Saturday Morning
Awoke to find Granddad puttering about my digs distributing faery hunting paraphernalia. Wellies garnered from who knows what staircase cubbyhole, rucksack, flask of tea, cottage loaf, cheese and, bless him, some pickle. And an Eveready Torch apparently left by the Maddingly woman at Porter's Lodge. And batteries- well prepared this woman.
The torch came with a closely printed pamphlet called "101 Uses For An Eveready”. Although the pamphlet's 101 suggested uses included reading fruit labels, filling the tank of a gasoline stove, examining a refrigerator's interior and signaling with Morse code, Questing for Faeries was not noted. It is "the light that does not flicker in a draught, extinguish in the wind, and is controlled instantly by finger pressure. It's the light everyone needs."
Smith and Rasnick, mad buggers, have left a butterfly net outside my door. It was madness to have discussed this in Pub- how drunk was I? God, how they laughed- Bloody Graeme Hirst The Faery Hunter…how many pints did it take for me to find this business hysterical! And how many more before it became an intense personal quest the validity of which was argued with drunken Socratic skill. I have a horrible memory of playing the Theosophical card for all it was worth. And the posh bastards laughed in that restrained superior manner- Someone had said, "I say Hirst, Steady On". It did no good. I can’t seem to stop. The Scholarship lad playing the fool- again. And the soldiers? The wounded soldiers still here with us? They just watched me with dead eyes.
All right, I cycled out to Wolvercote on Granddads' ancient black cycle. What a disaster. Lorries from the airfield, aero planes overhead. I looked out at the vast expanse of pasture land and headed to the River. Hit the Trout just in time for a pint. Sitting here in the sun, I abandoned the bloody butterfly net by presenting it to a delighted young blighter named Rodney who looked the sort to be pinning butterflies, or faeries, for that matter.
Next pint, have seen Smith and Rasnick—and listened to "Hark the Faery Hunter" too many times. Once would have been too often. Bugger it, the wretched spotty child’s mother has tried to return the butterfly net, "You may need it for the Fairies," she said chirped with eyes shining. I chucked it in the shrubbery along with the Wellington’s. There is a drift of laughter coming from the bar marked by the shrill horsy laugh of someone that sounds like Rasnick’s scrawny sister. I can tell now that "Graeme Hirst Fairy Hunter" is going to be the big discussion in the grotty junior common room at St. Hilda’s tonight. Can just see the old girls in their tweeds and laced up brown shoes, handkerchiefs shoved up the sleeves of argyle jumpers. "Graeme Hirst, well he is not actually our sort, after all, is he?" "Scholarship lad?" "Saw him at the Trout with his butterfly net and all, didn’t we Sarah." "Bit of a drinker? Well he’d have to be to take up with that Theosophical crowd wouldn’t he?" "Betty says he's a bit of a swotty nancy boy, they say, always reading smarmy romantic poets. The dirty ones."
Bugger this. Heading out to the Perch. If there were faeries, and I am not saying there are mind you. I do not see that they would be in the middle of a bloody great airfield or where the River floods so badly, not where it is flat. I think they would definitely be near the Perch- if I were a bloody Faery I would be at the Perch. Or in the Perch. Or near by. With a pint of mother’s best.
Sunday
Arrived back in time last night for a quick stop into the buttery before Hall. Was regaled by more Fairy taunting. Trevor Binstead perched on the steps up to Hall flapping his gown like ragged wings, and howled in falsetto “Oh here I am, your Queen Mab! Give us a kiss Fairy Boy!” Then old Graves, my gawd-help-us moral tutor tottered past to the Senior Common Room, pulled me aside for a quick word that mucking about like this isn’t quite the thing. "High spirits and all that, but we look to our scholarship boys for a bit…” Bugger it all. Ate with a group of spotty freshers who kept staring at me with wistful inquisitiveness. No doubt delighted to go Faery questing- totally wet the lot of them. End of term essays due next week- Miss Batty Maddingly’s fairies will have to keep until vac.
Note from Granddad slipped under my door.
“
Saturday
I have endured the week from hell- if it's not notes from Granddad reminding me of our Little Job, its notes pinned to my belongings from my Scout admonishing me to respect our betters and others are looking to me. Since when did I become the pinnacle of hope for the Oxford serving class? Apparently this Maddingly woman is the aunt or cousin of some blighter who lived across the quad at one time- Granddad’s staircase. And a chum of Arthur Conan Doyle.
While attempting to escape to the Bod for some last minute work on essays due tomorrow, I was cornered in the Lodge by the Porter. Thoughts of countless infractions flashed across my mind, but no,apparently he is in on the fairy caper.
