Homage to Cappadocia

Tags

amphitheatre, Aspendos, Ataturk, Britten, Cappadocia, dervish, evil eye, feral cat, minaret, Pigeon Valley, pomegranate, Taurus mountains, Turkey

A crescent moon hangs over the airport,

its smoky aura a faded flag

unfurling to greet weary travellers.

The sun rises on fierce Taurus mountains,

while an orange seller opens his stall,

ready to squeeze any thirsty tourists,

dud Ataturk coinage at the ready.

Jewelled pomegranate juice is bitter:

Bitte schon, bitte schon, the fervent cry.

From the coach window slim minarets pass,

jabbing upward like propelling pencils,

whose secret calligraphy is noting

Islamic history on the skyscape.

In a field a lone cotton-picker wears

a balaclava-benign terrorist.

His eyes meet mine for a second’s fraction.

In the amphitheatre at Aspendos

a pseudo Roman centurion climbs

purposefully up the marble ledges,

kisses my hand; claims we’ll be together

forever, because he wants a photo

which he can charge me for, striking a pose.

Rebuffed, he then looks ready to crumble

like the masonry and retreats backwards,

dropping a five lira note in his wake,

sad confetti for a failed love affair.

I disentangle myself from a scarf

draped round my neck by a woman who knows

how to persuade me that her gift is free.

A straight-jacket of guilt ensures her sale.

Blue, glass evil eye is pinned to my chest,

but fails to protect me from bargaining

for a fine silk carpet I did not want.

A feral cat stretches over roof tiles

and a sandy dog curls up in the sun.

Soon the call to prayer will be ascending.

The dervish will rotate one final time,

realising his tomb is not on Earth,

but in the hearts of the enlightened.

How can I ever be his resting place

when all I see is from a moving pane?

Mum, that’s really good.  You should publish it online when

we get back, encouraged Drusilla Fotheringay who was

looking over her mother’s shoulder as she wrote her

perceptions down in her diary.  Show it to Dad.

They were sitting in the sun at Pigeon Valley, having some

apple tea before going on to The Fairy Chimneys.

No, your father would correct it with red ink and would give me

a mark out of ten.  Once the teacher..

Mum, are you two going to get together, do you think, or….?

She looked around for her father, but he was standing looking

out across the chasm and appeared to be deep in conversation

with someone from the other tourist coach.  The same company

was shifting various groups around the sites in a different order,

but today they seemed to have their charges in synch.

Both men were wearing cotton hats and very similar long shorts,

their look completed with orthopaedic sandals and dark socks.

It was then that she noted that they wore identical t-shirts

emblazoned with Britten Concert Dec 2013, St Birinus Middle School.

The face of the other conversationalist seemed familiar.

Mum, Drusilla whispered.  Don’t look now, but it’s that conductor guy-

you know, the one from the school concert.

Mr Poskett? replied her mother.  Oh, what a bore!  What’s he doing

here?

I don’t know. Your evil eye amulet doesn’t seem to be

working!  You should ask for a refund!  Look out!  Here he comes!

Sole Legatee

Tags

Antalya, belly dancer, Bosphorus, Britten, Cappadocia, caravanserai, chick peas, Damien HIrst, dervish, Early Church Fathers, For The Love of God, pacemaker, palazzo pants, pomegranate, Stansted

Drusilla Fotheringay had excelled herself in the end of term

Christmas concert.  Her performance on the harp had

charmed the audience of parents, staff and pupils and

had deeply impressed Geoffrey Poskett, the choirmaster

of St Birinus Middle School.

Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master, had been fully supported

in his Britten solos and could see that this could be a partnership

made in Heaven- possibly a marriage planned in Paradise.  He had

only taken his eye off the conductor’s baton once, in order to beam

encouragement in Dru’s direction and consequently earned himself

a deep frown and a strong downward beat from his tense colleague.

Now Drusilla was looking forward to a trip that she and her parents

had organised earlier in the term.  It involved some Turkish delight

in the wintry sun of Cappadocia, so they were flying from Stansted to

Antalya forthwith.  They were going to view some strange geology and

Augustus Snodbury had been revising the theology of the Early Church

Fathers.

