The Marlowe Papers (8 page)
Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
‘You have been recommended. And your name
is Morley, I understand.’
is Morley, I understand.’
‘It is.’
She’s still
as a spider who has felt a fly alight.
The Countess of Shrewsbury knows the Queen as Bess,
a name they share. A cold, entitled look:
three husbands haven’t lasted her. The fourth
is not at home in London.
The Countess of Shrewsbury knows the Queen as Bess,
a name they share. A cold, entitled look:
three husbands haven’t lasted her. The fourth
is not at home in London.
‘Hear me then.
My granddaughter deserves the best of minds
to guide her education. Rhetoric’
– she enunciates carefully, lest I mishear –
‘will not be taught to her. No woman should
be trained for disagreement. Literature
will do. The classical sort. Not Ovid, mind.
She’s just thirteen.’ She scours me with her eyes.
to guide her education. Rhetoric’
– she enunciates carefully, lest I mishear –
‘will not be taught to her. No woman should
be trained for disagreement. Literature
will do. The classical sort. Not Ovid, mind.
She’s just thirteen.’ She scours me with her eyes.
‘Come closer, Master Morley.’ Lifts a sleeve.
‘Now. Velvet? Surely a scholarly gentleman
cannot afford it.’
‘Now. Velvet? Surely a scholarly gentleman
cannot afford it.’
‘I have generous friends.’
‘Do you indeed? Tom Walsingham, no doubt.’
She casts for the reaction on my face;
I give her nothing. Still, a narrowed gaze.
‘Oh, I know all about it. Why you’re here.
The eyes and ears of the Queen range far and wide
across our troubled country. There are those
who fancy Arbella on a
Catholic
throne –
please don’t insult me with your feigned surprise –
and she must be protected. You’ll report
to Walsingham or Burghley. So be it.
Then the government shall pay you. I’ll provide
paper and books, and ten hot meals a week.
A room when we’re not in London.’
She casts for the reaction on my face;
I give her nothing. Still, a narrowed gaze.
‘Oh, I know all about it. Why you’re here.
The eyes and ears of the Queen range far and wide
across our troubled country. There are those
who fancy Arbella on a
Catholic
throne –
please don’t insult me with your feigned surprise –
and she must be protected. You’ll report
to Walsingham or Burghley. So be it.
Then the government shall pay you. I’ll provide
paper and books, and ten hot meals a week.
A room when we’re not in London.’
Like a thief
cutting the purse strings – certainly as quick –
but with deservedness.
but with deservedness.
‘Your ladyship,
What if I can’t afford those terms?’
Her brow
rises as gently as the sea. ‘Then I
will find someone more flexible,’ she says.
‘Someone who understands the value of
tutoring she who might one day be queen.’
‘My lady, we can’t discuss succession.’
will find someone more flexible,’ she says.
‘Someone who understands the value of
tutoring she who might one day be queen.’
‘My lady, we can’t discuss succession.’
‘No.
But be aware succession will occur.
Dear Bess is not immortal.’ Flashing teeth
as black as widow’s weeds. ‘If not Arbell,
then her cousin the King of Scots. This royal charge
is valuable. Be aware that I could ask
for any prospective tutor to pay
me
and have a hundred applicants.’
Dear Bess is not immortal.’ Flashing teeth
as black as widow’s weeds. ‘If not Arbell,
then her cousin the King of Scots. This royal charge
is valuable. Be aware that I could ask
for any prospective tutor to pay
me
and have a hundred applicants.’
It’s true.
And bowing to greet her rug, I sniff the bait
of royal stories. Close to history’s forge
as a cobbler’s son could ever dream to be,
think not of danger, or grey poverty
gnashing its teeth. Just opportunity.
of royal stories. Close to history’s forge
as a cobbler’s son could ever dream to be,
think not of danger, or grey poverty
gnashing its teeth. Just opportunity.
‘Not pay you?’ Nashe is shrill, incensed. ‘Not pay?