“Just a word young sir- Me and the lads down at Pub have thought a good bit about your fairy problem. And we are of the opinion that nighttime is when fairies, young sir, are apt to be about.” I mentioned, virtuously, the locking gate- Well ,young sir, a quick tap at my window will do the deed- and if you’re out the night, well who’d be the wiser. I’ll just have a quiet word with your Scout. A nod’s as good as a wink, eh”. Stop by the buttery before you set out- there’s a bit of a basket put by for you by the lads in the kitchen." Lads, my god, each seventy if they are a day. "And boy, remember if the faeries offer you food or drink- don’t take it." And in my pigeon hole was another message:
Later
Found in lodge, a conscription notice. I am called up. Going out.
Later
Note found on my bed:
Note on wash stand:
Note on door:
I leave tonight then. One last go.
Wednesday
I am back. I need sleep. How long have I been gone? The room is covered in notes.
Thursday Night
I am back but, but I am not sure from where. I am not the same as I was.
I report on Monday and why not? Glory on the field of battle, returning a hero, returning maimed, or not returning at all it does not matter. The dreams and hopes I once had are no more and will not return. No matter what happens from this day on- nothing will be the same.
And when I am gone, you’ll not remember. But Chloe and I will.
When I left by the Martyrs Gate, I took off for Jericho on foot as dusk was falling. Followed the Isis to the Perch, its stone walls and heavy thatch redolent of wretched faeries. Then sought some fortification of spirit for the night ahead. The pub was full of soldiers and mercifully free of anyone I knew, and I was left alone to watch the night fall and the stars come out. At closing time I took off through the gardens and followed the Isis for a time. I could see by moonlight and once a ways from the Pub and voices of departing drinks- low murmurs- those quiet somber voices- I switched on the Eveready- the light that does not flicker. The light that does not fail.
Walked- and all there was the river in the glimmer of moonlight, my torch casting a slim beam across the white froth where the water caught on snags of fallen branches. I sat on the bank, weary to the bone, heavy with a dull gut clenching saddness. Remembering the faces of the men in the Pub. Young with old men's eyes. I was not afraid to die, it was not cowardice, but sadness-regret that everything I had childishly lived for and endured for and dreamed of, was fading flowing along with the waters of the Isis. The Styx. As I sat there I mourned for the child that had gone, as all the others had gone before me, the empty cricket pitch- the barges neglected. I mourned not the brave young men, but the children within them that grew up too soon- or grew up not all. I listened to the mournful song of the nightingale.
A child came waking to me. She sat quietly beside me with her long loose pale hair , strands that floated on the night wind. A wreath of hedgerow flowers circled her head, and sitting there, close, she slipped a small warm hand into mine. We sat there, still, watching the river.
After a time she said, “I see you have the light that does not flicker, the light that does not fail.” I nodded. "Take it with you," she said, "when you go. It will help you when you need it. You can do signals with it- Morse code you know.”
"Do you know Morse code?" I asked, rather surprised.
"No, Graeme, I don’t need to, but you will."
"Are you a Faery?" I asked feeling foolish.
"Yes, I am." she replied matter of factly.
"If I strip off my clothes and put them on front to back or inside out will you be fooled and be unable to enchant me?" "
"No but I will laugh at your silliness." she giggled. "Did you want to wear your clothes front to back?"
"No," I replied, "I was just checking something. That’s all. "
"That is very silly," she smiled.
"I thought faeries were very small. "
"Sometimes, when we want to be. I bet you are looking for Faery houses," she said.
"Yes, actually I am."
"Thought so, I told Her so. We saw you clumping across the fields with your butterfly net, and we saw you throw it away. That was good.."
"It was silly," I said.
"Yes, it was."
"Who was with you? You are not alone?"
"Oh,mostly I am alone, but sometimes She is with me."
"Who is she?"
"My sister."
"Is she here now?"
"No, but maybe later. So, young Graeme, do you want to see my house, or do you like sitting here being sad?"
"I would like to see your house. If I eat or drink at your house will I go mad or be poisoned?"
"That’s silly," she giggled. I thought so too.
"Are you an angel?"
"No I am just Chloe," she said, "and I am your friend. For always."
"Will you protect me from harm?"
"No," she said sadly. "I cannot do that, And when you go away, I will not go with you. but I will always be your friend. And I will always remember and I will sing of you to the swallows and the rooks when you are gone. So they too will remember. And you will live in my heart. "
And we walked until we came to a stone cottage. Vines covered the thatch and pale light shone out from the wooden shutters and the open door. Small flowers and mosses lined the walls and hung from the oak beams overhead. Soft curtains billowed in at the open windows. A carved chair in front of the fires. A flower wrapped ladder led upstairs. Huge acorns were in baskets and berries the sizes of footballs were stored by a larder full of crocks and baskets.
