On sharing

My bedside mobile rang at about 2.30 in the morning and the dilemma that has dominated me for the last few months was at an end. A gentle Asian voice told me that Veronica, my wife of 66 years, had died during the night at the nursing home.

A dilemma that many must have shared. Such deaths are often described as “a blessing” and certainly even I – a detester of clichés – surely approved of the fact that she was no longer suffering the cruel torments of dementia. That death was something Veronica had desperately sought before, in another cruel twist, coherent speech was denied her.

Well-meaning people had told me that the suffering person whose hand I held was no longer the woman I had married. But I found this hard to take. Physically, at least, she was that woman. Stripped of the abilities of speech, creative thought, and the essence of motherhood she nevertheless radiated memories of a life we had shared. For the first time I recognised that the phrase “my life” was imprecise, that “our life” was the greater truth. For 66 years we had lived in combination, created a family and done the things that families do. Perversely I tell myself “our life” still endures. For a little while

So, here’s one of those shared memories. A salutary occasion if you like.

We were poverty-stricken when we married. A honeymoon is hardly the right word. I borrowed my mother’s Lambretta scooter and on a chilly early-October morning we left London aiming for the mountains of North Wales. Veronica riding pillion. It didn’t get any warmer.

Mid-afternoon we stopped for fuel at a primitive filling station. An elderly Welsh woman emerged and silently did the necessary. This was long before the credit card era and I dug out a pound note. The woman took the note, pointed to the adjacent house, and said sternly, “Now take your wife in there for a cup of tea before she dies of cold.”

We laughed about this over the tea and scones but only now have I become aware of the greater significance of that event. In marriage one becomes two, a mutual two. And I hadn’t yet recognised my responsibilities. I hope to hell I learned quickly.

Credo (Hey, look up the translation)

Music: in the end the only true division is not between categories (Pop. Classical. Folk. Jazz, und so weiter) but by quality. It's either good or bad and you make the decisions, but it does help if you're moderately well informed

You think I'm a hypocrite, wedded to Schubert, Schumann and all those dead old fogies. Perhaps I am but, in my defence, I offer this:

A concert to celebrate Paul Simon's 75th birthday. The Boxer, a moderately complex tune but backed up by words worth listening to. Simon, perfectly on the beat with quite forcefully vigorous strumming, that lightish voice ensuring we hear everything. Joan Baez, as it were playing second fiddle but with great grace, contributing a sort of descant, thus another view of a "good" song. A second guitarist, presumably doing the bass line, allowed a dozen bars of fascinating variations at the end. No essential difference between The Boxer and Gute Nacht which kicks off the Winterreise song cycle.

An emotional choice? But the mind is at work too.

A belated thank-you

Taken only a few days ago, I thought this
 expression shows- quite vividly - the result
of devoting oneself to language; the face of
one who has never seen a Dr Who episode

Time passes, on balance less beneficially. I'm writing better than ever before but life is at its worst ebb as my other half slides into oblivion. Comment if you wish but please, please, even if you feel inclined, don't sympathise. There is nothing neither you nor I can do to help.

Even though the visit to France (qv) proved to be a brief exception

As with all misery, irony is just around the corner. I've always condemned nostalgia on the grounds that I mistrust the Golden Era way of thinking. That things were better decades ago merely because they occurred in the past. For me the past was left wrapped in a shapeless bundle in my birth city as the future brought with it a growing sequence of happy revelations.

Until three years ago. And now I trawl the earlier years of Tone Deaf, plus its predecessor Works Well, for scraps of comfort.

To find something I've only just recognised: a genuine sense of community.

Some background is necessary. Since age 11 I have written continuously. Thousands of letters to my widest family, articles for newspapers and magazines, reports about my confined existence in the Royal Air Force, speeches to restless audiences, eloquent appeals to US editors that they consider me for employment, amateurish attempts at fiction, a blog, rather more professional attempts at fiction, and, most surprisingly of all, verse.

In all these outpourings, over 79 years, I wrestled with language as – later – I wrestled with singing: in both instances to achieve an individual voice. I was very serious about this, to the point where self-centredness got the upper hand. Understand this:  writers deserve not a shred of understanding. Their burden is self-imposed and the great majority becomes insufferable outside what they write. To some extent truly dedicated plumbers end up in the same hole.