The richest English woman beside the Queen?’
‘But how did she become so?’ Watson nods,
filling a pipe. ‘Think on. The woman’s shrewd.’
‘Not pay you, though,’ Nashe murmurs.
The richest English woman beside the Queen?’
‘But how did she become so?’ Watson nods,
filling a pipe. ‘Think on. The woman’s shrewd.’
‘Not pay you, though,’ Nashe murmurs.
‘I’ll survive,’
I reassure him. ‘You should see the meals.
Quality fare, a ransom on their own.
The books and paper are invaluable,
and time to write in. And the rest of it –
the beer and ink and horse food, I can cover.
Intelligence will serve if the playhouse shuts.’
Quality fare, a ransom on their own.
The books and paper are invaluable,
and time to write in. And the rest of it –
the beer and ink and horse food, I can cover.
Intelligence will serve if the playhouse shuts.’
The tapster’s girl, collecting empty jugs
at this point trips, almost into my lap
before I help her onwards. Watson blinks
at the accident. ‘You mean your wits, of course.’
‘Of course. These were expensive wits to train.’
at this point trips, almost into my lap
before I help her onwards. Watson blinks
at the accident. ‘You mean your wits, of course.’
‘Of course. These were expensive wits to train.’
Listen. The hoot owl sweeping from the woods
marks, like a breath expelled, the starlit air.
The moon scores loneliness across the fields,
slow as the rolling ocean, and a breeze
slides to my cheek and whispers,
He’s not here.
marks, like a breath expelled, the starlit air.
The moon scores loneliness across the fields,
slow as the rolling ocean, and a breeze
slides to my cheek and whispers,
He’s not here.
The road might carry love upon its back
like a dusty serpent winding from the hills;
you might be sleeping one night’s dream away;
and yet your absence crawls inside my bones
and makes its home there, like a broken vow.
like a dusty serpent winding from the hills;
you might be sleeping one night’s dream away;
and yet your absence crawls inside my bones
and makes its home there, like a broken vow.
Two things remain: the thudding of my heart,
that drumming clown whose audience dispersed
to leave only litter, tickets … and the sound
that thought makes when it’s battered on a wall
that won’t admit it. Oh, love, let me in.
that drumming clown whose audience dispersed
to leave only litter, tickets … and the sound
that thought makes when it’s battered on a wall
that won’t admit it. Oh, love, let me in.
I grieve myself. This shadow I’ve become
that berates itself for being out of doors,
the rusty nail on which my name is hung
now on the edge of falling; I’d be yours
were I not crushed and bootless. Who is this?
that berates itself for being out of doors,
the rusty nail on which my name is hung
now on the edge of falling; I’d be yours
were I not crushed and bootless. Who is this?
I grieve that boy who practised walking tall
around the quiet squares of academe;
who, like his father, aimed to fashion souls,
envisaging the awl as poetry.
around the quiet squares of academe;
who, like his father, aimed to fashion souls,
envisaging the awl as poetry.
I grieve that young man, choking on the jests
that he and friends had conjured from their dreams;
of how it will be when all the world is theirs
and they will fall to bed in satin sleeves …
oh, clod, oh, stupid man, where was your head?
that he and friends had conjured from their dreams;
of how it will be when all the world is theirs
and they will fall to bed in satin sleeves …
oh, clod, oh, stupid man, where was your head?
This age abhors the truth. It beats it down
like a smart unruly servant, like a dog
whose eye reflects his master, club in hand
and poised to destroy him. Meanwhile, churches cram
with poisoned congregations, social ticks
who nod to each other, followers of faith
who don’t believe the words, but sing the song.
like a smart unruly servant, like a dog
whose eye reflects his master, club in hand
and poised to destroy him. Meanwhile, churches cram
with poisoned congregations, social ticks
who nod to each other, followers of faith
who don’t believe the words, but sing the song.