Have I grown small I asked. Chloe laughed, it does not matter. You are just here. Would you like to see my frog? We climbed the ladder to the attic and indeed a huge frog leapt over to Chloe to be patted and chucked under the chin, like a cat. There was a fireplace of stone and the walls were fitted with tiny shelves holding glittering jewel like bottles. The air was of earth and moss, the smell of lavender. A fire danced on the hearth. A bed of rose velvet and swathed in net- more flowers intertwined the posts. Jewels sparkled on a small dressing table and water flowed from a giant sea shell into a shell basin. There were books of poetry and it was as if peace flowed into me that I had never known. Here she said, handing me a green liquid in an acorn cup, drink this and sleep for a time.
I am going out for a time, you will sleep. If my sister comes. Ignore her. Does she live here I asked, no she does not. Chloe looked at me intently. Remember, she said. Ignore her and she will go away. That would be rude of me, It does not signify with her. She is not really very nice. Is she evil I asked growing concerned? No, no not at all. Not evil, not evil as such. Just, ah, just careless. That is all, she is quite charming, but careless. I will be back in the morning. You are safe here.
Beneath the netted canopy I lay down in sheets as soft as spiders silk on a bed of bark and moss. And slept. While the fire glowed in the grate and warmed surrounded me and I fell into its depths.
After a time, I stirred, heard a rustle- a dream I do not know. I woman stood by the fire, looking at me her face in shadows. I could scarcely see her in the glow of the bank embers. But I knew somehow she was everything I had ever dreamt, imagined, desired in thoughts half formed never uttered. I knew she was the girl on Folly Bridge, the slender hands, the narrow feet, the curls that lay on her shoulders. The soft light silken green dress that swayed as if in a gentle breeze though the room was still. Ignore her Chloe had said. Ignore her. I could no more ignore her presence than I could cease the blood in my veins or the breath I drew. Ignore her. No. I did not even try.
She came closer and smiled to me. And laughed softly, bewitchingly. A laugh as gentle as a whisper. She knelt by the side of the bed, took my hands and said softly. Tell me something you have never told anyone else. Give me your deepest secret. So gentle, so reassuring so enveloping. She knelt over me and I died. I died and I did not care to ever live again just to be there in that single moment. Give me your heart Graeme she murmured and it was hers. Time passed, to where I have no idea. Her hair smelled of new mown grass and sea spray and wood violets and crushed roses all at once. She smelled of wet leaves in the autumn and the burning of wood on a chill foggy day. I did not care to live anywhere anyplace but in this single moment.
Get away from him! A small shrill voice cried out! Get away from him! Chloe screamed from the top of the ladder. No! The lady rose and looked down at me. No I cried out do not leave me, never leave me.
And she looked at me and she laughed. Shrill and sardonic. Mockingly. She laughed at me there worthless and beseeching. Meet your muse she said. And I broke into shattered shards of pain and humiliation.
“And love, kissed out by pleasure,” dear man, “ seems not yet
Worth patience to regret.”
She left, her shrill laughter now like the shrill cry of bird, and her voice faded and melting into the morning song of the birds mocking my despair and sudden gulf of humiliation. I ashamedly cried like a child.
Little Chloe was there holding my head in her lap stroking my hair. You should have ignored her, I know. No one does she sighed. Sleep.
Later she fed me berries and mead. She sang small songs of the wind and of the winter to come. And then she led me back to the River. The little disappeared into the mists rising from the cold waters in the warm morning air. We sat on the bank where we had first sat. Remember the Eveready she said. Yes I will. Will I see you again? No, you should not come back here. She will not come to you again if you come back. The go mad waiting for her to come again. In their songs of her- they go mad. But she only laughs.
Mighten I come to see you little one? No. This is good bye.
Remember I am just Chloe, I am your friend. For always.
And when you go away, I will not go with you. but I will always be your friend. And I will always remember and I will sing of you to the swallows and the rooks when you are gone. So they too will remember.
And you will live in my heart here for always. .
Take the Eveready it is the light that does not flicker. It is the light Everyone Needs.
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Friday Bugger this for a lark. ..
Went with Granddad to Randolph Hotel - met by appointment the affable Miss Clare Maddingly who is offering Granddad and me fifty quid to discover Faeries on Port Meadow. Anther fifty for documentation. Theosophical research. Hah, fifty quid! Up front. Fine by me. The bursar will be delighted! When she left, Granddad pocketed his half and shuffled back to his staircase to look out for his young gentlemen.