Dru opened yet another congratulatory card -this one from Juniper

Boothroyd-Smythe.  She knew that she had scored a hit in settling the

potentially delinquent student into her boarding house.  The card showed

a not particularly cheery image: it had a Damien Hirst For the Love of God

skull on its front, but Juniper had super-imposed a Santa hat which hung

down in a somewhat louche manner, over its glittery sockets.

Other less original pupils had sent her a robin with a standard wish that

she would have an a-ma-zing time in Cappadoccia, Capadoccia, or in other

orthographically challenging destinations.  Why did they never bother about

spelling?  In her day..Oh well, it was the end of term, so why should she get

her palazzo pants in a tangle?

She wondered if they would be warm enough for a hot air balloon

trip.  They had been packed and unpacked several times, but she

felt, on the whole, that they would preserve her dignity if the landing

was less than smooth.

She gathered up the wrapping paper and boxes which contained last

year’s unwanted toiletries which had formed the basis of some of the

girls’ presents, no doubt cobbled together by their mothers.  These could

go straight to Help the Ancient charity shop, if they had not derived their

origin from hence.

But, hold on!  What was that letter that was sticking to some clear plastic

wrapping by static?  Someone had forgotten to stick a stamp on it, but the

postman must have delivered it in a spirit of goodwill, or because he received

a tip at this time of year and didn’t want to jeopardise the custom. At any

other time, there would only have been a card with a sticker instructing her

to pay a pound if she wanted to come and collect whatever it was.

Dru tore it open impatiently and a grubby five pound note fell out of a

letter. It had come from Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry

and the calligraphy was somewhat shaky.

She read:

Dear Grand-Niece, (spelt correctly, she noted)

It was good to see you and your father recently.  I do hope that you

will both manage to fit in a visit in your copious free time and will

endeavour to remember not to leave bottles in the car.

The chocolates were slightly past their sell-by date, unlike moi, I can

assure you.  I off-loaded them on the auxiliary staff, who having lost their

bloom didn’t mind devouring the chocolate variety.  They disappeared in

a twinkling.  The chocolates I mean..

Thank you for the letter which informed me of your holiday plans.

Don’t drink the tap water and eschew all salads, there’s a good girl.

Believe you me, I have suffered on several caravanserai trips in my

girlhood.  If it wasn’t my camel allergy, it was those blooming chick peas.

To this day, I refuse to clean my dentures with anything other than gin.

I suppose you’ll be whirling around like some dervish, packing your clothes.  I

thought I’d enclose a little something, but don’t spend it all in one bazaar.

And remember to take a toothpick.  Those pomegranate seeds used to give

me the pip.

Thank you for your photograph.  I can see the family resemblance:

the Snodbury jowls prevail.  My mother has evidently influenced your

DNA.  Mind you, we always suspected that she had had a fling with a

carpet seller in her days of gallivanting round the Bosphorus.  Still, it

saved us all a mint in suntan lotion.  A swarthy complexion can be a

problem in wearing certain hues, though, darling, and so I just give you

a little hint: yellow is not your colour.

We actually had a belly dancer here last week, arranged through our

cultural programme in the Activities Room.  One old boy had to be lifted

out as he was immobilised at the conclusion.  No doubt he enjoyed the

gyration of the nubile, if not so youthful, genie, but most of us

would just prefer the bottle.  They were able to re-set his pacemaker,

fortunately.

Forgive my rambling.  Must go and investigate why the drinkies are late.

Look forward to hearing all about your travels on your return.

Who knows? If we continue to get on so well, I just might make you my

sole legatee.

Merry Christmas.

Your Great-Aunt Augusta.

Fifth Rehearsal

Tags

bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, faggots, gerund, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Paradis XO, St Nicolas

Tension was running high.  There weren’t many weeks left until the St

Nicolas Concert and the Music Department of one-plus-a-few peripatetics

was becoming visibly anxious, willing the older boys’ voices to resist

breaking.

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was almost falling asleep in the foetid heat of the rehearsal room.