Oh, irreligious world, so scant of good
that good, when it comes, cannot be recognised –
a tolerated foreigner, who’s blamed
the moment we’re engulfed by our own sin.
that good, when it comes, cannot be recognised –
a tolerated foreigner, who’s blamed
the moment we’re engulfed by our own sin.
Oh, sacrilegious world, to kill a man
for the form his prayer takes, when we need all prayers
to pull us from this darkness into light.
But snuff us out, who cares?
for the form his prayer takes, when we need all prayers
to pull us from this darkness into light.
But snuff us out, who cares?
Oh, shameless world.
I’ll hold a mirror to your ugliness
until you see you contribute each squint,
each pustulence, to the grotesquerie.
until you see you contribute each squint,
each pustulence, to the grotesquerie.
Oh, former loved but never-loving world.
We poets have a duty to believe
in goodness, beauty and the human heart.
Forgive me, then. How deeply I must grieve
that I’m struck down for having better faith.
We poets have a duty to believe
in goodness, beauty and the human heart.
Forgive me, then. How deeply I must grieve
that I’m struck down for having better faith.
A rabbit screams its murder. Bullies read
the bloodied claw of nature as a cue
to justify themselves as predators.
the bloodied claw of nature as a cue
to justify themselves as predators.
The landscape sits as passive as a priest
receiving our confessions, and the globe
revolves beneath the heavens: night, then day,
then night again. A lifetime falls away
as water poured on sand until we ask,
receiving our confessions, and the globe
revolves beneath the heavens: night, then day,
then night again. A lifetime falls away
as water poured on sand until we ask,
What is a human being? Are we clay?
Excrescences of light? Bright animals
adopting gross stupidity? Or gods
pelted in human skin, come down to play,
create, destroy, find joy in misery?
The moon squats on the mountains like a pearl.
It only has to rise, and will be free.
Excrescences of light? Bright animals
adopting gross stupidity? Or gods
pelted in human skin, come down to play,
create, destroy, find joy in misery?
The moon squats on the mountains like a pearl.
It only has to rise, and will be free.
Hog Lane, just after two, three years ago.
After a meal of mutton and cold beer
with Thomas Nashe, I’m strolling back to work
on
Doctor Faustus
when the Devil himself
calls out behind me: ‘There’s the beardless man
who slandered me!’ It’s Bradley and a friend,
George Orrell, full of ale and parsnip stew
and outrage. ‘I believe I complimented you
on your uprightness,’ I said.
After a meal of mutton and cold beer
with Thomas Nashe, I’m strolling back to work
on
Doctor Faustus
when the Devil himself
calls out behind me: ‘There’s the beardless man
who slandered me!’ It’s Bradley and a friend,
George Orrell, full of ale and parsnip stew
and outrage. ‘I believe I complimented you
on your uprightness,’ I said.
‘Untrammelled shit.
Give me your sword,’ he says to Orrell, ‘quick.
I’ll slice his head off. Then we’ll see whose brains
are bigger.’ Clumsily, he wrests the sword
from his large friend’s scabbard. Orrell shoves him off,
annoyed to be handled. Yet eager to assist,
he hands his yeoman friend a soldier’s blade.
The rapier at my waist weighs half as much,
but neither of us has experience.
I’ll slice his head off. Then we’ll see whose brains
are bigger.’ Clumsily, he wrests the sword
from his large friend’s scabbard. Orrell shoves him off,
annoyed to be handled. Yet eager to assist,
he hands his yeoman friend a soldier’s blade.
The rapier at my waist weighs half as much,
but neither of us has experience.
‘That’s not a duelling weapon.’
‘I don’t care.
A fighting weapon’s all I’m looking for.’
‘Don’t start this thing.’
‘You started it yourself.
The night you wouldn’t get out of my chair.
I’m here to finish it.’
I’m here to finish it.’
He hawks and spits
a fat green slug of phlegm on to the dirt.
Nashe whispers, ‘I’ll get Watson,’ and flits off
through the gathering crowd, who, with their stink and breath,
are drawn by the hope of blood and spectacle
to make our arena. I watch my flame-haired friend
like an urgent signal flashing up the street,
dodging the foul discharge of a chamber pot
before he’s swallowed up in passageways.