On reflection I find I’ve been remarkably lucky. Blogs invite responses and – lo and behold – I enjoyed my own Golden Era. For a few years it seemed there were others out there in cyberspace, all individual voices, all capable of grasping ideas and expanding them according to the true meaning of conversation. Driven by a desire to enrich rather than to dispute.

To them this belated expression of gratitude. My misery continues but it would have been crass of me, having discovered this phenomenon, not to have publicised it.

Unequivocally good news

The above image could be described as a portable hi-fi system with Anker power source. Certainly it qualifies as portable, the detached control unit (encircled in cable) is a mere 8 cm long (2.25 in. for those living in Trunkasia). But the system's minimality is  at odds with the adjectival phrase "high-fidelity"; good quality sound reproduction tends toward bigness.

And big cost. The Marantz amplifier I use - inter alia - to  increase and improve TV sound cost £500, some 15 years ago.

Nevertheless the little darling you see cost about £50, all told, and  has touched my heart.

VR is not happy in the nursing home. This is understandable and her stress is infectious; I visit her most days and I come away heavily saddened. Maintaining any sense of optimism in our conversation is often impossible. So why not swap words for music?

For tedious reasons assembling this mini-system took more time than I expected (VR refused earphones) and although I had willing permission to use it in the nursing home I was never able to arrange reasonable listening conditions. Today I did. And within three or four minutes of play there was confirmation I was on the right track. One of the patients - quiet yet distracted by her awful malady - pointed at the speaker (ie, the white circle) - and said. "That's the fourth piano concerto." Turning, she added, "Beethoven." and wandered off-stage.

She was right. 

VR seemed at rest, a rare occurrence. She remained silent for the piano concerto (it lasts 34 minutes), a favourite of both of us, Bach's Goldberg Variations  (over an hour), and a handful of English songs by Dame Janet Baker (say ten minutes). No gloomy predictions, no complaints. I emerged into the afternoon rush-hour; maintaining my patience via the car's audio system playing Beethoven's Waldstein piano sonata.

Yeah, music.

Boring old stuff; forget it

If you do not take an interest in the affairs of your government, then you are doomed to live under the rule of fools. — Plato

Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you. — Pericles

When tyranny becomes law, rebellion becomes duty - Jefferson

In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act - Orwell

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men* to do nothing - Burke. (* and women)

It's time for me to become boring. But first let me make one thing clear: you are entitled to ignore me. By any international standard I am without formal education. I left school at 15 and entered journalism because the prospect entertained me. Forty-four and a half years later I retired as a journalist, having influenced no one.

Just this once, I'd like to modify that view of my life.

This decision is a reaction to what has happened within the last 24 hours in the USA. A country of which I may speak with a tiny bit of authority since I worked there  as a journalist, 1965 - 1972. I was drawn there because I'd read a lot of US authors, admired the skilful way US professionals made movies, and, at heart, I believed the USA was a "good" place because of the way it had helped destroy Fascism in WW2. I enjoyed life there, I learnt a lot, and was able to apply what I learnt when I took to writing novels in retirement.

Along the way I ran a blog, starting in 2008. Less so in in the last two years given that the defects of old age have overtaken my family and reduced its energy capacity.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my blog attracted US readers. Articulate types on the whole. And I noticed from their comments those who said they weren't interested in politics or averted their eyes from reports on what was happening to US government. For them I would point to the quotes above

Within the last few hours Trump appears to be making good on a promise he uttered while campaigning. "Get me in this time and you may never have to vote again." His proposed restriction on mailed-in voting is a first giant step towards doing away with the ballot box. Hitler did something similar but forget about him, think what he did for the German people

To those who prefer to shy away from thinking about impending tyranny, the message is brief: forget about yourselves, death will soon bring an end to your worries. Think about your kids.

A small break, with consequences

I have to be careful. When I moan audibly about the difficulties of my present life those nearest to me try to cheer me up with solutions. Recently I stared mournfully at a half-empty glass of beer and reflected that I’d already visited France for the last time. And France (with its conversations) is an essential constituent of my life blood.

Days later I received an email from daughter, Occasional Speeder, saying she’d booked three days at Fécamp in northern France, on the Channel coast, for the two of us and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Can you guess my response? 

So there we were, sitting in the Skoda, in a train presently stationary at Folkestone in Kent, waiting to travel – undersea for 35 minutes – to Calais. The hell with travelling by ferry which takes a couple of hours, what with all the driving on and driving off. Getting on to the train is like entering a continuous metal tube. Easy-peasy. Time for me shave in situ given I’ve never got on with beards.