Almost, but not quite.  He was there in his capacity of judge and jury,

for he had once sung the lead role in a very good amateur performance

of Camelot, but he refused to lower himself to participate in a school

production.  He regarded himself as a semi-pro.

He was incredibly proud of his daughter, Drusilla, who had been persuaded

to play her harp in the second half of the evening, when Britten’s Ceremony

of  Carols was to have its run through.  He had also passed on a few useful

tips on breathing to Nigel Milford-Haven, tenor and eponomyous Saint,

whose day job made him a little lower than the angels, as far as his

mentor was concerned.

He had been secretly impressed by Nigel’s practical assistance in

manoeuvering Drusilla’s weighty instrument into the hall.  She had been

surprised at such strength being demonstrated from what some would

term a weedy guy -the type who has sand kicked in his face.  Usually she

preferred a bass, but chivalry seemed to be a tenor characteristic, if not a

long-term sustainability feature.

The basses just wondered why he didn’t ask the school caretaker to

assist. They felt they had brains as well as brawn.  But they couldn’t know

how love gave Nigel the power to shift mountains.

Drusilla, being a House Mistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-

Gifted Girl, was playing a dual role.  She was accompanying, in both

senses of the word, some of the members of the girl’s choir, who had been

jolly rousing in the movement where they had been drafted in to brew a

storm in the Journey to Palestine section.  They had to sing, standing in

the upper gallery of the hall, on a pierced wrought iron platform, as if they

were on a boat, but Drusilla had stipulated that they should wear non-

uniform trousers for the evening.  In spite of this modest attire, they still

raised a typhoon of raging emotion in the ranks of the older, pre and mid-

pubescent male voices and nearly made a shipwreck of the session.

Gus’ head was just about to lag and his breathing was threatening to

splutter, when his attention became riveted by the words of the Nunc

Dimittis, which Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster, was conducting so

feelingly.

How very apposite! thought Gus. Those words!  The boys must sing this

at my retirement, in the very near future.  I have been a shepherd; I have

been kind  and courageous: a ‘spendthrift in devotion’.  I have guided boys

through all  kinds of perils, on land and sea…Is that a different hymn?  I

have defended  them from the injustices of cruel men.  I mean, some of

my past colleagues who were quite unreasonable.  Like St Nicolas….Ah! 

Didn’t I overhear Pollux  Willoughby of Transitus A say that I was a legend

in my lunch hour?  Or was it in his lunch hour?

(Maybe it was a deliberate ploy to gain an exemption from litter-picking?)

He could foresee a –what was the collective term for a group of grateful

parents?– ‘pension fund of parents‘ pouring from a brass, no, a golden

vessel, a libation of something very expensive in the alcohol line, say,

Paradis XO, over his head- minus his Panama, naturally.  In that eventuality,

they should keep that nectar in the bottle and should anoint him with

something less valuable.  A laurel wreath would do.

He became lost in this soft focus reverie. Then he had to rush back to mark

some wretched scripts.  He left Nigel to assist with the harp, but noticed

Geoffrey Poskett getting in on the act, much to the tenor’s annoyance.

So, it was disappointing that, the very next day, Snod should have to be

confronting the troublesome John Boothroyd-Smythe, whose family was

experiencing difficulties, as everyone knew.  Still, there was no excuse.  The

bratwurst had behaved reasonably well in the rehearsal the previous

evening, but had disgraced himself in the refectory at lunch, by

commenting audibly, as he expectorated a lump of gristle, that the school

faggots– those culinary delicacies which the dinner ladies had been serving

up for aeons- were probably equine, or the products of the same butcher

that Nicolas, Singing Bishop of Myra/ Lyra?, had condemned for

sausagifying – was that a gerund?- the three pickled boys, Timothy, Mark

and John.

Gus refrained from issuing him with the ultimate punishment: suspension

from school, not physically, though there was a very useful flagpole should

the need arise, but he did require the irritating one to write out The Old

Hundredth in musical notation three times, for the following Friday.

The Senior Master was particularly annoyed as he had been on lunchtime

yard duty and there hadn’t been any faggots left by the time he got to sit

down and invite indigestion.  Only the vegetarian options had remained,

sadly. He was so hungry that he almost felt like eating a boy himself, saintly

prohibition, or not!

