ? Time ? Pre p and girl s and coffee tak e up enough of that ; day-boy s with distance s t o trave l want t o b e away a t four; boarder s on th e playing-field s a t four want lunchhour s fre e for foray s int o town. But i s i t enough t o sa y tha t ther e i s no time ? I s one lunch-hou r i n th e week o r one hour on one evenin g too much t o ask ? The origina l experimen t of Friday s fre e fo r societie s failed , and wa s finally destroye d by mc/in g th e CCF and al l th e allie d activitie s to Frida y afternoons . Not tha t tha t actio n wa s alon e t o blame ; ther e wa s neve r a tim e when th e principl e wa s respected , simpl y becaus e s o few wanted to atten d societies . A fre e evening, if i t remaine d free , wa s a chanc e too good to wast e debatin g o r readin g poetry . Perhap s th e answe r lie s i n fres h experiment , in lunch-hou r debate s on troica l motion s t o which only two speak , i n evening meeting s s o planned tha t i t i s possibl e t o leav e afte r halfan-hou r without eithe r gettin g nothing from attending , o r wreckin g th e event for others ; a t leas t you can mak e th e attemp t to brin g bac k som e relevanc e t o thes e functions.
Or i s i t irrelevanc e tha t you wil l plead ? Will you clai m tha t writin g and debatin g and readin g poetr y ar e not you r kind of activit y a t all ? So you have reall y neve r writte n anything ? So you have reall y spen t you r life without discussin g anything ? You have neve r writte n th e slightes t prais e of you r gir l in non-scientifi c terms ? Ther e i s somethin g t o be sai d for tha t plea ; th e divorc e betwee n work done today and th e patheti c spectacl e of thi s school' s progressives , floundering happily in 1953; an "O " leve l exa m calculate d t o destro y th e las t vestige s of genera l interes t i n Englis h literatur e o r Language. Nobody's fault; nothing corrigible , but fact s al l th e same .
-But if you wil l only tak e an initiativ e in takin g som e interes t i n societies ,
they could becom e positiv e forces ; they tak e littl e enough time , and they offer ever y possibl e chanc e fo r experimen t - and shee r enjoyment. And thi s magazine ? Fro m "Voice" , th e interim , th e magazin e can develop a s you will . If i t dies , th e responsibilit y lie s with you, and only with you. Attack thi s magazine , savag e it , tea r i t t o pieces ; i t may deserv e it . But when tha t i s done , build somethin g better . Even desert s can bloom .
Peter Preece.
LAGOSyear
Many people cannot imagine Christmas without,snow or cold weather, and do not like to imagine it away from the comforts of their homes. I spent last Christmas Eve in a temperature of over eighty degrees and in prison. Broad Street prison stands in the middle of Lagos, the seething, cosmopolitan capital and main port of the recently independent Nigeria. Like all ports, parts of Lagos are as sordid as the seeker after local colour could wish. Other parts - the new civic buildings and the sky-scraping office blocks - are very fine examples of the spirit of emergent Africa. This contrast of the rich and the poor, the affluent and the everything but, is reflected in the prison. Detained at the time I went were 483 men, of whom six were leaders of a political party, among them the Leader of the Opposition, one of the most important men in the country.
I was one of a small minority who were in the prison otherwise than on the instruction of the judiciary. I went with the chaplain to the Bishop of Lagos, in whose parish lie both the prison and the parliament buildings, and we had been invited to see a Christmas show which the small Christian group within the prison had prepared. The programme consisted of a play in three acts, liberally interspersed with carols and the antics of a trick cyclist on a normal production machine. The carols were a selection of such classics as 'Silent Night' - a trifle incongruous bellowed from the throats of twenty convicts - together with a number of carols reputed' to have been written by one of the inmates. The play was the most interesting item on the four hour agenda.
Any attempt at classifying it is completely defied. It was a morality play, a farce, an end of term rag, and at the same time a very moving experience. It told the story of Simpleheart, a highly intelligent educated young man, from a good home, who is found embezzling money when he is employed as a tax clerk. He is arrested, tried, convicted and sent to jail. At first he decides that all is over for him now: "when health is lost, something is lost; when wealth is lost, something is lost; but when character is lost, all is lost."
