Marilyn is in Marlborough, right near the mound and the school. I remember sitting on that mound with my mother aged 11, discussing my future. I almost went to school there. As I drive by I see the boys and girls in their uniforms and I wonder about a life that would have come from that start instead. Perhaps a gentler journey through the early years than the one I found.
Marilyn is part of an accordion choir. She’s practical and robust and doesn’t want to keep all the 12 bass accordions. Everyone always upgrades if they stay in the choir.
A 12 bass is all I need for America, I think. I won’t have minor keys though which I’m not sure about. Melancholy Jacques is often talking of how we fall apart, warp, decay, dwindle. It limits which keys I can play in not having the extra two rows of stop. But it fits in the overhead locker of a plane. This one is black. It replaces the one that was stolen from my car but it’s smaller and missing the extra keys. I’m thrilled I got it for under £200, even if I have to drive to Marlborough. I wish it was a like for like replacement but…
Being in Marlborough, I know I’m near Swindon, so I drive there past the Avebury stones, all those megaliths scattered on either side of the road. I have never been that way before, through that vast neolithic henge. This is a strong part of the world. I say that to the old man.
The old man is 100 now. I’ve brought him a card. Michael Beint. Actor. Raconteur. Tristan’s grandfather. I missed him last time I was in this part of the world. Didn’t want to make a habit of it.
A hundred. He is entirely present. Tristan’s mum and sister are there too. It’s good to see them. “I didn’t think you spoke to Tristan anymore,” his mum says. I don’t really, but we don’t ignore each other either. We’re not twelve. He told me where the old man was, so I came to see him.
Lovely to see him too. He remembers and forgets, remembers and forgets, in waves. I’m happy to hear his voice. Sometimes he gives way to wailing, in a conscious way, processing recent grief and the whips and scorns of time. I tell him how I’m the corporate stooge at the moment at The Globe and he’s happy. We often connect over Shakespeare. He drifts into reverie and then, quietly, for himself really, he speaks the words of Sonnet 18, word perfect, without hesitation, propped up with a pillow. “So long as men can breathe and eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee.” For a moment his eyes are shining. I applaud. He hasn’t been on stage for decades but its in his blood. Mike at The Factory was at The National with him back in the day and has sent me photos. He was a fine looking young man. Some serious cheekbones going on.
I’ve stopped on the way home, at The Red Lion right amongst the Avebury stones to wait out rush hour with a 0.05 Speckled Hen that doesn’t taste like sick. I needed to stop as seeing Michael made me emotional. He just lost his partner. Time is so fucking cruel. I’m happy to know him, to be halfway to his years. He’s not quite the seventh stage of man yet thank God. Got some teeth. Got both eyes. Got good taste. Bless his heart. I’ll be rehearsing during the funeral of his missus sadly.
I can see why he howls howls howls. Grief must be expressed to be known.
AlBarclay 