And yet, and yet... I lie on the newly made bed, unwilling to take off my dressing gown, wearied with the prospect of shaving (for the 28,820th time, I've just calculated) and my mind slides ineluctably back to 1959, a year when an awful past ended and a new future began. Annus mirabilis! The North of England was behind me, London was my new home, and anything might happen. Many things - in different parts of the globe - did happen.
I was sharing a flat just off Clapham Common with a senior journalist on The Times and an American jazz drummer and his wife. The conversation was wide-ranging, musical and allusive, the atmosphere one of daring. Finally I was living the life I reckoned I was equipped for: my own version of the Left Bank, of Greenwich Village.
I had just met VR, then VT, and I showed her photograph (see above) to the drummer: he was a scoundrel but well-read and understood Europe. "It looks like Saint-Sulpice," he said. Would anyone in Bradford, the city I'd left behind, have drawn a parallel with that Parisian church? Never.
Elder daughter, Professional Bleeder, is visiting and asked to sort through our jumbled up box of photos. The one above saw the light of day again. The location is actually the Clock Tower in St Albans, but it's exotic enough. I am strengthened enough to get off the bed and start shaving, re-invigorated by the past.
Your lovely lady has Pre-Raphaelite eyes. Great photo! I love reading stories that bloggers have to tell about their lives, they offer a glimpse into another world. In 1959 I was a goofy 7 or 8 year old "committing" my First Holy Communion in South Bend, Indiana. Now I am wondering who the jazz drummer was, and what you think of jazz?
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful woman you've made your life with, Robby. I'd say she is worth shaving your face for; yes, indeed!
ReplyDeleteColette: The Clapham Common quartet only clung together for a few months. The drummer was unfaithful to his wife, she returned to the USA and he disappeared into the London demimonde. The journalist and I moved to a flat virtually in the centre of London but I didn't stay long. Just over a year after moving to London (an easily remembered anniversary: 1/10/60) I married VT and we moved to a fashionable suburb. Then to a much less fashionable suburb when we needed more space "for the usual reason".
ReplyDeleteThe journalist was an enormous influence on my life. He was a brilliant writer and we'd worked together in Bradford before London; any early journalistic talent of mine was probably attributable to him. He also introduced me to classical music and to jazz (mainly big band stuff such as Ellington and Basie, plus West Coast - eg, Gerry Mulligan). He used to play a trumpet along to his jazz records and I later inherited his cornet-trumpet when he bought a better replacement; my experiences with this instrument are mentioned in Opening Bars.
Unfortunately this brilliance came at a cost. He was a dominant character and quite amoral. For personal reasons I had to sever relations with him and told him so. His brilliance went into a decline and he ended up asking to borrow money from my father. When I returned from the US he made a lone attempt to resume the friendship (more likely he wanted to borrow money) but I refused. Tiny references occurred for a year or so then silence.
I tried Googling him decades later but he unfortunately shares a distinctive name with a popular TV actor of the time and the Internet seems to know him not.
Crow: There was more to come. VR, with our daughter, joined me in Pittsburgh when I was established. At the time the miniskirt was popular in London not so in Pittsburgh. VR's appearances in a pink mini at the city's Jewish Y (a fantastic source of classical musicians and low, low prices) quite silenced the chattering classes.
WOW.
ReplyDeleteThat's a sad tale, your story of the journalist and trumpet-player...
ReplyDeleteBut a lovely picture of your wife--a good inspiration to rise and shave and shine.
Re: the pink mini - Ha! Good for her!
ReplyDeleteThe Crow: A great boost for the UK clothing trade. "Where," VR was asked breathlessly, "could they buy skirts like that?"
ReplyDeleteNever NEVER throw out old photos.
ReplyDeleteShe is just gorgeous.
I recently sent a few photos of my mother at a similar age to a younger niece (who in my opinion shares a resemblance) and found her, the niece that is, in tears of joy. She never really knew a granny could have been young and beautiful.
Sabine: VR was of course aware of this photo but my posting it on Tone Deaf (with the subsequent comments) has given it a new context. Nearly 60 years after the event she re-examined the photo and made one or two observations which I have to regard as private. But obviously poignant.
ReplyDeleteI reflected: such a reaction is never likely to happen with any photo of me in my late teens. I have actually improved with age, which isn't saying much.
The story about your niece is equally poignant. But were we all different people when we were prettier?
A beautiful photo, and utterly recognisable.
ReplyDeleteLucy: I will pass on your life-enhancing comment, quivering on the edge of tears.
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