He resolves that he will spend the rest of his life in and out of jail, coming back in at the earliest opportunity after each release. Through the help of the prison authorities, however, he comes to see the point of life again, and on his release, he becomes a pastor and goes back into the prison to tell his old colleagues there that all is not lost.
On the face of it, a simple story, but the performance of it poked fun, and only fun, at everything that the writer, who was himself a prisoner, had every reason to feel bitter about. The court scene laughed at the legal system and at lawyers in particular, with their long-winded wrangling and affectations. The prison scenes laughed at both warders and inmates alike. The red tape of the initial entry into the jail, the idiosyncrasies of certain of the prison officials, the daily routine of the prison were all depicted, and such was the atmosphere in the jail that everyone there could laugh at themselves. No-one was more amused at the whole proceedings than the Superintendent himself, who was the butt of a great deal of the humour.
The play was a morality play, but different from the normal because there were two morals to be drawn from it. The moral you drew depended on which side of the fence you stood. If, like the performers and the writer, you were inside, then the moral was that life does not necessarily end with a prison sentence, but in fact can begin. For those on the outside, the moral was that ex-convicts need all the help they can get if they are to lead useful lives. No stigma must be attached to an ex-prisoner; his past life must be completely forgotten, and he must be allowed to start his life afresh. Neither of these points failed to get across, for all but a very few prisoners were watching in the prison yard, and must have felt the enthusiasm and the skill with which the play was enacted. And those who were present on the outside were of the small group of influential rrien who are in a position to take heed of and apply the second moral. In Africa, the crime is to be caught, and if a man is foolish enough to commit this crime, then he is no longer to be taken seriously. It was good to know that there are some who do not think this way, for social work, as yet in its infancy, is of vital importance.
But when we left, our thoughts were not of these morals; rather of something less easily defined. Here in this prison we had felt the true spirit of Christmas, and we had been shown it by men in a prison. Till then, the fairy lights and the Christmas messages had seemed unreal. We had felt none of the Christmas message of peace and goodwill, none of the wonder of God made Man, and it was a group of men, who had less reason than all of us to feel this message, who had hold of it to such an extent that they could hand it on to us. I will remember Christmas Eve in Broad Street for many Christmases.
Peter Ash
OUR FATHER ...
The towering spire, Rich glass and cloth, Glinting altar furniture, The Bishop in sumptuous robes
... HALLOWED BE THY NAME.
The smoking muzzle, Dark earth and flesh, Metal death-messengers, The corpse in blooded khaki,
... THY WILL BE DONE.
The daub hut, Filth, hunger and poverty, Cracked earthen pots, The beggar in diseased rags.
... OUR DAILY BREAD.
FOR EVER AND EVER, AMEN!
S.J. Coulter
It was hot and stuffy indoors and a walk seemed ideal for soothing my aching head. I stood and walked to the door; my head was spinning and my eyes felt like balls of fire. I groped for the handle and opened the door; a stream of pleasantly cool air greeted me.
The night was beautifully clear, the stars twinkled in a cold, pitch-black sky, their images appearing as white blurs to my aching eyes. Everything was quiet, save for a car-horn far away. No trees rustled, no dogs barked; it was strange and uncanny and I felt an urge to go back into the warmth of the house. But I began to walk, slowly and uncertainly, my eyes trying to become accustomed to the change. Again, I felt the urge to return, but still I walked, my shoes beating out a loud, irregular rhythm, the noise echoing back and forth across the street. I felt as though I were supernatural, a ghostly figure illuminated by the silvery moon, moving slowly along the street. I half expected to see horror-stricken faces peering at me from behind the curtains of every house, but no such thing - nothing stirred.
The street lights wavered and danced, they hurt my eyes, I wanted to rid myself of their glare.
I reached out of bed and put them out.
8. Geoffrey Harper.
psalm 137 originally.
Still of the afternoon. Behind are willow trees; no catkins, but many shading leaves. Out in front the flat waters, bearing scattered feeding waterfowl, reflecting vaguely the sky and the downs. Just beyond my feet, the pleasing rhythmic slish of wavelets on fine shingle; little corrugations of the water which disappear on the shore leaving pleasant sounds.