Nashe whispers, ‘I’ll get Watson,’ and flits off
through the gathering crowd, who, with their stink and breath,
are drawn by the hope of blood and spectacle
to make our arena. I watch my flame-haired friend
like an urgent signal flashing up the street,
dodging the foul discharge of a chamber pot
before he’s swallowed up in passageways.
‘I’ve got no fight with you, my friend,’ I say.
‘I’m not your friend.’ He slides a greasy hand
across his mouth, as if he’s tasted me.
‘Draw if you call yourself a man.’
across his mouth, as if he’s tasted me.
‘Draw if you call yourself a man.’
‘I do.
But a gentleman.’ I slide the rapier tip
into the air with a flourish, though my heart
is knocking to be let out. ‘And I would rather
settle with words. But if you’re disposed to fight
I’ll prove that wit’s superior to sword
by dodging you.’
into the air with a flourish, though my heart
is knocking to be let out. ‘And I would rather
settle with words. But if you’re disposed to fight
I’ll prove that wit’s superior to sword
by dodging you.’
He narrows blazing eyes.
‘I’ll have your wits on a skewer. Come here, boy.’
He beckons with his free hand. ‘Let’s have some blood.’
He beckons with his free hand. ‘Let’s have some blood.’
‘Show him what for!’ A shout comes from the back.
It’s Eric, the local butcher’s lad. ‘Now, Eric’ –
my sword tip drops to the ground – ‘should you not be
about an errand, running joints of pork?’
A grin splits through his pimples, cracking sore.
‘I wouldn’t miss a murder for the world.’
‘Murder? There’ll be no murder here.’
It’s Eric, the local butcher’s lad. ‘Now, Eric’ –
my sword tip drops to the ground – ‘should you not be
about an errand, running joints of pork?’
A grin splits through his pimples, cracking sore.
‘I wouldn’t miss a murder for the world.’
‘Murder? There’ll be no murder here.’
‘That’s what
you think,’ says Bradley, charging like a bull
that has broken tether. Instantly, the cuff
of our weapons clashing, and his heavier blade
has snapped mine seven inches in.
that has broken tether. Instantly, the cuff
of our weapons clashing, and his heavier blade
has snapped mine seven inches in.
‘Oh dear,’
says Orrell. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve snapped
the boy’s toy sword.’ A laugh bristles the crowd.
I’m hard against the brute, our wrists are locked
until I push, release and slip aside
like a sudden opened door, so that his force
throws him on my behalf.
the boy’s toy sword.’ A laugh bristles the crowd.
I’m hard against the brute, our wrists are locked
until I push, release and slip aside
like a sudden opened door, so that his force
throws him on my behalf.
‘You little shit,’
he growls, brushing the dust off as he stands.
My breath, from the exertion of his weight,
is rasping a little, and my rapier
is blunt as a whore’s remark. Bradley, now sore,
is more determined. Slow, perhaps, but slow
in the manner of a seasoned torturer
delighting in his work, delaying pain
until the expectation’s made it worse.
He calls for a swig of ale, as if to savour
his victory before dispatching me.
It appears from the audience. ‘I’ll have you now,’
he says, with a cellared voice, ‘you worthless tick.’
My breath, from the exertion of his weight,
is rasping a little, and my rapier
is blunt as a whore’s remark. Bradley, now sore,
is more determined. Slow, perhaps, but slow
in the manner of a seasoned torturer
delighting in his work, delaying pain
until the expectation’s made it worse.
He calls for a swig of ale, as if to savour
his victory before dispatching me.
It appears from the audience. ‘I’ll have you now,’
he says, with a cellared voice, ‘you worthless tick.’
‘Go on, Bill, finish him off!’ a woman squeals.
I turn round, shocked to notice ‘Mrs Peat?’