Neither of us had ever visited Fécamp before and, I must confess, initially it was something of a downer. Elderly and industrial sums it up. And our small terrace (US: row) house was in a narrow back street. Cheap though. However, a quick walk changed my mind.

Fécamp is a working town, mainly trawler fishing, reminding me that what I hate are places that have become RESORTS, a term of abuse for me. Both residents and visitors behave less naturally in resorts. While Fécamp’s restaurants displayed themselves less tartishly.

Still Fécamp. What you see is my grilled sole, arguably the best flat fish in the world. Bloody marvellous and half the price it would have been in a resort. Served me by an utterly lustrous black waitress. Occasional Speeder eventually went inside to pay and when the till worker saw the note I’d specified as tip she beckoned the waitress over. And the waitress was embarrassingly grateful. But for me the emotions were even more pronounced. I was in France and now happier.

We drove up the coast and stopped to visit a war cemetery at St Valéry-en-Caux. This area is fairly near where it all happened on June 6 1944 and, inevitably, there are lots of war cemeteries. This one was Franco-British but it could easily have been Franco-US. And here it behoves me to make a point. The French have never forgotten to be grateful towards what we used to call the Allies and how they rescued France with the invasion. This was a smallish cemetery, enhanced by being on a slope. Flower beds recently trimmed, some tombstones which hadn’t stood the passage of time (France was very poor then) had been replaced. Beautiful and tranquil.

So we progressed up the coast towards a geological reminder. Once the isles of the UK were joined to what is now the French mainland. And there’s proof. You may have heard of the white cliffs of Dover (Vera Lynn sings the song); well here are their continuations in France and I stood to marvel.

Did I say the French still remember? There were flags waving over an area close to the shore and deliberately left bare. Over seventy years ago a US Flying Fortress crashed there and a huge plaque lists in detail everyone who died.

Too morbid? I can't apologise.

Heard of absinth? A near-toxic liqueur that killed the painter Toulouse-Lautrec and - the waiter assured me - wrecked Van Gogh. I have heard it's making a comeback. Had to be with the flood and courageously ordered two centilitres. Remarkably like Pernod. And, as far as I can tell, I'm still alive.

Something more personal. We went southish, crossing the wonderful Pont du Normandie.I wantyed to point out its glories and turned to the car's rear seat where VR usually sits, inviting discussion. But of course VR wasn't there and - being unable to travel - was, no doubt, reflecting unhappily in her Hereford nursing home. I visit her almost daily but, yesterday, I remained silent about the visit to France with OS. My needs having been granted but at a price.

Finally: A noticeboard lists the maximum purchases at a drinks emporium near, I think, Honfleur: 10 litres of alcoholic and “spirituous” drinks; 20 litres of “intermediate” drinks (port, vermouth, madeira, etc), 90 litres of wine, 100 litres beer.”

Yeah, about right for an average party of ten. That’s chaps, of course.

 

Time for persiflage

FAREWELL FAMOUS TYKE David Hockney, Britain's best-known painter, died yesterday. He and I simultaneously attended  Bradford Grammar School in Yorkshire  though he was was two years younger. I never spoke  to him but I observed his behaviour. As might be imagined, even then he marched to the beat of a different drummer and this attracted the school bullies.  As they punched him he giggled; this foxed these sporting oafs and they quickly walked away, disappointed.

Hockney, of course, travelled the world and is frequently remembered for the work he did in California. Despite this he retained much more of his West Riding accent than I did. The difference being he spoke charmingly whereas I always sounded as if I was complaining. Eventually the years spent in and around London, plus the six years in Pennsylvania, wore away most of these unwelcome linguistic roots and I can now pass as geographically anonymous.

WRITING STYLE Having - more or less - mastered English grammar and left spelling up to WfW's Checker I can afford to concentrate on writing style. By now - and I should bloody well hope so! - I know what I want but defining those two words is fiendishly difficult. There are certain identifiable factors. A war on superfluity, for instance, but without lapsing into terseness. Choosing exact verbs rather than opting, lazily, for generalities. Chasing after that which is vivid plus its corollary: the unexpected. 

But summarising  that in, say, less than thirty words is beyond me. For the moment. I'll return to this subject however tedious you may regard it.

I wonder if I may be trying to write as if from my belly button.