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Six

Victoria

It was at the Yeats Summer School, the first year I attended, the year before the Brian event, that I met Victoria. I had quickly become friendly with some of the Summer School leading lights, mainly the Irish poets and writers like Seamus Heaney, Brendan Kennelly, John Kelly, and especially friendly with the poet, Jimmy Simmons. This was primarily due to the fact that the Summer School literary elite were based at the Imperial Hotel in Sligo, a grand Victorian building by the river, with splashes of faded elegance. I had been corresponding with Brendan Kennelly, who was then director of the school, and he had convinced me that this was the place to stay.

He was right. Staying at the Imperial Hotel afforded me special privileges, like easy access to the Irish poets to whom I was immediately drawn. I adored their fun-loving generous spirit, their informality, their refusal to take anyone, including themselves, seriously (even the great bard, the paymaster, was hardly spared) their inherent modesty, even shyness, and their sense of melancholy laced with humour. They were wonderful. In many ways they were like my musicians. They had that same ability to flood the soul, to excite the senses, to arouse with delicacy, with nuance, with startling images; they exuded that same quality of precarious balance, of living life on the edge, high and wild. They personified a line from a song written by my friend, Jesse Winchester, “if you’re treading on thin ice you might as well dance.”

They were themselves a kind of poetry, as though the poetry of the written word had somehow shaped itself to their own beings. However, the Irish poets were more articulate, taking a wild pleasure in words, their conversations often shot through with poetry — words leaping out of sentences, evocative, musical, delighting my ear accustomed to Canadian flatness — and they were more gregarious, more lusty, relishing the contact of a good scrum.

The hotel had a comfortable lounge, with a fireplace, which was host to nightly adventures of unlimited potential. After the official activities were over, usually close to midnight, the poets, critics, the literary giants of the Yeats universe would gather here to sweep aside the world of letters, of footnotes and references, and indulge in social riot. And I gathered with them. “This room is the only reason I come to the Summer School,” Jimmy once confided. The drinking was phenomenal and inspired a fierce hilarity spiked by monologue, dialogue, anecdote, and raucous choruses, sung and spoken, reeking with nostalgia and rocking with laughter until tears rolled and collapse was imminent — in an unbridled desire to break the good times barrier. After hours the Yeats Summer School was one grand Celtic celebration, and I suspected that this was its main attraction for many of its devotees.

As for me, it was hard enough to get used to the fact that prominent Yeats scholars, critics whose books I had studied and quoted, and before whom I trembled, like Richard Ellman, Frank Kermode, John Unterecter, Norman Jeffares, were actually there, lecturing in the flesh, but to see eminent American and English authorities pissed and unpredictable, incited by their irrepressible Irish counterparts, inhibitions soaked up by Guinness, liberated from academia in an extravagant blast of spontaneity, was a jolt to my notion of the order of things. At the same time I realised I was being allowed a coveted behind-the-scenes glimpse. Had I witnessed Yeats himself dancing a Guinness-sodden jig, or belting out Danny Boy, I wouldn’t have felt more privileged. I was party to a marvellous confession and I savoured every minute of it. I rarely got to bed before the sun came up, lest I miss a single witticism, a single stagger, a single belch. I marvelled continuously at the punctuality of the lecturers during the early morning sessions, and their lack of tell tale morning-after signs. They were true professionals.

Early in the first week, during a break between lectures, I was standing in the crowded corridor, talking to a group of fellow students, when Jimmy Simmons, who had a connoisseur’s eye for the ladies, led me away with unexpected urgency. “Come with me for a minute. I want to show you someone.” He pointed out a girl standing in a small alcove, half-hidden by a plant. “I’ve been watching her from the first day,” he confided. “She’s painfully beautiful, so beautiful she makes my heart ache.” He looked intense, struggling with some concept, as though finding the words for a poem, “I can feel her fragility, her tremble. It’s as though her body doesn’t conceal her soul.” I understood what he meant. She had a haunting solitary beauty, her face mobile, vulnerable, her eyes surprised, slightly frightened, her mouth controlling a quiver, barely perceptible, her body alert, slender, waif-like. She gave the impression of a doe poised to flee.

“She certainly is beautiful,” I confirmed. As though aware of some threat, she inched further into the plant.

“I’d love to know her, to see what sort of creature she is, what land she comes from. But I’m too timid. I’m afraid if I talk to her she’ll vanish.”

“So you want me to do it for you?”

He looked at me shyly and nodded. “You won’t startle her, she’ll be easy with you.”

“I’ll be glad to talk to her.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” I said with an Irish accent — it was the only Irish phrase I could say.

“She looks like someone I’d want to know.” I started toward her.

“Not now,” Jimmy stopped me. “Wait until I’m gone.”

I watched for her after the lecture and made my approach as she was leaving the building.

“Hi. My name is Niema,” I said in my brightest Canadian manner. “Did you enjoy the lecture?” She looked at me with the hint of a smile, her lower lip trembling slightly.

“Yes, very much, did you? But it would be far better if the lectures were held outdoors. Don’t you think?”

Although I shivered inwardly at the thought of sitting in the Irish damp, I agreed. I walked along with her. She didn’t seem to mind. She told me her name was Victoria and that she knew very little about Yeats.

“What brings you to the Yeats Summer School?” I asked.