‘I meant him, dear,’ she reverses. ‘Finish
him
off.’
And no hard feelings, offers me her gums.
Bradley’s delight reveals two broken teeth
inflicted in another brawl; he comes
like Judgment Day towards me. As he swings
the unwieldy blade, I snatch from a crooked man
his walking stick, rush ‘Sorry,’ as he falls
and his crutch, braced in my hands, prevents an act
of unfair decapitation, then is dropped
as I duck beneath those ape arms. Bradley turns
but trips on the crippled man whose stick I stole.
‘You whore’s son with your la-di-dah brocade.’
Several assistants help them to their feet,
the old man winded, Bradley in a stew
now boiling over. ‘Fight, you poncy turd!’
I turn round, shocked to notice ‘Mrs Peat?’
‘I meant him, dear,’ she reverses. ‘Finish
him
off.’
And no hard feelings, offers me her gums.
Bradley’s delight reveals two broken teeth
inflicted in another brawl; he comes
like Judgment Day towards me. As he swings
the unwieldy blade, I snatch from a crooked man
his walking stick, rush ‘Sorry,’ as he falls
and his crutch, braced in my hands, prevents an act
of unfair decapitation, then is dropped
as I duck beneath those ape arms. Bradley turns
but trips on the crippled man whose stick I stole.
‘You whore’s son with your la-di-dah brocade.’
Several assistants help them to their feet,
the old man winded, Bradley in a stew
now boiling over. ‘Fight, you poncy turd!’
‘I believe you’re a little drunk. There are children here.’
It’s Watson, breathing sharply at my side,
with Nashe not far behind. He claps his arm
around my shoulder, saying, ‘Honestly.
Gentlemen duel at dawn. It’s almost three.
You’re keeping good people from their work. I’d guess
that your opponent’s not a gentleman.’
with Nashe not far behind. He claps his arm
around my shoulder, saying, ‘Honestly.
Gentlemen duel at dawn. It’s almost three.
You’re keeping good people from their work. I’d guess
that your opponent’s not a gentleman.’
‘So you’ve come now?’ says Bradley. ‘Very good.
I’ll have a bout with you, then finish off
your wheezy friend.’
I’ll have a bout with you, then finish off
your wheezy friend.’
There goes his fish-stock rage,
bubbling over his lip as if a fire
were stoked beneath him. Watson keeps his calm,
and his hand on the hilt of an unfamiliar weapon.
‘That’s not your sword.’ ‘No, it’s Cornwallis’s.
I borrowed it just in case,’ he whispers back.
were stoked beneath him. Watson keeps his calm,
and his hand on the hilt of an unfamiliar weapon.
‘That’s not your sword.’ ‘No, it’s Cornwallis’s.
I borrowed it just in case,’ he whispers back.
Having emptied his verbal armoury,
the brute has another swig of someone’s ale,
a pat on the back. A breeze whips up the air
like a hand up a lady’s petticoat. A thrill.
the brute has another swig of someone’s ale,
a pat on the back. A breeze whips up the air
like a hand up a lady’s petticoat. A thrill.
My mind cooks up the shiver; brings it here
with a flavour of its aftertaste, the bite
of unalterable history. But then, what felt
like theatre was real: not choreographed,
the lines to come unwritten and unknown.
with a flavour of its aftertaste, the bite
of unalterable history. But then, what felt
like theatre was real: not choreographed,
the lines to come unwritten and unknown.
‘Kit, hold my jacket,’ says Watson, stripping quick
to his undershirt. ‘It cost me two months’ pay.’
And he’s in the fray, and fencing.
to his undershirt. ‘It cost me two months’ pay.’
And he’s in the fray, and fencing.
I’ve seen cocks
go for each other’s eyes more cautiously;
Watson, perhaps pumped up from running there,
is bright, ferocious; Bradley swinging wild
like a blinded man who doesn’t know which way
the blows will come. The gathered crowd step back
to accommodate raw spleen. A boy left stood
in the way of danger, awed by spectacle,
is collared to greater safety.
