On hearing that Ronnie...
for Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood
(24.O5.30 -
17.01.92)
T.Wignesan
To recall a friend
is never an adieu
he has merely stepped across the landing
the light still beams
the door's ajar
you can hear him pacing
humming swinging the windows
to let the street in
the warmth
the wind ruffled
through
his half-opened shirt
Across the spare digs halfway to the Schloss
austere in the shaded light slanting on drab curtains
the bare table
rough-hewn the dishevelled
books
the gaping porcelain jug and still wet basin
the whiff of fresh-bitten soap the close shave
and the stiff white collar excusing the day-old striped
shirt
A gentle tap the door opens to a glass of port
cut bread
and even if you will not cheese
"Beware! Beware you don't become an Hasbeen!"
he made no bones of his luck from stipends through
the wideopen eyes commisserating through the flailing sheaf
fallen on his ample brow
the hand ever brushing aside
that
wilful unconcern in your life
in your little worries
your mishaps
And you knew you had mattered in his life
To recall a friend
is
to give body to form
to words that bind muscle to bone
those mutual moments
You may come back a quarter of a century later
And he is still there a trifle stumped by your aged face
the mutual moments flow without break
You had driven through four sleepless nights
your eyes peeled beyond weariness
your mind bristling and in the red
"Take care! Take care", he said, "lest
you burn both ends!"
Other worlds
other duties
keep you from bringing up his face
keep you from keeping mementoes:
"Never excuse, never apologise!"
yes you might have
penned a word
when the stolid face swung back
you didn't
for that would've been abrupt
too flippant
unceremonious requiring tact
So you turn up a l'improviste
the mutual moments flow over coffee at the Konditorei
the same cream curtains
the same goldbraided periodlike chairs
over neatly folded ceremoniallike
lace
the irreal flood of
filtered light
outside
no more the tug and grating pull of trams to dull your words
Again the same attentive stare the same empathic vigil
for your fresh worries
for your private imbroglios
while he foregoes a meal at the mensa
Only you hadn't known nor suspected
the stealthy pain gnawing away at the bones
nor did he let it be shown
Only the stoic face and the pained look
for your own blasé pain
© T.Wignesan, 1992
(Published
as a « preface » to Ronald Hindmarsh’s
commemorative writings : « Mr. Hindmarsh is not writing a book.” 1993. Ronnie taught
English at
[from the collection: back to background material,
1993]
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