We think of this scene before us; and we think of the scene ofour imagination and longing. Surely the two are the same. There are no downs in our imagination, but there are more reeds. Here we see mallard, there we imagine coot. But surely the two are the same.
There is no singing to be heard. We long for the slish of the water accompanied by soothing harps; by the lilt and happiness of a girl's voice. Here we have a harp; it lies on the ground behind me. We have our voices, but there is no singing.
Harps are not denied us, nor are our voices stifled. They know we cannot use them. We live in oppression. Look not on paper for laws which
restrict us; you will not find them. Our restrictions are greater than laws. But we cannot see them clearly.
Our governors give us things. Material things more than we need. And they say; "Here are your harps. Sing us the songs you long to sing. Here are placid lakes, beautiful and serene. We give you all you want. You are really a happy people. Let us enjoy your wit and laughter."
O you, our oppressors. You do us great wrong. For we are of the chosen people, the people of the future. It is we who shall hold the power in years to come. If we are not fit for power, then let there be suffering for the multitudes.
You, oppressors. You have power over us. But we will fight you. In material things we cannot. In mind we do. You and those like you must not survive.
O, let us hear the sound of the waters, the reeds in the breeze, the splash of diving duck - let us hear these in the ripples of the harp strings, in the tremor of a high note, in the lucid warm joy of a girl's song. This would be delight. This would be freedom.
10. Michae l Byrn e
ELCI D
t o b e a her o you need a profil e
Charlto n Heston ha s a profil e
you als o need a celluloid caus e
t o b e a her o for Charlto n Heston ha s tha t caus e
you als o need (above all )
** AUDIENCE.
When puttin g my sock s on {it bein g cold)
i n th e mornin g
I a m a HERObecaus e (a) I havent an audienc e (b) ther e isn t any poin t in puttin g my sock s on.
and rea l herois m i s doing somethin g without any poin t without any audienc e jus t fo r th e hel l of it , somethin g bloody difficult lik e puttin g ones sock s on.
Michael Byrne
TOO SUPERSTITIOUS
my walls. I dont care yet to hang pictures, dont dare perhaps, lest they should stare down at me disturbing me intruding on my self which is this room organizing me, not me it.
I am the things I look at. if they look at me (cold archaic eyes, perfectly curled lip in abstract contemplation) making me conscious of themthen I cease to be myself, become an uneasy awareness of other.
So I take down my Greek head, hide it deisidaimonesteros in my shirt drawer, play Louis Armstrong to warm the room up.
12. Nicholas Boyle
„ o SM KE? dangers
The death rate from lung cancer is thirty times higher for smokers than for non-smokers; cancers of the mouth, throat, gullet and bladder occur more frequently in smokers than non-smokers; chronic bronchitis occurs almost entirely within the smoking population of this country; the symptoms of coronary heart-disease - and of gastric and duodenal ulcers - are in the first case probably, in the second and third cases definitely aggravated by smoking. At the age of 35, a heavy smoker is twice as likely to die before reaching 65 as a non-smoker; he is four times as likely to die before the year is out.
These are facts. Any judgement on smoking must take them into account. The theory on which this judgement is based must explain them. It must also explain why mortality rates are greater when cigarettes are involved, rather than pipe-tobacco or cigars; why giving up smoking lessens the mortality risk by a factor of four. The simplest answer - and hence the most scientific - is that smoking affects the body. That smoking causes disease. And that is enough for me.
Even if it were not established that smoking does cause disease, it should be enough for anyone that the medical profession en masse has given up the habit. All knowledge is, after all, taking people's word for things; when we have grounds for believing that these people know what they are talking about, we should be prepared to follow their advice. Even if it causes us material discomfort.
Though it is unlikely to do that. The £70-a-year that the 20-a-day smoker spends are hardly likely to lower his standard of living, when diverted to other purposes. This ought to be the decisive argument. Remember a cancer today will cost you round about £2, 500 to get. If you choose to smoke, no-one can stop you. Go ahead, then - it's your risk, your pocket - and your funeral.
