Two thirds of this extraordinary year is sliding past today and I mused on how we’ve coped, what we’ve missed, who we’ve missed whilst walking around to the strains of a Schubert piano sonata today. When Boris finally told us to stay at home, the over seventies for twelve weeks, the prospect appeared daunting. An arid waste of no one and nothing stretched out before us, to be borne like a punishment for a crime we could not remember committing!
And now? Eighteen weeks have passed, not quite in a trice, but with unexpected haste. Where has it gone? This time? And what have we contrived to do, of what unfulfilled tasks have we achieved completion? Uh, not many! What tasks I have these days consist mainly of unread books to be taken from the shelves or clicked on the Kindle. Over the years I have purchased a host of stuff in both formats for future enjoyment (hopefully!) and I have been embarking on quite a few of these. For those who do not know, I am seventy eight. All my life I have been an avid reader of books and reviews thereof and I do my best to keep in touch with contemporary concerns e.g. MeToo, BLM, LGBTQ+ All these areas of life experience have been at the forefront of my mind since teenage years so I have found myself discussing and advising younger members of the family on the history involved.
I purchased and read de Beauvoir’s Second Sex on its publication in paperback when (?) 18 which opened my eyes, that which I was able to understand! Civil rights in the US became an overwhelming concern at about the same time and, aside from reading James Baldwin, Malcolm X and all the books by the Black Panthers, for a couple of years I exchanged letters with a black lifer in San Quentin jail. The fact that the news is still full of much the same disgusting stuff is beyond my belief. I would gladly, but not without a little struggle, take a knee. But despite my continual attempts to be aware of unconscious ingrained prejudices and my best efforts to still learn lessons, which I have tried to do throughout my professional and personal life, it’s still easy to trip.
But back to the unfulfilled tasks! Well, I’ve painted the fence. And installed a wire frame over each of the air bricks at the front and rear of the house to prevent the entry of mice. Unfulfilled is not the appropriate word for such things implying, to me at least, as it does, that they were landmarks, however small, that I had failed to attain despite yearning to do so. Bending down reaching out, perching awkwardly, always with a brush loaded with potentially misdirected paint. Not my idea of a milestone in my life. Millstone, yes! But it’s done, for another year. And I can return to unread books. Less listened to music. More reading of and about Shakespeare. Yes! I know. Obsessive. But outside of my wife and family, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Beckett and Rembrandt and John Coltrane have been the props in my life, supporting me when I had time and space to retire to that little retreat, that space inside the head where we can all sit and sift through the straws that the wind has blown into our lives. Or simply give the heart and brain a rest, immersing oneself in enjoyment of something familiar, reassuring, relaxing. Maybe stimulating. You’ve got them also. Cloaks that you can place around your shoulders, enveloping you in comfort.
But (Whoops! Second paragraph starting with the dreaded word) my main example of non-achievement is in the area of writing. I have been trying to write a novel for a few years, which should have been completed long ago, in the light of the fact that I have no compulsory tasks to complete like driving for an hour every day, to sit in an office, talking to people, in many cases being abnormally, for me, affable and chatty to them, sorting out other people’s problems of a professional nature. Driving hither and thither from factory to port (I was involved in project shipping worldwide.). Flying to various exotic and/or dull, and/or dangerous parts of the world to glad hand people with whom the only thing I had in common was the job in hand.
But, guess what?! The months of purdah have resulted in no more than a page to add to the sixty one thousand words completed so far! I must get back to it. Mustn’t I? For sure. I really do. But I have no idea what direction to take. I shall overcome. One day.
Back to reading. Now, I have to ask you to trust me. I really wish to recommend a book that is a superb read, beautifully plotted, beautifully written. Extremely moving. William Shakespeare had three children. First a daughter, Susanna, who lived to be 66. And twins. A girl called Judith, who lived to be 77. A boy called Hamnet who died at the age of 11. An Irish writer, Maggie O’Farrell, has written a novel imagining the circumstances surrounding his death and its effect on the other members of the family. William is almost a peripheral character referred to as the husband, the father, the son. Other than Hamnet, the main character is Agnes Hathaway, which turns out to be her proper name but spelling at the time was ‘fluid’, Hamnet and Hamlet were interchangeable also. O’Farrell imagines him dying of plague and details the journey the bacterium takes from source to Stratford and the agony of Agnes as she attempts to save her son’s life with her arcane knowledge of herbal treatments, of which she is a known purveyor. And her mental agony when she learns that her husband has, four years later, written a play bearing her beloved son’s name.
There is general surprise that the book was not selected for the Booker prize and it has already won the Women’s Prize for fiction. I really do think that it will become a classic in years to come, a classic of imagination, of style, of creation of a deeply emotional response to the common sorrow of all mothers on the loss of a child. Buy it. Read it. You will love it.
And now it is September 21st (See what I mean about procrastination!) and again, I have just returned from a walk. This time with a purpose, namely visiting the pharmacy to collect painkillers to accompany me on a holiday, starting tomorrow, to the Scilly Isles. We have already foregone three weeks in May on the Greek island of Donoussa and will no longer go next week for a longer break on ‘our’ island of Karpathos, where we lived for twelve years, fearing the risks of the flight and conditions in Athens which are worsening by the day. First time on Scilly Isles and weather forecast apocalyptic (or nearly) but tiny island of St Agnes very quiet. And the sea, the sea. In our final six years our house looked down onto azure sea stretching to the eastern horizon where the sun rose in all its glory every morning. Swim in five minutes. So we miss it. Painfully.
The walk, at early afternoon on what is a sunny day, led me to cogitate. A young man sped past on an electric scooter. A young woman was on the path, pushing a pushchair and carrying a further baby on her chest. She had pink and yellow hair. And her arms were covered in tattoos.
As I say, I am seventy eight and have always been a big supporter of people who kick against the pricks, who go their way. So the last thing I want is to give the impression of an outdated old fart. But I have always abhorred tattoos. And to see them adorning the bodies of beautiful young women is difficult to take. I don’t want to trespass in any way on the free will of anyone of any gender and accept that this is my problem. But all the same. And the same applies to the impulse to procreate. The prospects for any newborn today are daunting, to say the least. I have been deeply interested in climate change for years. I believe science will, ultimately, find ways to mitigate the effects. But not before dire droughts, famines, floods and the consequent mass immigration take place. I have grandchildren of four and seven in New Zealand and have stomach contracting moments considering their futures.
Pink and yellow hair! The man on the scooter also had tattoos, by the way. Just as .... Ugh!
Having spent my working life in contact with every stratum of society from dockside to boardroom and my head in books seeking knowledge all my life, I still come to the conclusion that none of us can truly know another person. However you define ‘know’. People do and say things that are beyond any sensible thing that I have come to know. Good luck to them. I do not ‘know’ them any more than I know Pip or Sherlock Holmes. But on the whole it’s been worth the trip. Having said which, I’ve met some bastards in my time and most were not born out of wedlock.