A Pet What?

Tags

Arms and the Man, Bourbon biscuit, Britten, BUPA, Ceremony of Carols, Discovery Centre, electric bell, flu jab, Garibaldi biscuit, George Bernard Shaw, Ken Livingstone, nocturnal emission, Petkoff, proleptic allusion, prostate, Strictly, Tupperware, Type 2 diabetes, urologist, Viennese Whirls, Vince Cable, Well Man Clinic

Two weeks for half term this year!

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School, could hardly

believe his good fortune.  He had actually managed to stagger on and had

avoided becoming a stretcher case, even though he had received his flu

jab mid-session, which left him somewhat debilitated for a couple of days.

The Parents’ Open Evening had almost finished him off.  He had been

stationed in the Library, now designated The Discovery Centre,

but had hoped that no one would ferret him out from his hiding place.

He was supposed to showcase its latest technology to prospective

‘clients’, but such a role reminded him of the Major in Arms and the

Man, who kept boasting to all and sundry of his latest piece of technical

kit for the reading room, namely an electric bell.

A divorced father wandered in, but he made a very hasty departure,

as he thought that Snod had given him his marching orders. In fact, the

prematurely-aged one had just been introducing the ostentatious Shavian

character’s name- Petkoff!- in order to make ironic reference to

furnishing accessories for educational spaces.  However, Snod was

discovering out that fewer and fewer people shared his cultural references

and, consequently, his jokes were misconstrued, as we shall see later

in this post.

(That’s a proleptic allusion, by the way.  But I digress.)

Snod may have lost the school some ‘business’, I fear.

While the elusive Master hid behind the bookshelves, he consulted

a Medical Dictionary.

At The Well Man Clinic, which Diana had urged him to attend, he had

been surprised to learn that he was close to the margin for being

diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes.  However, he had been advised that

he could hold back the waves, unlike Canute, if he reduced his sugar

intake.  Worth a try.

Geoffrey Poskett, Head of Music, had been stunned earlier in the

day, by Gus having eschewed, rather than chewed, the last biscuit at

break.  He had held out the Tupperware box to Poskett and waved the

Bourbon, usually his favourite mid-morning nibble, under the puzzled

choirmaster’s nose.

You have it, he had said, graciously.

Geoffrey sat down and dunked the dark brown chocolaty finger into his

coffee while he waved his left hand in time to a beat that only he could hear.

Gus screwed up his nose.  Dunking! This was a practice which he considered

to be anaethema– yea, beyond the pale.  If he could have predicted the

biscuit’s fate, then he would have offered it to Nigel Milford-Haven, whose

eyes had followed its trajectory and milky disintegration.

Nigel had not bothered to open the cupboard in the staff kitchen, as he had

known that by now, there would only be packets of Garibaldis remaining, and

he would never ingest these, as they had far too revolutionary a name.  One

could call them Flies’ Cemeteries, but a sweetmeat by any other name would

taste just the same, and revolution stuck in his craw.  Leave it to characters

such as Red Ken Livingstone, who, no doubt, had sucked on the curranted

Italian perforated strips since boyhood.  As for Viennese Whirls, they were

more Vince Cable, he had thought, ever since seeing the politician strutting

his stuff on Strictly.

And Nigel was not a Lib Dem. He wasn’t sure what he was.  And that was why

he had been overlooked for promotion.

Gus, skulking behind the Human Biology section was looking up information on

nocturnal emissions.  When the hymn  All Hail The Power of Jesus’ Name had

been announced in assembly that morning, Snod had been reminded of

another medical problem that he should have discussed at the clinic.

Let angels prostate fall, in line two, had leapt out at him, even though he knew

that there was a difference of one consonant. For, yes, he was getting up

several times in the night to take a leak, in prep school parlance and, so he

really must phone Bupa to see if he could choose a urologist who might be

in the country over half term.  Vain hope!

He had glared at some of the older boys during the Junior Choir’s rendition of

Faire is The Heaven.  It may have been a trial run for a future performance,

but he was too long in the tooth not to anticipate the sniggers at the phrase:

in full enjoyment of felicity.