It is time someone used science on the statistics about smoking and lungcancer. It might get them further than the anti-smoking prejudices of nonsmokers, who don't like to cough on the train in the morning.
The statistics cannot be doubted - most of them, anyway. But they prove nothing. Granted they support the views on the opposite page, but they also support other ideas. Here is a theory which states that smoking does not cause lung-cancer. Correlation in statistics does not necessarily mean that one factor is caused by the other. Both factors may be symptoms of a third - perhaps some neurosis, increasing in incidence as the standard of living rises. This would explain why smokers and sufferers from lung cancers are the same people. It would also explain the drastic growth of both in the last ten years. Maybe that impressive list of ailments represents other symptoms of that same factor which causes a need for smoking.
To take the idea further; consider the fact that of "given-up" smokers, fewer than constant smokers have lung-cancer. Usually these people give up smoking voluntarily - perhaps they no longer suffer from the neurosis and will not anyway die from lung cancer. All the facts seem to fit, folks!
Unless the anti-smokers can show a fault in this theory, they cannot say that smoking causes lung-cancer. If you care to think that smoking is harmless, you are welcome; this theory supports you. But - incidentally - don't come on my train in the morning, and make me cough.....
C. R, Chalke .
LONDON IN THE WET
Remember , remember , London
dul l and gre y
We ru n
splashin g i n th e wet, fresh , washe d air .
Twice round St. Paul's , Glistenin g pavements .
Wher e t o now ?
th e tube ; deserted , stil l glowing light s
A crumple d newspape r
we rea d England again .
Street s
brigh t light s flashing a t us ,
Peopl e rushin g pas t u s going somewhere ; Home maybe .
We'r e going home .
Nostalgi a we inwardl y cr y still .
M. R. Ashley
ON LYING IN BED .
Oooh, my head . What' s th e time ? 7. 30, anothe r te n minute s t o go. What' s th e weathe r like , looks quite good. Oh, I don' t know, could have froze n las t night oh, heck , I'v e got t o get a clea n shirt , tha t mean s gettin g up earlier . Wonder what' s for breakfast . Baked bean s yesterday , s o it's.. . scramble d eggs today. God, I'l l be glad t o get som e decen t food again . 18 days . 54 meals .
What' s happening today ? English . Oh, yes . I'l l go throug h tha t essa y agai n afte r breakfast . Rowing, oh, of course , wonder if th e river' s gone down. Doubt it . Pit y really . Firs t VTH wil l be i n a mes s with a regatt a on Saturday . They'l l probabl y cance l i t actually , th e Thame s wa s wel l up on
Thursday . Strikin g 8. 30. Smith wil l star t getting up now. Yes , ther e he goes . Wonder, when he get s up, what he think s about . His mind probabl y wander s lik e mine . Funny thin g th e mind , jus t a lump of gre y putty . No, not putty . Wonder what i t i s like . It mus t b e horribl e t o have a n operatio n on you r brai n .. . I wonder if doctor s eve r los e thei r nerve . I suppos e the y can' t afford to . And I suppos e only th e ver y bes t doctor s do th e ver y difficult operations . The atmospher e i n an operatin g theatr e mus t b e ver y tense , though. Wonder if they'r e air-conditioned . I expec t so , now.. . I wis h we had air-conditioning , the radiator s ar e useless . Oh, well , a t leas t we'r e gettin g oil-fire d boiler s next term . I wonder what kind of oi l the y us e
Damn, ther e go th e bells , tim e t o get up . Oh, I can' t be bothered , it' s cold out. Come on, that' s a lam e excuse , you'v e got to get a clea n shirt . Oh, shu t up . What wa s I thinkin g about ? Um, hey. I'v e forgotten . Funny that , you often forge t thing s if somethin g happen s suddenly . Come on, now, what wa s it ? Doctors , no, air-conditioning . Yes , tha t wa s it , oil . Wonder wher e they'l l kee p it . Probabl y i n th e cellar . No, they couldn' t get i t in throug h th e door . They would have t o build i t i n there.. . Filth y place , tha t cellar . I should think there' s a t leas t 3 " of soo t on th e walls . I'l l be t they haven' t been whitewashed for year s Damn thos e bells . Oh, com e on, everybod y els e i s gettin g up now. I suppos e I' d better. . . . Yow . ' It did freez e las t night .
