This Is All (34 page)

When I was outside and retrieving my bike, she said, ‘Wait a sec,’ and went back in.

It was after eleven now, the street lights were on, there was dew in the air.

I was sitting on my bike ready to take off when Ms M. returned, carrying a Waitrose plastic bag, which she handed to me.

‘The book I promised to lend you.’

I hung the bag from my handlebar.

course they do interrupt it, because you have to decide whether to read the footnote when you come to the asterisk or leave it till later. The trouble is, if you leave it till later, you’ve forgotten the point that required the footnote, and so you (me anyway) usually do read the footnote when you come to it, and therefore do interrupt the flow of the main text and this can sometimes be irritating. I still like them though. Am I allowed to use footnotes in exam essays?

Also: Do I get extra marks for quoting G. M. Hopkins without you mentioning his poetry first? I found his poem in the anthology you loaned me so in an unmentioning kind of way I suppose you did mention him. He is v good, don’t you agree, but
difficult
. But interestingly difficult. Could you explain what ‘sprung rhythm’ means, please. I can’t work it out
at all
from what Mr H. says.

PS. I know I haven’t put quote marks round the words from his poem. Is this OK or will I get marked down for not doing it?

PPS. I thought your lesson yesterday on Sylvia Plath was A**. But you weren’t so great on
Macbeth
today, if you don’t mind me saying so. C-. Never mind. We all have off days. I had one on Thursday, when you told me off for not paying attention. C’est la vie.]

Things that make my heart beat faster

Catching sight of Will.

Hearing Will on the phone.

Will.

Words coming into my head which I know at once belong to a new mope I shall write.

Knowing that I have just finished writing a new poem.

A new book when I first see it and pick it up to read it.

Feeling, when I am playing the piano, that I’ve ‘got’ it and the music seems to flow through my fingers onto the

‘Feeling a bit better?’

‘Yes, a lot. Thanks.’

‘I was thinking. If you like, you could help me at school tomorrow. If you’ve nothing better to do.’

‘No. I mean, yes, I’d like to.’

‘Getting my classroom ready for the new term, sorting out the book cupboards. That sort of thing. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. We could talk then. If you still need to.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘About two.’

‘Great! Thanks. You’ve been—’

‘Sleep well.’

‘You too.’

She gave me that searching look again.

‘Cordelia. Don’t …’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Doesn’t matter.’

‘No. Please. Tell me.’

‘Don’t expect too much of me.’

I didn’t know what she meant.

She took a step back. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I pedalled away. Confused. But happy.

I was halfway home before I remembered Will and realised with a shock that I hadn’t given him a thought for four hours at least. There’d not been a day for the last ten months when he hadn’t been in my mind every waking moment. I gulped with guilt, feeling I’d betrayed him, and pedalled as fast as I could, meaning to call him as soon as I got home.

Where Dad was waiting, molto agitato.

‘There you are! Thank god! Where’ve you been?’

‘Ms Martin’s.’

‘Ms Martin’s! Why?’

‘Just felt like it. Needed some time out.’

‘You should’ve let us know. We’ve been worried sick.’

‘I was upset.’

keys without any effort and I am part of it and it is part of me.

Seeing Will put his oboe to his lips, knowing he is going to play, and then sing a song for which he has written the music and I have written the words.

Waking up in the morning and knowing that I will have Will to myself for the whole day.

Being praised by Ms M.

Ms M. asking me to stay behind to help her.

Imagining a book of my poems being published and seeing the printed book for the first time.

Suddenly remembering, when I wake in the middle of the night, that I am alive and that I am me and that one day I will become something else which I do not know about yet.

Dad when he is happy.

Looking at myself in the mirror and knowing that I look the way I want to look in the clothes I decided to wear that day.

The look on Will’s face when he likes the way I’m dressed.

Will when he is so totally absorbed in what he is doing that he isn’t aware of anything else, not even of me. He is
so
beautiful then.

Getting something – anything at all –
exactly
right.

Not Mean, but Be (Part I
)

Today Ms M. gave me a poem. It is by Veronica Forrest-Thomson, who I have never heard of.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Ms M. said, ‘because very few people have heard of her. She was a brilliant young woman, but died an early death.’

The poem is called
Cordelia: or, ‘A Poem Should not Mean, but Be
’.

Ms M. said, ‘I’m not giving it to you just because of your

‘So are we. I’ll phone Doris. When you didn’t come for supper she went to fetch you. She’s waiting, in case you turned up there. We were thinking of calling the police.’

‘Dad!’

‘You might have had an accident. Anything could have happened.’

‘I’m all right. I can look after myself. I’m not a child any more.’

‘Maybe not. But you’re still my daughter and I’m still responsible for you.’

‘Well, I don’t feel like your daughter.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, a
father
would have talked to his
daughter
about getting married
before
he decided.’

‘We would have done—’

‘Not
we
, Dad!
You!
’

‘O, for god’s sake, Cordelia, I’m marrying Doris, not some stranger.’

‘Yes,
Doris
. My
aunt
.’

‘She helped to bring you up. She’s as much your mother as she is your aunt.’

‘I know.’

‘So we might as well be married. We should have years ago. It would’ve been better for all three of us.’

‘Years ago, maybe. When I was little. Before I knew. But not now. Now it’s worse.’

‘Why? I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I. It just is.’

‘All you’re thinking about is yourself. You’re being selfish.’

‘
I’m being selfish!
What about you?’

‘Look, there’s something you’d better understand. I’ve always loved Doris.’

‘What about Mum? She was just second best, was she?’

‘Don’t be insulting! I tried to explain when we were at the horse. I loved your mother. She saved me.’

name, but because of what it says about a poem: that it should
be
and not
mean
.’

I said, ‘I’m not sure I understand that.’