Watson, perhaps pumped up from running there,
is bright, ferocious; Bradley swinging wild
like a blinded man who doesn’t know which way
the blows will come. The gathered crowd step back
to accommodate raw spleen. A boy left stood
in the way of danger, awed by spectacle,
is collared to greater safety.
‘Ha! Take that!’
crows Watson, scratching blood from Bradley’s chest.
‘I’ve taken worse,’ his gruff opponent says,
and turns as ugly as a thunderstorm,
thwacking his heavy sword again, again,
across the spaces Watson occupied
split seconds earlier. Tom leaps back and back
to make some space for the depth of Bradley’s rage
as the bull man presses forward. The heavy sword,
now lightened by fury, flashes there, then there,
slices at arm and thigh.
‘I’ve taken worse,’ his gruff opponent says,
and turns as ugly as a thunderstorm,
thwacking his heavy sword again, again,
across the spaces Watson occupied
split seconds earlier. Tom leaps back and back
to make some space for the depth of Bradley’s rage
as the bull man presses forward. The heavy sword,
now lightened by fury, flashes there, then there,
slices at arm and thigh.
I watch the blood
that feeds that friendly heart spread like a plague
across the cambric of Tom Watson’s shirt.
Bradley is grinning. Now the crowd grows quiet,
and the steel on steel that follows cuts a hush
as still as the full-stop of a funeral hymn.
As tremors in my legs, those staggered steps
of Watson, backwards – backed now to a ditch
where his breath comes shallow, sharp as that bare inch
between him and his end – a sudden end,
rearing up black from the afternoon’s bad joke.
And who would leap into that deep unknown
we’re told leads to the gods, but comes up void –
is always walked alone – without a stab
at another’s heart?
across the cambric of Tom Watson’s shirt.
Bradley is grinning. Now the crowd grows quiet,
and the steel on steel that follows cuts a hush
as still as the full-stop of a funeral hymn.
As tremors in my legs, those staggered steps
of Watson, backwards – backed now to a ditch
where his breath comes shallow, sharp as that bare inch
between him and his end – a sudden end,
rearing up black from the afternoon’s bad joke.
And who would leap into that deep unknown
we’re told leads to the gods, but comes up void –
is always walked alone – without a stab
at another’s heart?
I hear the blade go in
with a crack of bone, a squeak along the rib;
Watson’s eyes widen, close. The heavy groan
is Bradley’s. He slides – as easily as snow
laid thick on a sloping roof, but thawed beneath –
clean from the blade, and crumples to the ground.
Watson’s eyes widen, close. The heavy groan
is Bradley’s. He slides – as easily as snow
laid thick on a sloping roof, but thawed beneath –
clean from the blade, and crumples to the ground.
No one moves, though the wind tugs at their cuffs,
their hats, their hems. And then a wail begins
on a note like a rising flood in someone’s gullet:
a dusty woman pushing through the throng,
knocking aside the goggling passer-by,
the death-dumb neighbour. ‘Bill,’ she’s sobbing, ‘Bill,’
and it’s Bill that’s drowning. Blood bursts from his mouth
in eager blossoms as his love winds through
to cradle him in her lap, ‘Oh, Bill, oh, Bill,
oh, William’ – so intently locked with him
that she’s blind to us, his murderers, until
she finds on her blood-soaked dress a heavy corpse;
and no one in that flesh.
their hats, their hems. And then a wail begins
on a note like a rising flood in someone’s gullet:
a dusty woman pushing through the throng,
knocking aside the goggling passer-by,
the death-dumb neighbour. ‘Bill,’ she’s sobbing, ‘Bill,’
and it’s Bill that’s drowning. Blood bursts from his mouth
in eager blossoms as his love winds through
to cradle him in her lap, ‘Oh, Bill, oh, Bill,
oh, William’ – so intently locked with him
that she’s blind to us, his murderers, until
she finds on her blood-soaked dress a heavy corpse;
and no one in that flesh.
