The man at table 11

A strange but beautiful twist of fate

If you are a regular subscriber to my posts, you will know that I now try to plan in artist’s dates. Simply time to take in something new, with space to write.

One such artist’s date was planned with a friend last week and we were mutually excited by the prospect of a current exhibition we had read about. Only to find as we entered that an ominous sign greeted us stating: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE.

What now? My friend tried in vain to plead for us to be allowed to enter or at the very least, have a sneaky peek, but to no avail. Trying to curb both of our disappointment, we headed for a drink while we pondered our next move.

As we headed with a Pepsi and a beer to the inviting sofa, after a long day at work, my friend stopped dead in her tracks. She spotted the once familiar face of ‘Charles’, not seen for a good 2 years or so. According to her, it was the eyes that told her it was him. A blast from a challenging past which took them both back to around 2001.

An innocuous start to the chat maybe but it soon turned into something quite magical.

You see Charles was a complex character who I couldn’t possibly pretend to know after such a short space of time but I know I liked him x

For when we got onto the subject of writing, specifically his skills in writing poetry, those tired eyes came alive!

He proceeded to recite the most beautiful lines.. some of which I will layout for you now but all from memory.

He played a clip of Olivia Coleman reciting one of his poems. Really? Clearly a moment of immense pride and rightly so.

My poems have become an unexpected joy over the last year but they paled into insignificance compared to Charles’. Partly due to his beautiful use of language and portrayal of difficult emotions (not unlike my preferred subject matter) but so much in the gentleness and utter beauty in how he spoke the words.

A chance meeting but one he seemed almost prepared for.

I sat in awe, in much the same way as if DH Lawrence or Ted Hughes were sat in front of me in a city centre cafe at 5:30 on a Thursday eve!

Our recital began with Auschwitz - hearing Olivia Coleman read this didn’t equate to it coming from Charles’ own mouth .

https://hmd.org.uk/resource/auschwitz-by-charles-n-whittaker/

Please read this.. it is truly beautiful!

Reminiscent of ‘faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches’ by Robert Louis Stevenson whose words we learnt in unison by rote with my ex pupils not so long back. The rhythm of this train far less jovial and with sinister undertones.

The sombre tone continued with lines which tore me apart … words hung onto such as ‘she felt jealous of the pillow that had been blessed with his head’ .. not remembered word for word by me sadly. But I shall not forget the sentiment. Ever!

I was enticed and spellbound by his poetry and asked where I could find these, wanting to remember them and also share them with my mentor Edith- a poetry connoisseur if ever there was one!

For then, out of his backpack, he pulled out this, swiftly followed by one more. One for me and one for his friend from long before.

Who carries their own book around in their bag just on the off chance it will be needed?

But I get it! I am secretly so proud of my own book, I could happily take it to bed with me every night, gazing at it like that new pair of patent shoes when I was a child.

It was only fate which intervened that day to mean that I had a new delivery of Love, Labour and Loss in my car boot. I dashed off with childish excitement to grab a copy to do a ‘fair swap’.

As he signed his book for me and I signed mine for him.. I felt a mix of emotions.

• Inferiority that my words would not be as poetically powerful as his.

• In awe of this humble yet talented man I saw before me.

• Fear that my words would offend or fail to satisfy him- this stranger whose opinion mattered to me.

Then with this, I felt pure joy and felt inspired once more than I was journeying on the right road. He wrote;

‘I am sure I will enjoy your work’ then ‘keep writing’ - a message that seems to keep coming back into my life.

Keep writing!

Our time together may have been short but his impact was lasting!

These serendipitous moments where I feel a little bit like an actual writer keep happening.

These moments of cultural impact where I am fed and renewed once more..

The reminder that the power of a few short words committed to paper, can never be underestimated.

Life is dropping pearls in front of me when I least expect them.

I may get frustrated that my words occasionally fall on deaf ears.

I may feel cheated that time for writing has been robbed from me over the years and yearn for more..

But keep writing I must and I will.

If only because Charles told me to!

As we walked away, I knew I would always remember the man at no 11. 11 being a number I have at times been drawn to, for no real justification other than the month my daughter was born and the simple symmetry of 1 and 1 being appealing to my eye.

I wonder if he has read my book yet?

I know I will try to honour the talent of Charles N. Whittaker in the hope that someone else will be able to tell him how incredible his words are.

Giving the gift of a book, with no monetary expectation is a gift of love.

Who could you give the gift of words to?

If you like what this novice writer reads, make my day (as Charles did mine) by buying my book and letting me know what you thought. I can’t promise a Booker Prize winner but I do promise it will move you in some way as Charles’ words will to.