Authors: Aidan Chambers
22/‘Does it please you?’ Ozzy asked, typically deadpan, nothing in those laser eyes or the crisp voice betraying his own opinion.
‘When I wrote it, sir.’
‘And now?’
Caution.
‘Don’t dither.’
‘I think so.’
‘You worked at it?’
‘About five drafts. Rough versions, I mean. This neat one made six.’
‘You changed a lot each time?’
‘Mostly it was cutting things out, sir, trying to get it clearer, more exactly what I wanted to say. Trying to get it tighter. Like you told us to, sir.’
‘I’d prefer “as” to “like”, but I regard that as a losing battle. “They were inside themselves,
like
I am inside myself . . .”’
‘I guess it is, sir.’ I chanced a smile. ‘A losing battle, I mean.’
The smile was returned; he must be pleased!
‘You bring the language tumbling round our ears, Robinson. Is it ignorance or preference?’
‘Preference in that case, sir.’
‘No bliss then. I grow old . . . Tell me, what are you reading?’
‘I’m on a patch of Vonnegut, sir.’
‘From which comes the Americanism, no doubt. Ah well, you could do worse, I suppose.
Slaughterhouse-Five?
’
‘I started with that, sir.’
‘Hence this interest in death?’
‘No, sir. I caught that a few years ago.’
‘Then would you say this modest piece of prose is fiction or non-fiction?’
I hadn’t thought about it. I shrugged, ‘It’s about things I’ve felt, sir. But I invented the incidents.’
‘You might safely call that fiction. And, Robinson, I’ll be frank with you.’
‘Sir?’
‘This is quite a promising essay.’
Surprise, surprise. ‘Thanks.’
‘Do not mistake me. I am not saying you are a literary genius. Far from it. Ridley, Wilson and Carter are all in your year and produce consistently more impressive work than you.’
He picked up my pages again and flicked his eyes over them.
‘But you have learned a lot since you joined us.’
He slipped a pencil from his pocket and began underlining phrases. (He always seems to have the same pencil and it’s always a stump of a thing with a sharp point. It is never new and never blunt. Yet no one ever sees him sharpen it; and when does he ever begin a new one and wear out the stump?)
‘“Lost among fields” must be rejected as cliché by now, I think. The “long row of bodies” suggests corpses laid out head to foot, but “a queue of Robinsons” suggests bodies standing up in packed lines. The images clash, you see, which reduces their effect. . . .’
He went on, devastating, paragraph by paragraph.
‘. . . The last sentence makes a well-judged end but it stands too starkly separate from the sentence before. Maybe the uncommitted conjunction is the fault. You’re fond of a conjunction as a sentence opener, but it must be wisely handled. The connection between your last sentence and what precedes it needs firmer statement, in my view.’
I was feeling crushed by now and combative.
‘Could you show me what you mean, sir?’
‘Well, let’s see . . . Try this: “Since then, Death has been something real to me, something present that forces me to wonder what time will be like when I am dead.”’
‘That flows better, sir, but isn’t as interesting.’
Ozzy smiled. ‘At least I’ve got rid of “though” and “always”, which are redundant, as well as “not just a subject people talk about”, which is weak. But I’ll grant you the case could be argued. However . . .’ he looked at his wristwatch, ‘I’ve a class in five minutes and there is something else I want to discuss with you.’ He slipped his pencil back into his pocket. ‘Tell me, have you decided what you’ll do with yourself from September?’
I shook my head. ‘Not a clue, sir.’
‘Your parents?’
‘I think my father would like me to get a job.’
‘He hasn’t said so?’
‘Not in so many words, no.’
‘Your mother wants you to do what you think is best?’
I smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘Does your father offer any suggestions about work?’
‘He’s hinted he could get me something at the airport. He’s a baggage handler there.’
‘Does the idea appeal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What does?’
‘That’s the trouble. Nothing specially.’
‘What about staying on at school?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. I quite like it here. But there’s something of the same problem. What to take. And what to do with it afterwards.’
