"IS IT ANY GOOD?" KARL ASKED WHEN WE WERE SETTLED TO steak and chips (him), sausage and mash (me), a pint of Brothwaite's Best Brew (him), a glass of red wine (me).
"It's clever."
"Does 'clever' mean good with poems?"
"Not necessarily."
"So what does?"
"Why ask me?"
"You're the expert."
"Me?"
"You're a writer."
"I write stories, not poems."
"So? It's all words, isn't it?"
"Does being an expert plumber make you an expert gastroenterologist?"
"A what?"
"Gastroenterologist. An expert on your guts."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"They're both experts with pipes."
"D'you have to talk about that when we're eating?"
"You're finicky, then?"
"Only on Tuesdays. So you don't know if Fiorella's poem is any good?"
"Good is a dodgy word when it comes to poetry. To anything actually."
"You're as bad as a politician. Can't you give a straight answer to a simple question?"
"The trouble is it's not a simple question. Nothing is when it comes to poetry. But to satisfy your hunger for my inexpert opinion, I'll admit that her poem may be too clever for its own good."
"You mean she's up her bum?"
"I thought you didn't like that sort of talk on Tuesdays?"
"But is she?"
"I wouldn't put it that way. What I mean is, Fiorella is clearly a clever girl, clever with words. And like a lot of clever people, when they try to write poetry, they think it has to be clever-clever to prove how clever they are. And because they tend to read clever-clever poets they copy them. Well, sometimes they pull it off and sometimes they don't."
"And you think Fiorella hasn't?"
"She has and she hasn't."
"There you go again! Look, if somebody asks me whether a bit of plumbing is any good, I can tell them how well the pipes are fitted and how good the joints are and that sort of stuff. You're a writer. Why can't you tell me how well Fiorella has done her poetry plumbing?"
"All right."
I pushed away my plate of half-eaten sausage and mash, took a printout of Fiorella's poem from my pocket and laid it on the table between us.
"This repetition," I said, "'Do you believe as I believe.' That's all very neat, and she's making a nice point of connecting what you believe, which she must have got from you, and you telling her about yourself. Or rather, not telling her about yourself, which is implied not said."
"And that's good?"
"It's not bad. If she'd left it at that, you could give her, let's say, six out of ten."
"Now you're sounding like a teacher as well as a politician."
"The second part of the poem, the stuff about know and knowing, now that's over the top, in my inexpert opinion."
"Like, you mean if it was plumbing there'd be too many unnecessary pipes and joints?"
"Something like that. Listen, I'll read it to you. That's the best test of poetry: How does it sound?"
"Like does the water run smoothly through the pipes?"
"Exactly."
I read the second part of the poem aloud.
"Oooo! Get her!" hooted a shaven-headed, beer-gutted character of the hot metal variety sitting at the next table. "Poncing with the pooerterwy!"
What followed took my breath away.
Karl turned his head to the intruder, gave him what my mother used to call "a look that could kill," and in a voice of quiet and controlled violence said, "This is the polite version: Mind your own frigging business."
Pause. Tense silence.
Nothing was forthcoming from our gutsy neighbour. He tried to return Karl's uncompromising glare but wasn't up to the confrontation.
His pals sniggered.
Karl waited a further freezing moment before turning back to me, gave me a smile as fresh as spring, and said, "I see what you mean. It's a bit like chewing string."
And he went into an exaggerated riff, over-pronouncing with a po-faced expression and in a voice that mimicked a pompous preacher, the words "Known knowing who knowing knows no knowing who knows you knowing but who knows knowing no knowing but knowing knows knowing when knowing is known …"
The effect of which, after the drama of the belligerent neighbour, reduced me to overcompensating laughter, and Karl too when he stopped his blether.
But this was not the end of it. Unfortunately, I was not witness to the debacle.
When we'd run out of laughter and generally calmed down, I said, "Really, we're mean, taking the mickey out of Fiorella's poem. We ought to be ashamed."
"Why?" Karl said. "She's not here. What she doesn't know—" Repeating that word almost undid us again, but I held up a warning finger and swallowed the rising chortle.
"Well," Karl continued, also suppressing the urge, "it can't hurt her, can it? And, anyway, even if she was here, it'd be a pretty bad job if she couldn't laugh at herself. I wouldn't want a girlfriend who can't laugh at herself."
"There is that," I said. "Take your work seriously, but don't take yourself too seriously, you mean?"
"Something like that."
"But the thing is," I went on, "what Fiorella doesn't understand is that some people aren't word people like she is."
"What are they, then?"
"They do things. They have to do something before they can say what they mean."
"And you're saying I'm like that?"
"Aren't you?"
Reluctantly: "Maybe."
"Anyway," I said, taking the hint not to pursue the idea. "Fiorella wants a reply, doesn't she? She wants to know what you think. You can hardly tell her you think she's disappearing up her own fundament, now can you?"
"No. But what can I say? I mean, that's honest and not bullshit?"
"Putting myself in her shoes—"
"I'm not sure I want to picture that."
"What helps me as a writer when I ask someone to tell me what they thought of something I've just written—when it's still raw, I mean, and so am I—is that they tell me which bits they liked. That's encouraging, and gives me confidence. And we all need encouragement. As you," I added, looking him seriously in the eyes, "ought to know."
His face blanked. He nodded and looked at the table.
I pushed the printout in front of Karl, stood up and said, "While I visit the wailing wall, take another gander at Fiorella's poem, and see if there's anything you can say you genuinely like. A word, a phrase, a line, a stanza. Anything will do. Then we'll compose a suitable critique."