‘What have you done?’
Her hate disintegrates to disbelief,
then melts to loss as she returns to Bill,
what used to be her Bill, what kissed her neck
to wake her up, and twirled her in a dress
when he promised her a future, always good
for the rent no matter what. And now, no Bill.
And she’s sobbing no, and no, and no, and no,
her hair stuck to her tears, her hopeless cheek
stamped with her lover’s blood. The bud of her lips
murmuring prayers.
then melts to loss as she returns to Bill,
what used to be her Bill, what kissed her neck
to wake her up, and twirled her in a dress
when he promised her a future, always good
for the rent no matter what. And now, no Bill.
And she’s sobbing no, and no, and no, and no,
her hair stuck to her tears, her hopeless cheek
stamped with her lover’s blood. The bud of her lips
murmuring prayers.
‘I’ll get the constable,’
says Nashe. ‘Don’t worry. The both of you stay put.’
He’s sprinting down the street. I steer Tom’s arm
to sit him gently down, remove what’s left
of his shirt and tear it into strips. There’s not
one protest, joke. With frightened care, I wrap
his wounds until the cloth stops soaking red,
then drape his jacket gently on his shoulders
as though he were a general. He shudders,
grips round his knees, and dimly stares away.
Someone offers a flask: ‘Good liquor, sir.’
I put it in his hand. He swigs it, gulps
and winces, gives it back, still gazing straight.
I don’t partake myself; return it to
the glove of a quiet man I recognise,
a friend of Richard Field.
He’s sprinting down the street. I steer Tom’s arm
to sit him gently down, remove what’s left
of his shirt and tear it into strips. There’s not
one protest, joke. With frightened care, I wrap
his wounds until the cloth stops soaking red,
then drape his jacket gently on his shoulders
as though he were a general. He shudders,
grips round his knees, and dimly stares away.
Someone offers a flask: ‘Good liquor, sir.’
I put it in his hand. He swigs it, gulps
and winces, gives it back, still gazing straight.
I don’t partake myself; return it to
the glove of a quiet man I recognise,
a friend of Richard Field.
Tom’s skin is cold,
so I put my arm around him, stop his coat
from flapping on his chest. I want to say
‘Are you all right?’ but the question is absurd.
from flapping on his chest. I want to say
‘Are you all right?’ but the question is absurd.
What good are words? There’s a woman sobbing on
her slain provider, comforter and mate –
and her sobs are your creation. How should words
presume themselves as bandages or slings
when the world limps onward, and you’ve darkened it?
And words be damned, for if we’re ‘gentle men’
then what hope does the world have? Words are lost.
They’ve plucked their eyes out rather than see this,
have jumped from clifftops.
her slain provider, comforter and mate –
and her sobs are your creation. How should words
presume themselves as bandages or slings
when the world limps onward, and you’ve darkened it?
And words be damned, for if we’re ‘gentle men’
then what hope does the world have? Words are lost.
They’ve plucked their eyes out rather than see this,
have jumped from clifftops.
Finally, Tom thaws.
Stone quiet, he murmurs, ‘What will I tell Ann?’
‘Tell her the truth,’ I say, after a pause.
‘I killed someone? She’ll like that.’ There’s no smile.
‘I thought I was a better man,’ he says,
‘but there’s no such thing. Just look.’ He nods his head
at the sobbing woman, mingling tears with blood,
Orrell and Bradley’s brother lifting what
used to contain her love, and staggering,
off-balanced by its weight. ‘Ten minutes ago
I was a writer. Now I’m a murderer.’
‘I killed someone? She’ll like that.’ There’s no smile.
‘I thought I was a better man,’ he says,
‘but there’s no such thing. Just look.’ He nods his head
at the sobbing woman, mingling tears with blood,
Orrell and Bradley’s brother lifting what
used to contain her love, and staggering,
off-balanced by its weight. ‘Ten minutes ago
I was a writer. Now I’m a murderer.’
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