Ozzy stood up. ‘This is my two pennorth, Robinson, and then I’ll say no more. Should you decide you would like to stay on I would be happy to have you in my English Sixth. You have an aptitude for the subject and I think you are developing a taste for it. You would certainly, in
my view, be an asset to the school. So I would support your staying on. I also think, for what it is worth, that you need time to mature and sort yourself out before deciding on a career. In your case you would do that better at school than in some stop-gap job.’
I managed to mumble, ‘Thanks for telling me, sir.’
He gave me one of his predatory shark grins. ‘I think I should add that specializing in English literature is a very foolish thing to do.’
‘Sir?’
‘Because it qualifies you for little else than teaching English literature. Do you want to teach?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve thought about journalism though.’
‘I should have thought even you could see from one glance at any newspaper that most journalists know little if anything about English and nothing at all about literature. The best of them are specialists in some other subject. Politics—the twentieth-century fag end of religion—or industry, for instance. No, if you have any sense, you’ll enjoy the delights of the science labs or indulge yourself in the intricacies of computer technology. Are you good at such matters?’
‘I enjoy some science. But I wouldn’t say I was any good at it.’
He led the way into the corridor.
‘Well, be sure to think carefully before you take my advice. Come in and talk again if you feel the need.’
He swept off with the kind of confident stride that always makes me feel tired. Today I felt punch-drunk as well. A capsize, Mrs Gorman, Barry, and now Osborn. Maybe I should have looked at my horoscope before I got up this morning.
I say that, but really I was zinging with excitement. Apart from anything else, it isn’t every day that Osborn
invites—actually
invites
—someone to join his Sixth. Usually he tells people he wouldn’t have them if they were the last students left on earth. Not that you’re safe once you’re in. He usually starts with about ten and weeds those down to half that in the first term, either from intellectual and emotional exhaustion or by summary banishment. When Nicky Blake dropped out last year he said he would rather go through a term of torture by the KGB than a week of Ozzy’s English seminars.
The idea of staying on and taking English hadn’t occurred to me for a minute. I thought about it as I strolled home. Sure, I was flattered to be asked. But I didn’t get any closer to making a decision. Except that I’d try the idea on Barry that evening.
Once, and but once found in thy company
All thy supposed escapes are laid on me.
John Donne
JKA.
RUNNING REPORT
:
Henry Spurling ROBINSON 19th Sept. Home Visit.
The Robinsons live in one of the smaller, older houses on Manchester Drive. I visited just after they arrived in Southend when Mrs Robinson experienced some difficulties as a result of the move from her home area. She felt lonely and distressed by the loss of her friends and relatives, on whom she had obviously always relied a, lot for company and support.
The house was just as I last saw it. Neat and tidy, well cared for. The sort of home that always puts me slightly to shame because I feel it must be spring-cleaned every week and repainted inside and out twice a year.
Mrs Robinson, a little woman, thin and now disturbed by her son’s trouble, was as nervous as when I first met her eighteen months ago. The doctor has recently increased her dosage of Valium to try and help her through the court case.
Mr Robinson is medium height with a slim frame but going to fat, and his hair balding. He is a blustery man. His speech still retains his northern intonations especially when he gets worked up. He let me in. Both parents were polite and welcoming, anxious to do all they could to help.
When I arrived, Hal was upstairs in his room. Mr Robinson did all the talking at first. He told me that neither he nor his wife could understand what had happened. They had hoped the court appearance might jolt Hal out of his present state and ‘bring him to his senses’. ‘He goes round like a zombie,’ Mr Robinson said. He was not angry, but puzzled and tired, I think. Neither parent can get anything out of
Hal, who seems to spend most of his time in his room or roaming the sea-front. Naturally, his parents are beginning to worry seriously about him, his health and his future.
At one point Mr Robinson did burst out with the opinion that it was time Hal was given a sharp shock. Maybe we are all being too kind to him, too soft: etc. I tried to persuade him that perhaps Hal had had enough shocks already, and that what we need to do is gain his confidence so that he can begin to talk to us.
I went through the events leading to Hal’s arrest as they knew them, but they could add nothing to what is already on record.