Actually, Poskett was doing a good job.  He had elevated himself in Snod’s

opinion by planning the Britten Christmas concert.  It was ambitious, but,

apart from the difficulty of finding a harpist for The Ceremony of Carols, he

was managing the rehearsals sensibly and hadn’t requested anyone’s

absence- as yet- from a Snodbury lesson.  Hence the biscuit offer.

…………………………………………………………

It was the morning after the Open Evening and staff were all rather

exhausted. Snod had leapt up two minutes before the bell at break.

There was only time for a coffee, or for visiting the little boys’ room.

Avoiding chatty colleagues was a necessity for the implementation of

good time management at the interval.

However, just as he was about to exit the staffroom, he collided with a whey-

faced loon in the shape of young John Boothroyd-Smythe who had been

knocking on the door.

Is this a query which could be addressed in lessons? barked Snod,

practically wetting himself.

Well, sir, I’m not sure.. B-S stammered.  It’s just that Dad gave me this letter

to give you.

Back to lessons! shouted Gus, hurrying down the corridor and pocketing the

envelope for future perusal.

It was only at lunchtime that he remembered to take the missive out of his

Harris tweed jacket pocket and then he read the parental complaint.

Apparently he was being accused of having told B-S’s father to ‘*** off’

the previous evening.  Snod was confused until he recalled that one of

Shaw’s characters had similarly misunderstood the Major’s name and had

uttered the immortal interrogative:

A Pet what?

(To which the immortal reply should have been: a Petkoff.)

Snod muttered the well-known aphorism: Never apologise; never explain,

to himself. 

But he knew that he would have to try.

No wonder B-S had problems when his father was so dense!  And B-S,

wasn’t that some kind of intestinal problem which had been mentioned on

the comprehensive leaflet which he had been given at the clinic?  It was

related to stress and Snod was having bucketfuls of that experience every

day.  Perhaps he should have that possibility investigated at the same time

as his prostrate, or whatever it was called.

First Rehearsal

Tags

Bishop of Lyra, Bourbon biscuit, bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, Elijah, Elisha, Frankfurter, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Peter-Pears, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, St Nicolas

Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, was over-

excited as usual.  It was almost the end of September and he had given a

great deal of consideration- mainly in the wee sma’ hours-to the

programme for his showcase Christmas term concert.

Greetings, chaps and chapesses! he enthused. (Several singers groaned.)

Welcome to the parents and staff who are supporting the boys in the end of

term concert.  I am delighted to announce that we will be performing Britten’s

Ceremony of Carols and St Nicolas. If ever there was an accessible

programme, then this is it.  Now I know that you will be wondering who the

soloists are going to be and I can announce that the youngest boy in the

choir will be the youthful Nicolas, as is traditional..

Here some parents looked as if they were about to vote with their feet, as

they had assumed that their mini Peter-Pears-in-the-Making was going to

land the eponymous role.

In fact, John Boothroyd-Smythe might have been a good choice as he

had nerves of steel, but his voice was about to break.

Geoffrey couldn’t imagine the latter springing from his mother’s womb, singing

‘God be glorified!‘  He had tried to keep the delinquent on board, but when he

had offered him the part of the final member of the trio of pickled boys,

Timothy, Mark and John, the ingrate scornfully replied, Who wants to be a

singing sausage?

The answer to that was none of the boys, particularly, but all of their parents

were gagging for them to be chosen and were ready to literally sacrifice their

darlings, whether they were to be actually preserved in brine or not, for the

sake of a favourable mention in a review in the school magazine.

John’s rudeness had earned him a detention with Mr Snodbury.  When he saw

the on-duty master reach into his briefcase for a quick snifter from what looked

suspiciously like a hip flask, John felt that the old boy would have been first

rate as a pickled adult.

John’s interpretation of the boys as Frankfurters, or chipolatas, en vinaigrette,

was somewhat literal.

Geoffrey had bitten back a comment to the effect that the role of

metamorphosed, or resurrected bratwurst would be highly appropriate for

such a pupil as himself.