Ms M. laughed and said, ‘Exactly. Time you found out.’

It is not an easy poem. There are references to people I have never heard of – dead artists and writers, mostly, I think – but I did understand quite a lot of it. I can see that it pretends to be about Cordelia, who can never lie, in Shakespeare’s play
King Lear
. But it is really about Veronica F-T herself. I think many poets do this in their poems: pretend to write about someone else while actually writing about themselves. I have not tried doing this myself yet, but perhaps I will. I can see it might help me to say things that would be too embarrassing to say if people thought I was talking about myself. And perhaps when you pretend to be someone else, you can say things to yourself you cannot say when you are just being yourself. (Has this something to do with a poem ‘being’ and not ‘meaning’? Now I’ve confused myself.)

The beginning of the poem and the end are easy, and I like them, not because they are easy but because of what they say. They are written like popular verses on greetings cards:

To those who kiss in fear that they shall never kiss again

To those that love with fear that they shall never love again

To such I dedicate this rhyme and what it may contain.

Sometimes when I leave Will after we have made love I worry that I will lose him, or that something will happen to take him from me, and that I will never find anyone else I want to kiss as much as I want to kiss him and who I love as much as I love him. And that is also why I like the end of the poem and must try to do what it says:

The motto of this poem heed

And do you it employ:

‘But you were never
in love
with her. Not like you are with Doris. Is that it?’

‘Doris is the love of my life. That’s the long and the short of it, and you’ll just have to accept it.’

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘Listen to me.
Listen!
I’ve done all I can for you, and I’ve done the best I can. And I’ll go on doing it. But if you think I’m going to ruin the rest of my life for you, young lady, you’ve another think coming. You’re old enough to cope with that now, so buckle to and get on with it.’

‘All right. All
right!
’

‘And now, if you don’t mind, I need to phone Doris. She’s worried sick.’

‘See. She comes first now. Not me. Not your daughter.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Cordelia!
Grow up, will you!
’

He picked up the phone.

I ran to my room. Sat on the bed, hugging the Waitrose bag like a magic talisman, trying to fend off another attack of resentment and anger.

I could tell there was something more than a book inside. I emptied it onto the bed. Along with the book, out fell the pottery egg and the card which said
CALM.

That made me laugh out loud. Silly Ms M.! Lovely Ms M.!

Sitting cross-legged, I took the egg in my left hand, held the card in my right and stared at it. Breathing it in, so to speak. Be calm, I told myself, be calm. At the same time, I rubbed the egg between my fingers, turning it over and over, round and round, like a prayer bead. As I did so, the sensation of Ms M. massaging my feet returned and soothed me again.

Why is an egg egg-shaped? I asked myself. An ovoid wedge. Streamlined. Perhaps the shape makes it easier for the hen to lay comfortably? Or is it that shape because it’s best for the growing embryo? Head at the wide end, feet at the thin end. An egg. New life.

Calm, I thought. Stay calm. I’m being difficult. Why am I

Waste not and want not while you’re here

The possibles of joy.

I suppose I have just done what Ms F-T doesn’t want me to do: think of the meaning of her words, but I really
am
also trying to think about how a poem can ‘be’ and not ‘mean’. Unfortunately, I have not got far with this, and will have to ask Ms M. for help.

>>
Not Mean, but Be (
Part II
) >>

Sleep

When I was a child, I got up as soon as I woke, and never wanted to go to bed until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. I only slept because I had to. Sleep was something that just happened. I didn’t think of it as ‘part of life’. But when I was about thirteen I used to stay in bed as long as I could, till twelve or even one at weekends and holidays, and I still do. (Though I still want to stay up late at night.) This annoys Dad, who calls it ‘lolling about’, i.e. wasting time. Will is of the same opinion, which is why he drags me out of bed for a morning run three times a week. Really, if we live together, I think there could be trouble between us on this subject. If I go on lolling, that is. Perhaps I’ll ‘grow out of it’. Doris says it’s a temporary phase and typical teenage behaviour, i.e. so much is happening to your body and your mind during your teenage years, you need extra lots of sleep in order to cook up enough energy to cope with the changes. As usual, this biological rule doesn’t apply to Will, or if it does, he ignores it. Doris says he’s just one of those lucky ‘constitutionally active’ people (there are times when I wonder if he isn’t hyperactive), who don’t need much sleep. Dad is a six hours a night person, Doris an eight hours person, Will can get by on four hours. At the moment I’m a twelve or more hours person, and sleep has become one of my favourite activities.

being difficult? Why do I behave badly when I’d rather behave well? Human beings can be so crass, so ridiculous sometimes. And so stupid. Fighting is stupid. Wars are stupid. People behaving badly. Why are we cruel to one another? Why can’t we just
calm down?
What’s so bad about being good? What are we so afraid of that we behave badly? That we might be put upon? That we might have to admit we’re in the wrong?

What should I do now? I wondered. I played possible scenes in my head. Remain where I was and let Dad and Doris do as they would? Go to Doris and talk things over with her? Ask Doris to come here and talk things over with her and Dad? Go down to Dad and talk to him? Do none of these, but call Will and ask him to meet me somewhere, anywhere, knowing he would console me?

Only one scene seemed right, only one seemed fit, only one was the good thing to do.

I went downstairs. Dad was in the kitchen, washing up. When he’s in a fume he always does chores. If you find him wielding the vacuum you know he’s in a major rage. Washing the dishes means brooding sulks.

He said nothing.

Suddenly, I felt famished. I prepared some bread and cheese and tomato, sat at the table and started eating.

I knew Dad wouldn’t make the opening move. He never does.

He finished washing up, dried his hands, and made for the drinks cupboard. Bad sign. Bad move. I’d have to be quick if I was to save the night from turning even worse.