After this, Mrs Robinson began talking. She said that Hal was kind and considerate, not like many teenagers today. He was clever, and she thought this was the trouble. She and her husband couldn’t keep up with him because they couldn’t understand what he was talking about half the time. Besides that, she said with some emotion, she and her husband did the best they could for their son whom they loved very much, and that whatever had happened she was sure there was a reasonable explanation, and they were determined to stand by him.
By this time, Mrs Robinson was very distressed and began to weep. Mr Robinson comforted her, though clearly embarrassed by the situation. When she had recovered herself a little, Mrs Robinson said that in her opinion Hal—whom both parents call Henry, I noted—was still very upset by his friend’s death, and that even though it seemed strange, this must be the reason why he behaved as he did in the cemetery. ‘Henry changed a lot after he took up with Barry Gorman,’ she said. I asked what she meant exactly.
She said she didn’t know, but just felt this explained everything if only Hal would tell us about it.
All the time she spoke, Mrs Robinson twisted the edge of her dress between her fingers, and sighed heavily as though it were hard for her to get her words out. I tried to change the subject so as to give her some relief, and asked what they thought Hal should do now. Mr Robinson said that one thing was certain: Hal could not go on hanging about the house for much longer. It wasn’t doing Hal any good or his mother. He thought Hal should be made to get a job.
Mrs Robinson said she didn’t know what should be done now, but that Mr Osborn had said Hal should go back to school. Mr Robinson was against this plan. I asked about Mr Osborn. Mrs Robinson said he had been very helpful during the summer and since Hal’s arrest. They relied on him now whenever they needed to do anything about the school because, she said, ‘The Headmaster is always too busy and we don’t like to take up his time’. This reinforces my previous impression that a meeting with Mr Osborn might be necessary and useful. I have arranged one for 22nd at 10.15 a.m.
I felt enough had been said for now, and that Mrs Robinson would be too much upset by further discussion. So I asked if they would mind if I saw Hal on his own. Mrs Robinson called upstairs and asked Hal if I should come up to his room. He agreed.
Hal has turned the very small spare bedroom into a kind of study. He had made a desk and bookcase from oddments. He has an old portable typewriter and a good but well-used stereo set and a considerable collection of discs and tapes. He was playing music to himself, but he switched this off when I came in. A copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s novel
Slapstick
lay on his desk.
To try and ease the conversation, I asked him why he liked Vonnegut so much. He said, because of the way Vonnegut looks at life and because of his humour. He read out some of the jokes from
Slapstick.
I said I had not read the book. He said it was the only book of Vonnegut’s so far that he found hard to understand. He couldn’t quite see what Vonnegut was trying to do.
I encouraged him to talk some more about this because he was chatting without any apparent reserve. He is an articulate boy and his enthusiasms show when he talks uninhibitedly. (I was also enjoying myself. This was not the sort of interview I am used to!)
Suddenly, Hal said he must read me a passage from the beginning of the book that summed everything up. It explained a lot, he said. He read this passage (I borrowed the book from him before I left, feeling this might establish a friendly link, and that I ought to look more closely at the passage, as it obviously meant so much to him). Vonnegut is writing about the films of Laurel and Hardy, which apparently Hal likes watching on TV:
There was very little love in their films. Love was never at issue. And perhaps because I was so perpetually intoxicated and instructed by Laurel and Hardy during my childhood in the Great Depression, I find it natural to discuss life without ever mentioning love.
It does not seem important to me.
What does seem important? Bargaining in good faith with destiny.
I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best
could easily be described as ‘common decency’. I treated someone well for a little while, or maybe even for a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in turn. Love need not have had anything to do with it.
‘That says it exactly,’ Hal said. ‘That’s what it is all about.’ I asked if he meant it was what life in general was all about, or what his present predicament was all about.
Hal drew back at this and looked sharply at me for a while. I knew I had made a mistake in putting the question. His flippant front returned. ‘Who’s the clever social worker then!’ he said. He very coldly told me again that he would not discuss his arrest. I argued with him for some time, trying to get him to see that his parents were very worried about him, that he was not helping himself with the court by keeping silent. But he stubbornly refused to say anything more.