“I wanted to get away from London … somewhere in the country … and this seemed like an interesting thing to do … learning about Yeats … I admire his poetry … for some reason I’ve been reading a great deal of Yeats lately. When I heard about the Summer School in Ireland, it seemed the perfect thing to do.” She spoke in hesitant short phrases, unsure of where they were leading, as though voicing ideas for the first time.

“Where are you staying?” I asked, anxious to move away from Yeats and on to easier territory.

“In a little bed and breakfast.”

“Do you like it?”

“Not really, the room is fine … but the landlady is a bit of a snoop … she comes into my room without knocking … I think she wants to catch me out … she probably thinks I’m hiding someone.” A small nervous smile hovered as she spoke.

“That’s terrible,” I said. “You don’t want to be hassled by a snoopy landlady. Besides you’re away from all the fun and the poetry.” Then impulsively, “why don’t you move to the Imperial Hotel? That’s where all the action is, parties, sing-songs, poetry readings … all the Irish poets stay there and they’re great.”

“Is that where you stay?”

“Yes. It’s wonderful.”

“I didn’t know about it.”

“It’s not too late,” I said with such eagerness I surprised myself.

“I suppose there’s nothing to stop me from moving,” she said, picking up on my enthusiasm. “It would be a good idea to leave that landlady, don’t you think?”

“Definitely. How long will it take you to pack?” I said, springing into action.

“Not long, half an hour.”

Her ability to take the plunge, sight unseen, impressed me. “I’ll pick you up in an hour. How do I get to the house?”

She was really pleased now, smiling and almost at ease. “Thank you very much.”

I liked her a lot.

I helped carry her few belongings to the hotel, sat her in the lobby and went directly to the desk to check her in. Then something happened I hadn’t counted on. “Sorry the hotel is full. Booked solid. There’s nothing available,” the receptionist said apologetically. My heart plunged like a stone. How awful. Victoria had left her room at my insistence, she had trusted me, I was leading her on to bigger and better things, like some self-proclaimed pied piper, and now there was nowhere for her to stay. I was humiliated.

“We may have a room in a few days,” the receptionist said, attempting to sooth my visible disappointment.

A few days. What good was that? I felt ill. Then suddenly I had an idea. Why not invite Victoria to stay with me until a room became available? I had a double room. “Can she share my room until then?” I asked, hopefully.

“I can’t see why not,” the receptionist answered, pleased that a solution was at hand. “I’ll book her into your room and when something becomes free we’ll move her.”

Then I remembered. My room had only one bed — a fairly large bed but still only one. I disliked sleeping with anyone except lovers, not even with friends or family, and Victoria was virtually a stranger. But never mind about me, I deserved to suffer, I was responsible for this mess, what about the innocent Victoria? What if she hated the idea of sharing my room, my bed. We hardly knew each other. I shrivelled with embarrassment.

I was nervous about telling her, placing her into this impossible situation. Why hadn’t I checked first? It was acutely painful. But my fears proved groundless. Victoria was delighted, bubbly and excited like a schoolgirl. She loved the idea of sharing my room and my bed, so much so that when a room eventually became available, she asked me, very tentatively, if she could continue to stay with me; she said she found it comforting. I was touched. She had an incredible sweetness about her, child-like, affectionate. How could I refuse? Besides I didn’t want to refuse. Her bright intelligence coupled with an original perception about the lectures, the seminars, the people, fascinated me. She added a new dimension to the Summer School. I loved her wistful observations, her daring — she would ask the most provocative questions at question time — her sense of adventure, her unpredictability, her strange blend of shy and strident, the mischievous glint in her eye when she knew she was being impossible. She was an enigmatic being. We became inseparable. Friendships at the Summer School were quick and intense, like those made travelling.

She took to Jimmy immediately. She liked listening to his Irish lilt, the way he put words and ideas together. He made her laugh and she made his heart ache. They bounced off each other. They both adored the outdoors and, growing restless during lectures, would often slip away for a walk. They liked walking and would go on long walks at every opportunity, returning deep in conversation. Sometimes I would go with them, mostly I didn’t. But I took pleasure in their being together.

Although Victoria and I spent much time in each other’s company, I knew very little about her. She seemed reluctant to talk about her life in London and I didn’t press her. Then one day a postcard was delivered to my room. I read it before realising it was for her. One line was bewildering. “I’ve been asked to lunch with Noel Coward and Zaza Gabor — she’s passing through London.” It was signed, “Alan.”

“Someone is putting you on Victoria,” I said handing her the card.

She read it. “No. It’s genuine,” she said quietly.

“Genuine? How genuine can having lunch with Noel Coward and Zaza Gabor be?”

She looked embarrassed, as thought caught in a guilty secret. “I’m married to Alan Bates,” she said lowering her head. “He’s an actor … he knows these people.”

“You mean Zorba The Greek, Alan Bates?”

“Yes.” I could see she was becoming uncomfortable, agitated. “I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone.… I’d rather people knew me as myself and not as Alan Bates’ wife.”

I was stunned. Had she told me she was married to the Duke of York, I couldn’t be more surprised. She didn’t fit my idea of a film star’s wife — not that I had ever met one — she seemed so unpretentious, so modest, at times even awkward, so careless of her dress, her appearance in general, there wasn’t a smidgen of glamour adorning her person, and she seemed so interested in things untrendy, difficult ideas, unpopular philosophies, things without shine and glitter.

“How come you’re married to Alan Bates?” I asked, incredulously.

“Pure chance,” she replied.

“It’s better than winning at roulette,” I quipped in an attempt to dispel the disquiet I could feel gripping her, mouth twitching, body tightening.