When I was seventeen, took a wire brush to the rust
on my father's moped, which he never rode,
then, only with his expert help, I have to say,
we got it coughing up blue smoke.
Creaky the saddle springs,
full of beans the farty motor was
and off I set, half term at the end of May
from Cambridge to Castleacre, near Kings Lyn, Norfolk,
down the A10, cursed by all whenever I delayed them
if the other lane was chock-full or backed up,
overtaking impossible.
Worst, the lorry drivers,
'truckers' you call 'em, motherfuckers, turn of 70's,
would have cheerfully swept me off the road, FOAD,
or under their wheels but for sanction of the law,
so they contented themselves with abuse of the long-haired:
"Yew a boy or a girl? Haw-haw. Call that a bike?
Roadkill. Bloody students should be all strung-up."
Well. Got to the cottages after four hours farting on
and saw the toilet at the garden bottom. Ah.
Cold tap outside the back door, um, big rain-butt too.
We'd exchanged letters (Ollie had no phone)
so was expecting me and bustled out, lean frame,
white curly-head, mere octogenarian, just a little stoop,
welcomed me inside to table laid -
cold meat and pickles, just like Bob loved.
The knives
were kind of mini scimitars - middles so worn
with sharpening on a whetstone, lunar curves -
a few more years they'd be mere wires.
There was an
old valve radio, big thing. 'Does that work, Aunty?'
'Well now, yes and no. No and yes, that's true.
The man inside the box he do shout so!'
She wrinkled up her eyes and grinned at me.
'They do bark on a bit,' I said and laughed.
We never switched it on, blackbird song rang
through the open window, next door's gander
('Now mind. He'll see you off fast as any dawg, he will!')
gave it some, aggressively into the dusk.
The water from the rain-butt you washed in, cold,
and never mind the little water fleas.
'Don't you fuss about those little shrimps now, will you?'
'No, Aunt Ollie.'
Such a Spartan life I never imagined.
'Not a good idea to drink too much 'fore bed.'
Yes. I could see myself treading the creaky boards
banging my head on the upstairs beams,
in underpants (shorts) and boots to pee in garden
and be 'ate by midges'. Sigh.
'You can have a potty.'
'Oh. OK, Aunty. Just in case.'
She loved Bob so,
it was always Bob liked this or that - poacher turned
gamekeeper was his trade and out a lot. But she
was a survivor, independent, kind and cranky-humorous
until she fell and broke her hip, I heard.
Then sisters took her in -
and then when all were just too old,
an old folks home.
I'm sorry that I never really saw
the good old bird again.
After that sojourn I drifted away
soon did become a student, fell in love,
lost my heart, my mind, staggered preoccupied -
though that visit burns so bright down to this day.