And I went off to the men's.
While I was there, I heard a sudden rowdy noise followed by a thud like a sack of potatoes hitting the floor. But I was enjoying so much the pleasure of relief—a slow process for men of my age who are suffering the symptoms of trouble with the "waterworks"—and was thinking at the same time about what Karl might write to Fiorella, that I paid only quarter ear attention to the bangarang going on outside.
But when I'd washed my hands, checked myself in the mirror and left the loo, Tom, the publican, who I knew well, was waiting for me in the passage. And he was not happy.
"That young guy who's with you."
His tone as well as his looks indicated trouble.
"Karl? What about him?"
"There's been a bit of a fracas."
"A fracas?"
"I'm not sure what happened, but from what I can gather, him and one of the fellers at the next table got across each other and your guy ended up flooring the other one."
"What? Karl? Never!"
"I didn't see it, so I don't know the ins and outs."
"I can't believe Karl is to blame, even if he did it. He's not the sort to pick a fight."
"I don't care who's to blame. I can't allow that sort of behaviour. Bad for business."
"Where is he now?"
"I turfed the lot of them out and told them not to come back. They're barred. Your lad's outside. The other one was carted off by his pals."
Gobsmacked is the pub word for how I felt. And a sense of guilt that in some way it was my fault.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'd better—" And made a move to leave.
"The bill," the publican said.
In my confusion I thought he was referring to the police.
"Is that necessary?"
He had the grace to laugh. "The meal?"
What he meant seeped through.
"Oh! Yes, sorry. Look, I'll come back as soon as I've checked on Karl, OK?"
Tom nodded and shrugged.
"You're a good neighbour," he said. "No hard feelings. It's on the house."
I didn't even think to thank him.
It was dusk. Cold and damp.
Karl was sitting, hunched over one of the picnic tables on the pub terrace. No one else around.
I sat down opposite him. But now the sparky, funny young man I'd eaten with had disappeared leaving behind a wary, morose, locked-up teenager almost literally shrunk into himself, who wouldn't or couldn't look me in the eye.
I waited for him to say something. But nothing.
The cold was already getting to me. I wasn't dressed for outside.
"Fancy a cup of coffee?" I said, hoping we might go home where we could at least be warm while Karl gloomed.
He shook his head.
Impasse.
"Look," I said as light-toned as I could manage when my patience weakened. "I don't know what happened. If you don't want to tell me, that's OK. But I would like to know if you're all right."
He nodded.
"You're not hurt?"
He shook his head.
Pause.
But the cold was slicing my bones.
"Well," I said, "if it's OK with you I'll say good night and push off home."
No response.
I stood up. Was about to leave when: "He said something I didn't like."
I waited for more. None was offered.
"What was it?" I asked.
"Doesn't matter."
"It mattered enough for you to have a go at him, if what the publican says is true."
"It was about us."
"Ah!"
"But I didn't do anything then. Only told him to shut it. But the others egged him on."
"So?"
"He stood up and when I wouldn't, he said something worse than before."
"And this time?"
Really, with Karl in this mood it was like extracting teeth with a pair of tweezers.
"I stood up."
"And what then? All of this must have happened pretty quickly. I wasn't in the loo that long."
"It did."
"So what happened?"
"He said something else. Punched me in the chest. I gave him a chop and he went down."
"A chop? What kind of a chop?"
"Instinctive."
"Where did you hit him?"
"The throat. Side of my hand."
"And that knocked him out?"
"Not exactly."
"What, then?"
"He started choking."
I couldn't help smiling.
"But he's all right?"
"He'll live."
"Let's hope so. And let's hope he doesn't bring charges."
"He won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Pride."
"Meaning?"
"Last thing he wants is for it to get round that some little poofter dropped him."
"That's what he called you?"
He nodded.
"And me?"
"Yes."
"And that's what riled you?"
"No."
"What did, then?"
"Nasty-minded bigot."
I took a deep breath and paused for thought.
We'd both had enough for that night. We both needed to recover. It was only now, when I knew what had happened, that my mind caught up with my feelings and needed time to sort them out and get back into balance. I guessed the same was true for Karl. And both of us would do best on our own. But how to part without hurting his feelings or appearing to desert him when he was clearly in bad shape?
It was Karl who decided, thank goodness.
"I'd better be off," he said. "I'm sorry. I messed up."
I wanted to let him know I didn't mind. "Sure you wouldn't like a coffee and talk a bit more?"
"Thanks, but I've caused enough trouble for one night."
"You didn't cause the trouble. He did."
"No. Well."
"We still have to decide what you'll say about Fiorella's poem."
"I'll be in touch. OK?"
"OK. Good night, then."
"See you," he said and fetched his bike.
As I watched him pedal away, I wondered what it was like to be Karl Williamson. What was it like to live inside his head? What did he think and feel, awake and asleep? Who was he? Did he know himself? If he did, he certainly wasn't letting on. Tonight I'd seen two Karls, almost extremes of each other, like two hemispheres of himself.
But then, I said to myself, don't I have within me more than one self? I've seen two Karls tonight, but I've been two of myself as well. We've both been our summer selves, bright and confident and warm, and our winter selves, distressed and dark and cold.
And anyway, who knows all of me? No one. How can anyone know me, when I've spent more than seventy years trying to work out who I am and still don't know all of the answer. Why should Karl know who he was when he'd had much less time to work it out?
