‘It is true,’ said Mr Heine, ‘but as I have said it was a long time ago and best forgotten about. I was small and defenceless and I wore glasses. I think, Mrs Bingham, that you yourself taught in the school in those days.’
‘Sugar?’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘Yes. As it was during the war years and most of the men were away I taught Latin. My husband was deferred.’
‘Amo, amas, amat,’ said Mr Heine. ‘I remember I was in your class as well.
‘I was not a memorable child,’ he added, stirring his coffee reflectively, ‘so you probably won’t remember me either. But I do remember the strong rhymes of Pope which have greatly influenced me. And so, Mr Bingham, when I heard you were retiring I came along as quickly as my legs would carry me, without tarrying. I am sure that you chose the right profession. I myself have chosen the right profession. You, sir, though you did not know it at the time placed me in that profession.’
Mr Bingham glanced proudly at his wife.
‘I remember the particular incident very well,’ said Mr Heine. ‘You must remember that I was a lonely little boy and not good at games.
Keeping wicket was not cricket.
Bat and ball were not for me suitable at all.
And then again I was being set upon by older boys and given a drubbing every morning in the boiler room before classes commenced. The boiler room was very hot. I had a little talent in those days, not much certainly, but a small poetic talent. I wrote verses which in the general course of things I kept secret. Thus it happened one afternoon that I brought them along to show you, Mr Bingham. I don’t know whether you will remember the little incident, sir.’
‘No,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘I admired you, sir, as a man who was very enthusiastic about poetry, especially Tennyson. That is why I showed you my poems. I remember that afternoon well. It was raining heavily and the room was indeed so gloomy that you asked one of the boys to switch on the lights. You said, “Let’s have some light on the subject, Hughes.” I can remember Hughes quite clearly, as indeed I can remember your quips and jokes. In any case Hughes switched on the lights and it was a grey day, not in May but in December, an ember of the done sun in the sky. You read one of my poems. As I say, I can’t remember it now but it was not in rhyme. “Now I will show you the difference between good poetry and bad poetry,” you said, comparing my little effort with Tennyson’s work, which was mostly in rhyme. When I left the room I was surrounded by a pack of boys led by blue-eyed fair-haired Colin. The moral of this story is that I went into advertising and therefore into rhyme. It was a revelation to me.
A revelation straight from God
That I should rhyme as I was taught.
So you can see, sir, that you are responsible for the career in which I have flourished.’
‘I don’t believe it, sir,’ said Mr Bingham furiously.
‘Don’t believe what, sir?’
‘That that ever happened. I can’t remember it.’
‘It was Mrs Gross my landlady who saw the relevant passage about you in the paper. I must go immediately, I told her. You thought he was a farmer but I knew differently. That man does not know the influence he has had on his scholars. That is why I came,’ he said simply.
‘Tell me, sir,’ he added, ‘is your son married now?’
‘Colin?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘Yes, he’s married. Why do you wish to know?’
‘For no reason, sir. Ah, I see a photograph on the mantelpiece. In colour. It is a photograph of the bridegroom and the bride.
How should we not hail the blooming bride
With her good husband at her side?
What is more calculated to stabilise a man than marriage? Alas I never married myself. I think I never had the confidence for such a beautiful institution. May I ask the name of the fortunate lady?’
‘Her name is Norah,’ said Mrs Bingham sharply. ‘Norah Mason.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Heine enthusiastically. ‘Norah, eh? We all remember Norah, don’t we? She was a lady of free charm and great beauty. But I must not go on. All those unseemly pranks of childhood which we should consign to the dustbins of the past. Norah Mason, eh?’ and he smiled brightly. ‘I am so happy that your son has married Norah.’
‘Look here,’ said Mr Bingham, raising his voice.
‘I hope that my felicitations, congratulations, will be in order for them too, I sincerely hope so, sir. Tell me, did your son Colin have a scar on his brow which he received as a result of having been hit on the head by a cricket ball?’
‘And what if he had?’ said Mr Bingham.
‘Merely the sign of recognition, sir, as in the Greek tragedies. My breath in these days came in short pants, sir, and I was near-sighted. I deserved all that I got. And now sir, forgetful of all that, let me say that my real purpose in coming here was to give you a small monetary gift which would come particularly from myself and not from the generality. My salary is a very comfortable one. I thought of something in the region of . . . Oh look at the time. It is nearly half-past eleven at night.
At eleven o’clock at night
The shades come out and then they fight.
I was, as I say, thinking of something in the order of . . . ’
‘Get out, sir,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘Get out, sir, with your insinuations. I do not wish to hear any more.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Heine in a wounded voice.
‘I said “Get out, sir.” It is nearly midnight. Get out.’
Mr