16.
Nicholas Boyle
u TOpx l&?) A or if BUST!
"We live in the best of all possible worlds. " Well, maybe, but it's a pretty unsatisfactory one all the same. It's no good blaming the Creator for that; it's mostly our own fault. There was a time when Job could make out quite a case for the prosecution, but nowadays most of the ills of mankind are due to its own incompetence. And, I think, to one deadly sin in particular. Like the devil and all his works, you may not find it in the revised Catechism, but it remains nonetheless deadly, not to say fatal. Thanks to it, and to our ancestors' Ifoolhardiness in first indulging in it, we are now, as I hope to show you, perched between the horns of a particularly ferocious dilemma without hope of deliverance this side of the pearly gates. It is, quite simply, thinking big.
"Thinking big" is more than a deadly sin, it is a besetting evil. Sizebe it mass sales, mass psychology or mass suicide - is the dangerous drug to which our society is addicted. It bids fair to destroy us all - naturally, since "us all" is what it deals in. But it is not merely the problems of absolute greatness that assail us. Now that the world's population has agglomerated into a few states of immense proportions, of course we stand on the brink of the precipice, of course a few politicians hold and wield enormous power, of course any degree of world unity becomes impossible while the might of individual blocs is even comparable with the might of the whole organization.
We must, however, also understand the problem of relative greatness; the discrepancy between the individual and the mass of which he is an infinitesimal part. This is the stage where the single person is no longer even a dot on a graph. He is hidden away somewhere in the figure - say - 52 million. It wouldn't matter if he weren't there. And why? Because our
society is so huge that we have committed the unpardonable crime; we have VI. thought that an organization is more than the total of its members, that a collective term - "public", "market", "society", to name three of thousandshas a meaning separate from the individuals that compose it, that a whole is more than its parts. The only terms that should matter are individual terms referring to particular people, and we have elevated the abstract over the human.
Thus externally world peace, and internally social justice are rendered impossible by the sheer magnitude of the state. The situation is mankind's own fault; can mankind remedy it? Let it, says the optimist. The situation is drastic, only if drastic measures are taken can catastrophe be averted. Says the optimist, let them be taken. States are too big. Right, let's make them smaller. States are too centralized. Right, let's decentralize them. States are totalitarian. Right, let's democratize them. As you say, drastic measures for a drastic situation.
But are they not too drastic? Imagine a world of half-a-million city states. 500, 000 Droitwiches, independent and self-governing. Imagine the anarchic bickering, the squalid rivalries. Imagine the gradual regrouping until the old units are formed again. Imagine the decline in living standards with the disappearance of a large-scale co-ordinated industry and agriculture. Is this not too high a price to pay?
I fear that it is; I also fear that it is the only solution, for in no other way can annihilation be avoided. Individuals are too small; result, ant-heaps. States are too big; result, Armageddon. But there can be no remedy. The price is too high and we are too late. However active our Jeremiahs, human inertia is always there, and inert humans are always opposed to Utopian plans.
They have chosen to bust.
18,
Nichola s Boyle/Charle s Sarlan d
AUTUMN LEAVES, WRITTEN IN SPRING
Autumnal melancholy ; a swir l of leave s
Flurryin g alon g we t pavements ; dank Weltschmerz .
Thank God it' s over :
Sorrowin g poets ,
Soak up you r self-pit y
With you r scente d mouchoirs .
Throw up windows!
Snuff th e spring' s air ,
Hang you r dirge s out t o dry !
Wept-o n page s get th e rot .
Hands ,
Hands i n brow n woollen gloves ,
Hands muffled.
Hands featureless , undifferentiated .
Hands i n glove, imperceptive .
Hands insid e
Perceptiv e of th e outside .
Perceptiv e of thei r imperception .
Hands untied , retied .
Hands unowned, owned, disowned.
Hands lost .
Martin Parsons
"THE GUN"
And there they lay in sleep profound Scattered on the stony ground. The guns that roared will roar no more. A pool of blood lay on the floor.