Ha, the insidious servility of the old Scout. He was near widdling himself in subservience to the old bat. Thought he’d pull a forelock if he could, holding that damn derby in his hands, twisting it. Then scuttling off with his half to squirrel it away somewhere. Out of Dundee for sixty years and still got every farthing he ever made. Except for what he spent on drink in between terms. God knows not much ever came home to his family. It’s a wonder to me he was ever home long enough to begat a family. His young gentlemen. Or what's left of them anyway. He remembers all of their names, his young lads on his staircase, every bloke that’s ever been under his care, and knows every contraband item stashed in their rooms Me, the scholarship boy? Ha, he can’t decide who or what I am, the poor old blighter. Young gentleman? Or sniveling young Graeme what’s one of Margaret’s lot over in Woodstock? But then, why should he be less confused than I?
God, I dreamed of being here- the cricket pitch, no, no, mostly Eights. Girls cheering as my boat slid under Folly Bridge. Perhaps Henley. Blues. The fog on the Charwell in the freezing mornings as we hauled the bloated wooden boats up and out of the water onto the barge. The stiffness of the rowing shoes, the wet of the oars as you pull and swivel…the gliding up and down the tracks with the steady rhythm of repetitive oar splash. And someone special watching you from Folly Bridge. And your heart would catch as you saw her standing there with her brown eyes and softly curling hair. And you feared if she looked right at you, you would miss a stroke and catch a crab with the oar slamming into your gut. Better an oar than a bullet. And maybe you would not know who she was, but you would watch for her every day, every race and hope you would meet her- somebody’s sister. What was being at Oxford without the possibility of dreams- the illusion of hope? Being in love- with a girl, a dream, an idol. A vision of who you were and the possibilities of who and what you could be- madness that was the heart of the place and it is gone for me.
There are no Eights- no boat races, nor morning practice. No slender boats glide past the barges- no one cheers at The Head of the River Pub. And no quiet beauty throws you a smile from Folly Bridge. No, nurses hurry past, everything is rain and mud, as if the Great War has brought perpetual fog and mist and blocked the sparkle of the sun, smothering the laughter.
This place has become one great railway station- once we read Keats and Swinburne in a drunken mist; and now cold sober we read causality lists. We read with the guilt of those still at home- we write half constructed essays for distracted tutors too old to volunteer. We live with half a mind and wait for orders. We argue politics with a biased patriotic jingoism that no one but a subaltern would have espoused three years ago.
And I tried so hard to be here. Now I am here and it is all gone. Everything I dreamed of being has changed. My God, and it is so bloody unpatriotic to even think it. Letting the side down. And I will be called up any day now.
I have the acute impression that when I go, and when I find glory in the fields for God and King, no one will remember me at all except for a loving mother and her sisters. "Our Graeme would be about 25 now" she will say softly while pouring out tea. "Oh, he were quite the scholar," Auntie Dar would chirp. And they would be quiet for a moment before moving on to discuss our Ced’s youngest what’s turning out very wild. Motorbikes'n all. The blokes down at pub might remember me and raise a pint- or not. Or my bloody school master would think of young Graeme whenever he saw a child that daydreamed too much. "Young man," he would bellow and maybe he would think of me, and he might be a bit gentler to the gormless chappie in front of him. Another child who dreams about rising above his station. Or not. Probably not. Certainly not. The sod. God, if the war is lost, will there be school masters, or aunts drinking sweet tea? And will they remember any of this when it has all passed away?
Faeries in Port Meadow? Why the hell not? Read a bit more Swinburne, declaim a little Yeats, down a tot of absinthe and I bloody well wager I could find any number of green faeries in Port Meadow for that posh biddy.
Do not take a fairy lover, lad.
Even if it looks like your only hope
Get On With It Boy
If You Become the Victim of Fairy Magic,
Strip, turn your clothes back to front and put them back on. Put your shoes on the wrong feet. This is said to confuse the fairies and destroy their ability to harm you.
A Friend
Take the Eveready it is the light that does not flicker. It is the light Everyone Needs.
Fifty to one wager going on at the Turf. – Put in 5 quid- don’t fail me. Trevor
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Do not take a fairy lover, lad.
Even if it looks like your only hope
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Take the Eveready it is the light that does not flicker. It is the light Everyone Needs.
Here, where the world is quiet:
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves'riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Where are you boy?
Where have you gone?
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
Here, where the world is quiet:
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves'riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember
And over my head the waves have met.
But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow
Could I forget or thou remember,
Couldst thou remember and I forget.
Do not take a fairy lover, lad.
Even if it looks like your only hope
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