Some of the semi-professional male instrumentalist members of staff who had

turned up to lead the Junior String Orchestra had been hoping for an elevation

from the ranks and  longed for a recognition of their solo tenor voices.  In

short, they wondered if one of their cohort might land the part of the adult

Nicolas.

And so it came as a surprise when Poskett announced that Mr Nigel

Milford-Haven was going to sing the role of the saint, in view of his

enhanced experience which had been finely tuned– ahem!( he was aware

of his own pun) at the Bath Monteverdi workshop over the summer.

Nepotism! muttered one of the viola players, but that was to be expected

from a musician in their section.

Over tea in the staffroom the following day, Nigel raised the subject very

casually with Mr Snodbury as he stood in line to choose a biscuit from the

hostess trolley. He mentioned that he had been elected to sing the part of

the Bishop of Lycra.

Snod looked at him as if he was a first former and corrected him: Lyra, sir! 

Lyra! He then snaffled the last Bourbon biscuit, which Nigel had been eyeing

throughout the conversation. Still, he couldn’t have everything, he supposed.

Lyra, yes, of course, that’s what I meant to say, he stuttered.  Yes, it’s a

marvellous piece and the eighth movement is so homophobic.

Snod put half of the biscuit in his mouth and sprayed Nigel with a cascade of

dark brown crumbs:  Homophonic, you ass! 

He was clearly not having a good day.

Nigel considered reporting the Senior Master to the union representative

and fantasised about receiving enormous damages for his loss of self-esteem

and injured feelings, but to complain might mean that his stellar role would

be endangered and it was too important to risk that.

I heard the parental chorus sang the Old Hundredth fairly competently, Snod

remarked, as if nothing untoward had been voiced.

Yes, sir!  He was relieved that he was on surer footing now and sat down

beside Snod in an ingratiating manner which irritated the eminence grise.

The boys enjoyed the part where Nicolas is enjoying his bath, he volunteered.

Snod had heard that there had been one or two sniggers at this point.

We rehearsed the section where the bewildered mothers were looking for

their lost sons.  They assumed that the ‘wurst’ had happened.

Nigel congratulated himself on a very good joke, but Snod ignored it.

There’s a plethora of that type of female in the school yard, I always find.

Snod drained his tea in one-a practice he had perfected over many a break.

I don’t suppose Poskett was other than spoilt for choice. I hear he gave

the parts to the pushiest ones as usual.

I don’t know about that, Nigel practised being pontifically diplomatic, if that

wasn’t an oxymoron- ie/ he tried to sit firmly on the fence on any thorny

matter.

I expect that you can relate to the sixth movement, as can we all, mused

Snod.

How so, sir?

Isn’t it a description of the barren years of incarceration? Snod said wryly.

Still, everyone gets their Nunc Dimittis in the end.

He was hoping for his very soon.  Pension! God be glorified!  But you will have

to wait much longer for yours, won’t you, under the new government

regulations?  Never mind- God moves in a mysterious way.  Maybe you will win

the lottery, if you say your prayers.  You should buy a ticket in our

consortium. A tenner a month, that’s all.

Is that Camelot? asked Nigel who was somewhat otherworldly regarding such

vices and, in that respect, made more of a a convincing saint than any other

member of staff.

Camelot? repeated Geoffrey, who had only three minutes of break left, having

collected his large bundle of hate mail from his pigeon hole, all protesting about

his casting skills. Oh, there’s no Bourbons left!  He looked devastated.

Camelot! Now there’s a good summer musical for you, suggested Snodbury,

rising from his club chair. I once sang the role of King Arthur many moons ago,

but I leave you my musical mantle, Milford-Haven.  Even Elijah had to divest

himself of his garment so that the young Elisha could grow into his sandals.

Gentlemen, adieu!

And though there was no rushing wind or cloud of unknowing, he cast a

cursory glance at his empty pigeon hole and left humming:

Don’t let it be forgot

That once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment

That was known as Camelot..

And Geoffrey and Nigel had to admit that there was a deal of musicality left

in the old dog yet!  In fact, there was even a look of the young Richard Burton

in his profile- or was it Richard Harris?  Both were before their time.