A short time later all over the jail ears and other things pricked when it was announced that a new trick cyclist had been appointed, and that it was a woman!
Professor Duerden has interrupted me again.
I see now that I misinterpreted his reaction when he first saw me. He wasn't dismayed to find he was sharing the Quaestor's Lodging but puzzled to find he was sharing it with someone he'd never met and never heard of.
An Englishman would have slid around the subject, and some Americans can be pretty devious too, but he was of the straight-from-the-shoulder school.
'So where're you working, son?' he asked me.
'Mid-Yorkshire University’ I replied.
'That so? Now remind me, who's running your department these days?'
'Mr Dunstan,'I said.
'Dunstan?' He looked puzzled. 'Would that be Tony Dunstan the medievalist?'
'No, it would be Jack Dunstan, the head gardener,' I said.
Once he got over his surprise, that really tickled him, and I saw no reason not to be completely open with him. I explained about being Sam Johnson's pupil and how Sam had got me a job in the gardens, and how, as well as being Sam's student, I'd also been a close friend and was, through the good offices of his sister, his literary executor.
'Sam was scheduled to present a paper at the conference,' I concluded, 'and when the Programme Committee contacted me to ask if I would be willing to read his paper, I felt I owed it to him to accept. I presume my name's been substituted for his all down the line, which is how I come to be in the Quaestor's Lodging.'
He said, 'Yeah, that must be it,' but I suspect he didn't really reckon that even Sam rated high enough to be his roomy.
In fact, I've been wondering about this myself and I think I've got it sussed. The programme says that special thanks are due to Sir Justinian Albacore, the Dean of St Godric's, under whose auspices we are the guests of the college. That name rings a bell. Could this be the same J. C. Albacore whose study of the Gothic psyche, The Search for Nepenthe, you probably know? I've never read it myself, but I often saw it propping up the broken leg of a sofa in Sam Johnson's study. For this man was the great hate of Sam's life. According to Sam, he'd given a lot of help to Albacore when he was writing Nepenthe, and the man had shown his gratitude by ripping off his Beddoes project! Sam got suspicious on finding someone had been ahead of him when he delved into a couple of rare and apparently unrelated archives. Finally it emerged that Albacore was also working on a Beddoes critical biog. to appear in 2003, the bicentenary of TLB's birth. And not long before his death, Sam was spitting fire at the news heard on the grapevine that Albacore's publishers intended to preempt the field by publishing at the end of 2002.
I described myself to Dwight as Sam's literary executor, which wasn't precisely true. What in fact occurred, as you probably heard, was that Linda Lupin, MEP, Sam's half-sister and sole heir, decided out of the generosity of her spirit to place the reins of Sam's researches into my hands. It probably won't surprise you to learn that the publisher with whom Sam's biography was contracted wasn't best pleased.
I can see his point of view. Who am I, after all? In literary terms, nobody, though my 'colourful' background was something their sales department felt they might have been able to use if the field had remained clear. But with Albacore's book already being hyped around as the 'definitive' biography, their judgment now was that setting me up to carry on where Sam had left off was throwing good money after bad.
So, sorry, mate, but no deal for the big book that Sam was aiming at.
They did however make an alternative proposal.
Because Beddoes' life is so thinly documented, Sam had been interlarding his script with what he clearly labelled 'Imagined Scenes'. These, as he explains in a draft preface, made no claim to be detailed accounts of actual incidents. Though some were based on known facts, others were simply imaginative projections, devised in order to give the reader a sense of the living reality of Beddoes' existence. Many would, I believe, have been much modified in or totally expunged from the finished book.
How would I feel, I was asked, about cutting out most of the hard-core lit. crit. stuff, working up a few more of these 'Imagined Scenes', well spiced with a sprinkling of sex and violence, and producing one of those pop- biogs which had done so well in recent years?
I didn't need the time offered to think about it.
I told them to get stuffed. I owe Sam a lot more than that.
But while I was still reeling from the injustice of it all came this invitation for me to take up Sam's place at the conference.
I'd taken it on face value as the programmers paying a posthumous tribute to a valued colleague and at the same time saving themselves the bother of rejigging their programme. But this was no explanation of why, instead of being stuck in a student's pad like the commonalty of lecturers, I was queening it in the Q's lodging alongside Dwight Duerden. There had to be another motive and, since seeing Albacore's name, I've been suspecting he might have hopes of sweet-talking Sam's Beddoes research database out of me.
Maybe I'm being paranoid. But the groves of academe are crowded with raptors, so Sam always assured me. Anyway, I'll be in a better position to judge once I've actually met the conference organizers, which will be at the Welcome Reception and Introductory Session in fifteen minutes' time.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the new female psych. Her name, believe it or not, was Amaryllis Haseen!
Sporting with Amaryllis in the shade was, you will recall, one of the alternatives to writing poetry which Milton's most un-Puritanical imagination suggested to him. My only acquaintance with the flower is the garishly fleshy specimens that sometimes turn up at Christmas. Well, by those standards, Ms Haseen lived up to her name and was generally regarded by most of the sex-starved cons as an early Christmas prezzie. As one of Polchard's top lads said dreamily, ‘Tart like that you can tell all your sexual fancies to, it's better than pulling your plonker over Women on Top.'
Everyone developed psychological problems. Ms Haseen was no fool, however. Her purpose in taking on the Chapel Syke consultancy was to garner material for a book on the psychology of incarceration, which she hoped would put more letters after her name and more money in her bank. (It came out last year, called Dark Cells, lots of nice reviews. I'm Prisoner XR pp. 193-207, by the way.) She quickly sorted out the wankers from the bankers. When Polchard's lieutenant complained that he'd been dumped while I'd got a twice-weekly session, I smiled and said, 'You've got to make 'em feel they can help you, and that doesn't mean flashing your bone and asking her to give it the once over like you did!' That made even Polchard smile and thereafter whenever I came back from a session I had to face a barrage of obscene questions as to the progress I was making towards getting into her underwear.
To tell the truth, I think I might have managed it, but I didn't even try. Even if successful, what would I have got out of it?
A few top-C's of mindless delight (no chance in the circumstances for more than a quick knee-trembler) and a coda of post-coital sadness that might stretch for years!
For I had to be a realist. Even if Amaryllis could be seduced into enjoying a bit of sport in the shade, when she walked out into the bright sunshine beyond the Syke's main gates and thought of her promising career and her happy marriage, she was going to shudder with shame and fear and pre-empt any future accusations I might make by marking me down as a dangerous fantasist. (You think I'm being too cynical? Read on!)
So I set my mind to finding out what it was that she wanted from me professionally and making sure that she got it.
There was another danger here. You see, what she really wanted was to get a clear picture of what made me tick. And the trouble was that this subject fascinated me also.
I've always known I'm not quite the same as other people, but the precise nature of this otherness eludes me. Is it based on an absence or a presence? Do I have something others lack, or am I lacking in something that others possess?
Am I, in other words, a god among mortals or merely a wolf among sheep?
The temptation to let it all hang out before her and see what her professional skills made of the fascinating tangle was great. But the risks were greater. Suppose her conclusion was that I was an incurable sociopath?
So, regrettably, I felt I had to postpone the pleasures of complete analytical honesty till such time as 1 could