Some siegers gone, the others dead; A captain lies with broken head; And in the rear a mighty gun, Glittering golden in the sun.
This gun of theirs had travelled far, On large oak wheels, now broken spars; The breach was brass, the touch-hole black. This gun now lay upon his back.
Upon the ground a gunner lay Behind a barricade of hay; His suit was stained with dried-up blood, His face was flattened in the mud.
The scattered troops had left the scene Returning to their mountain streams, So now the French could drop their guard. But the losses of this war were hard.
Michael Byrne
Worcester SPRIN G
She came at me across the street, a little woman with blue alive eyes you couldnt fool, a fair moustache and a paper parcel. "Have you got a cigarette lovey?" I had. We went into the dark side of the arch to light it. I was wearing my embarrassing hat. "Have you ever wanted to die lovey?have you ever wanted to die? I've had enough, everything I love has gone. Do you believe in God lovey? if theres a God, why does he do these things to us? why does he punish us?" My hat was still an embarrassment, it looks like Frank Sinatra's and savours the gay life.
On the other side of the street was a window full of flowers, dark, you could see them through the darkness, a lavish extravagance of spring burgeoning out of the warm earth, recklessly diffusing richness of colour,scent, shape, life, beauty. And here was a woman wanting to die (as I had wanted to die, as others had wanted to die), wanting to die in the English spring.
"Where are you going to spend the night?", a hard look. "Skippn in an old building". "But isnt there a hostel or something you could go to, or a YWCA?". "I dont know son. I just want to die. Listen son. My husbands dead, he was a good man. he cut his own throat. My sister put her head in a gas oven. I had a son that was born dead. Gods got a plan for all of us. Do you believe that lovey? Its all laid out ahead, its got to come to us."
I thought we could direct our destiny to a cup of tea. We went round to Joes. "Hullo lovey". "Hullo ma, how are you". "Goodnight... goodnight... goodnight". She had found friends. I put my hat on the table, it still looked too big. No, Joe said, the YWCA was shut, shut at eleven. Could he think of anywhere else, a hostel maybe? Not at this time of night, why not try Sidney Gees off the Newport Road?
I took the idea back to ma, and we sat over it while we finished our tea. "Theyll never take me in; theyll take you in,lovey, but theyll never take me in. Do you think they would? I dont want to disgrace you lovey". "Well its worth trying, come on". So we went.
Conversation on the way was difficult. She was a good walker, though short of stature, tough, you could see that, and vigorous, a woman of maybe ~ forty, scotch, and springy with life like a twig in a wind. We had ten minutes
good walking ahead of us. I heard about the gas oven again, also her views on 21. God, also about Big Jack who had taken her in in Liverpool and had been good to her and was doing six years for dope. She had left Scotland three years ago, Liverpool a week ago. hadnt seen the new Forth Bridge. I wondered if she might be interested in archaeology.
We came to Sidney Gees. Mrs. Sidney Gee put her comfortable round head, fresh from its comfortable round pillow, out of the window, no room., at the inn, but try opposite. A beaming Italian in a late-night cafe regretted his beds were for gentlemen only. We tried other pubs, large forms loomed behind glass doors, opened a crack and informed that the house was full. Then she spotted a policeman. "Look theres a policeman lovey. we could ask him. My sisters cousins husband was a policeman, Willy Mackie. he was head of the Edinburgh police. Never say a bad word of a policeman, theyre always good to you. "I was surprised. We went over.
A large dark form with a young face. "How long have you been in Worcester then", sternly. "A week lovey". "And where have you spent the other nights?" "Skippn out lovey". The sternness relaxed, but hesdidnt know of any hostels, how about the Duke of Wellington? I got a nudge in the ribs. "Oh I couldnt go there lovey. thats where I spend the afternoons drinking". We both laughed hard, the first time she had laughed since I had seen her. the policeman still severe, he thought wed better try the police station, they might have some addresses.
