Free The Tenement by Iain Crichton Smith Page B

they say. And they were beautiful and so handy. Still.”
    She pulled on her gloves. “That woman next door, what’s her name?”
    â€œMrs Floss,” said Trevor.
    â€œDoes she often wander about in her nightgown?”
    â€œNot always. A lot of the time. She goes on world tours.”
    â€œOh, oh, well, some people have all the luck. Ta ta, then, see you week after next.”
    Trevor picked the letter from the floor and glanced through it rapidly. “Pleased to ask you to talk to our group … small number of people interested in poetry … of course not as good as you and others like you. Would August the 7th be suitable? Will be done through. … Meet you at station if you wish. … Look forward to seeing you. … Such a treat for our people … real live author. … One of our members had a poem in the People’s Journal, another a story in Nickety Nackety. … BBC programme. … Yours Very Sincerely, Marjorie Gillespie. PS Would be glad if you would consent to judge our entries for the FLORA NICOLSON SHORT STORY CUP .”
    Trevor laughed quietly to himself. Sometimes he blew into small towns for poetry readings like a hit man with his briefcase. So many people he had met at draughty stations. So many had stood up and said, “Needs no introduction. One of Scotland’s …” Sometimes there might be thirty people, sometimes three. Once a member of the audience had shouted “Are you a committed poet?” One of his poems which used fishing as a linguistic metaphor had led to a discussion with an old trawler man about cod … his voice echoed across empty seats. Was he the god they had come to see, the one touched by fire from heaven? Not at all. Once someone had asked him, “Do you feel yourself a poet when you get up in the morning?” “No,” Trevor had replied honestly.
    Once he had been introduced as Hector Macmaster, a lyricist of note. At the end of the proceedings he shoved his cheque in his wallet and ran away, with his ancient briefcase.
    After each poetry reading he washed his face. How unclean he felt. Unclean, unclean. Should he have a bell like a leper?
    He wrote: “Pleased to visit your group. Thank you for asking me. Yes, the time stated will be suitable. Would be glad if you would meet me at the station bookstall at half past six. Will judge your short stories. Always wish to encourage creativity. Yours sincerely, Trevor Porter.”
    Dynamo of the Muses, Road Traveller, Hit Man of the Poetry Society. Who is the best poet on your avenue?
    Boycott had made twenty runs. Trevor couldn’t understand why he liked watching cricket so much, even though he had never played it. He liked perhaps the leisurely desultory eternal hum of it, the commentators with their plummy voices, the old fashioned terminology, the ritual, the silences … the shadows cast on the ground by the white uniforms. Good old Boycott. Remain yourself at all costs. Don’t let anyone hurry you.
    One day Julia’s sister, Patricia, and her husband, James, drove all the way from Devon in James’ car. James wasn’t in the habit of speaking much, though he could drive a tractor, repair it, run a farm, build a house, sing when requested to at concerts, cook and do innumerable other things. His wife, Patricia, said, “I only came to collect the brooch my mother passed on to Julia, I hope you don’t mind.”
    â€œNot at all,” said Trevor.
    James stared down at the floor with its blue linoleum. When Trevor and Julia had visited them in Devon they would be wakened by a cock crowing. He had been taught how to drive a tractor, but wasn’t really interested in the farm. On the other hand he could do any electrical repairs required.
    â€œSo sad,” said Patricia. “James drove me up. It’s a holiday for me but James here doesn’t like taking holidays. He hasn’t had a holiday for fifteen years,