Our way lay past the Duke of Wellington, it looked lit up and inviting, but we decided against it, nudged each other, and laughed again. Somehow the excitement of the chase seemed to have got hold of us. We were both interested to know whether we were going to get this damn bed for the night or not. The orderly brickwork of the police station appeared, it was large, well lighted, and well provided with large constables leaning on things. One of them was leaning on the counter. "Look lovey, he's got three stripes, he's a sergeant". Another blue uniform came in through the door. "Hullo lovey", with a salute. She was the life and soul of the party. The one at the counter turned our way, focused, registered our request.... tick, tick, tick. "How long have you been in Worcester then?... and where did you spend the other nights?"... wheels of the law, wheels of the welfare state... "Have you got any money?" No lovey, not a thing. When my husband died I had a thousand pounds, but they took it all, its all gone. It was the will of God lovey". "Why arent you drawing National Assistance?" "I dont know lovey, I dont know Im sure". "Have you got a fixed address?" "No lovey". "You know thats an offence, dont you?" "Yes lovey, I got seven days for it in Liverpool". My eyes were glued to the wall opposite. I didnt utter, I hardly breathed, this was it. I was seeing how it was done. The constable was professional, he was
22. also kind, he even sounded as though he believed the one about Willy Mackie. but he was beaten by the facts of the case, no fixed address, no National Assistance, no money, no bed. no bed, kipping out. and that was illegal, and it was one oclock in the morning. There was a reception centre for men, open all night. But the womens one had been closed down a few months back. "Why come to Worcester?"
So with the blessing of authority we went out into the darkness and illegality. It was a warm night, lawns and flowers stretched away into obscurity. I thought of my bed. "Wait a minute lovey", we were by a derelict building, "they dont even give you a toilet here, you dont mind do you?", she disappeared. I waited, and wrote the address of the National Assistance office (two miles out of town) and the YWCA on a piece of paper. When she came back I gave it to her and told her where she had to go the next morning, useless, proper ending to our short association. Would I like another cup of tea, lovey? No I wouldnt. walking off to my comfortable uneventful middle class pillow, she to skip in her empty building, and the wallflowers sending their scent out quietly into the still night.
Charles Sarland
ON THE EDGE ATTITUDES
Morality, Morality, Beware Morality, Freedom from morals. Freedom from life
Mass attitudes. Mass media. Mass markets. Mass commitments.
But if you're really different From the General run, Beware the individuals, The really individuals, Who support the crowd.
A hundred naked dancing girls Dancing in the shadows. Definition; love.
Let's all be different. Different together. Different from them. They don't understand.
Oh, and by the way; On the edge attitudes, Mass attitudes, Divide us into classes, Restrained and unrestrained, Intellectual; non. The latter know what life means.
Cigarettes and dancing girls, Alcoholic drinks and darts, Watch the local club, There's nothing more in life. This is what they want. This is what they get.
And when at thirty, they're tired of life They don't explain the ridiculous strife To their children - Oh no Just; Don't do that, leave that alone. Don't go around with young Jimmy Malone. Their children and their childrens' children Will perpetuate the myth.
24. Peter Preece
HE WONDERS IF HE LOVED
I've heard a lot talked about love. I hear it from the pulpit and the popsong, and I'm told they're different loves.
But what of me? Can I love? Am I too old? Too young? Too old for one, too young for the other, maybe.
And this thing I felt then, during that happy, sad time. Was that love? If so, then love is nothing that anyone has described before, but everything.
(And if it was not love, how else explain the longing of the days before, the excitement of the hours before, and then the feelings of the moment
It was at once such happiness. We were together, the me forgotten, only the we important. And yet we knew, we would have to lose each other, and the sadness of the knowledge made the gladness.)
Yes, if this was love, has no-one else felt this sweet, painful masochism, this melancholy? A feeling that, when she was in your arms, nothing else could matter, and yet everything mattered. We were happy - so sad; yet we were sad - so happy.
(A man can go to great lengths to reach his goal. I spent myself, so that I could rest, melancholy, in the most perfect place on earth.)
The pop-songs say nothing of this. They do not speak of love, if this is love. We hear nothing of this from the pulpit - but then, we are too old to love that way. Our souls are too dusty, too stained with nicotine and diese'l fumes.
And this, this bittersweetwas this love?
BY WILLIAM KEMPNER LIMITED
36 BROOKE STREET, HOLBORN, LONDON ECl
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