From the last ditch

The following two fragments were recovered by the Huntingdonshire Constabulary from the contents of a wheely bin in Godmanchester in the autumn of 1962.

The first Fragment:

“.. while Jack was hight in hall and tower
And Joan in cot and hovel,
Full many hoy away their pride
And on their bellies grovel.”

The second Fragment:

“..merrily.

Yet be they dowie and sing not sweet
That lit upon that lea,
But bend their footsteps bright and neat,
Agin the sounding sea.”

Experts in the field have dated their composition, from internal evidence, to 4 April 1962, probably in the late afternoon, although no consensus can be found on the latter detail. The relationship between the two has also become the subject of a, sometimes bitter, controversy. On balance, the use of unrelated media (green ballpoint ink on a beer mat of uncertain provenance for the first fragment and soft lead pencil on the back of a Tesco check-out receipt for the second) would mitigate against a thematic relationship but not necessarily against a single author with access to a choice of media.

The first fragment, with its Middle English overtones and its thinly veiled social engineering undertones, has been confidently (perhaps over confidently) attributed to one Jack Beamish who is on record as having been ejected for mouthing blasphemies from the Public Bar of the Red Bull gastro-pub about two o'clock on the 4 April 1962. Mr Beamish's other surviving works, in particular his "High away my dainty May" being a rhapsody on a certain Pat O'Kelly, one time bar maid at the Red Bull, bear strong stylistic resemblances with the first fragment, sharing its economy of content and taut expression of sentiment.

Attempts to attribute the second fragment to Mr Beamish have encountered a minefield of objections. The circumstantial evidence of their being found among the contents of the same wheely bin has been countered by the marked stylistic divergence. A majority of those consulted agree on the North Anglian flavour of the diction although not all would go as far as to invoke Scots. Jack Beamish is known to have spent most of his productive period in the vicinity of Huntingdon and St Ives and is not on record as having visited the northern regions of the British Isles. It seems unlikely that he would have known and still less, employed a northern idiom to compose the second fragment.

This leads us to consider Jock McCulloch, the much neglected Cumbrian, perhaps better known as the "Swan of Aspatria". Jock was a frequent visitor to the Fenland margins although his work remained firmly rooted among the council houses of his native Cumberland. Painstaking analysis of the extant Tesco archive of this period has unearthed a blurry photograph of a male customer with strong resemblances to Mr McCulloch passing checkout number fourteen at six minutes past eleven on the 9 April 1962. Although the checkout receipt inscribed with the second fragment cannot be positively identified as being printed by the cash machine at checkout point number fourteen (the crucial upper part of the receipt which would have given this information having been torn away), the prima facie evidence points to Jock McCulloch as the author of the second fragment. He was after all in the vicinity and had the opportunity.

Resemblances, both stylistic and thematic to his elegiac “Fowerteen pints a weekend” reverberate through any reading of the second fragment.

Ida Idarsen, in her paper presented to the Stornoway Conference on Fragmentary Records (freely drawn upon here), brilliantly resolved a great many outstanding questions relating to the two fragments and in so doing created a firm foundation for future research. She deliberately left one major question unanswered however, and it remains unanswered as I write, “Fragments of what?”

Take the road to Brugge. Victoria station, join a coach to Dover. Down from Doncaster with two school classes on their Easter outing. Us two boys. Fill up passengers, among all the girls, shy and straightforward, northern lassies, but smart, with plenty of elbow. Crowding round, to hear our funny English, like on the radio in Doncaster.

Dover road, see the sea from the South Downs. Tell the girls about the castle, England’s key, they listen to our accents, not caring what we say.

Belgian boat today, foot passengers boarding, wondering at the Brandkraan, the Toegang Verboten and Aleene Maatschappij. White cliffs behind us, standing in the funnel smoke, trying to look unconcerned, with England fading. Lump in the throat.

Calais coast, tell the girls that England ruled it, turn north to Gravelines roads where the Armada anchored. Dunkirk’s sand bars, Jean Bart’s roadstead, our embarkation beaches, Malo and Leffrinckouke. Bray Dunes and De Panne where the French held the ring.

Nieuwport, and at last, Oostende. Turn into the Havengeul where Vindictive sank to block the U Boots. On the quayside, goodbye girls forever, you’re going on to Blankenberge and Zeebrugge, stand on the mole and remember the Dover Patrol and St Georges day for us.

Walk on the Visserkaai eating frites with mayonnaise, time for the train, local line to Brugge, not Bruges here, where French is frowned upon.

See the Belfry from far, built tall to overlook the plain. Hump our cases through the park. Into the Zilverstraat, carillon playing Bach. Old hotel, we know you well. They’re waiting for us, the women and girls. Motherly and clean, eyes painted by Vermeer. “Hertelijk Willkommen jongens”.

Eating with the family, “Eet smaakelijk”. Empty dining room, we are between school classes. Chicken dinner especially for us. First, thin green “grass soup”, it goes down well with pepper. Small new potatoes boiled and sautéed brown in a pan with chicken fat, not soapy white, English style. Don’t know how to clean our plates, no bread on the table at home. They show us with rye bread, we soon learn.

They’re talking and smiling together, we can see they are pleased. Soft Vlaams in the firelight, the language of Flanders, that keeps our soldiers. We feel at home.

Breakfast early, always the same, round bread rolls hot from over the road. Anneke brings them in a big white cloth carried over her shoulder. Good salted butter, curled and floating in water. Quince jelly and apple cheese, home made. A big tin coffee pot. No tea. No milk, only cream. They urge us to eat more, finding us underfed.

Out in the streets, wet from the night rain. Sun coming through, going to be a hot one. Big American cars, bakers everywhere beautifully decorated. Eleven different breads to buy in one. More cakes than we can count. Gingerbread for Easter, sepia postcards. Cafés already open, locals taking breakfast. No shortages here.

Belfry’s watching everything, always has done. Use our French at the Tourist Office, learned at school. Laughing, they answer in English. Museum Card with sixteen different visits, a special stamp for each. Bring it back full, there’s an extra stamp for you. Rewarding the faithful? Keep it forever, still have mine somewhere. Don’t lose it now.

Visit the quiet Memling, the Holy Blood, Love’s lake the Minnewater, the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk (the Church of our dear Lady) to see Charles the Bold. See the crossbows, borne to Bouillon to join Godefroy, then the long land way to capture Jerusalem, where Godefroy refused to wear a crown of gold where Christ had worn thorns.

Walk with the Beguines, in their old private garden. Sit on the hot stone bridge in the garden of Bonifacius, our countryman, come here before us. Winfreth (Fairface), friend to Pepin father of the Great Charles, Karl de Groote, Charlemagne. England’s scholar, slain bearing the Bible by the heathen Friesians.

Bells ringing in the tower. Ringing all together, no English changes and bobs, pushing and jumbling, falling, shouting. Fighting like cats in a sack. Shaking the stonework, telling us to go, we desecrate their garden. Tingling hands on the stone when the great bell tolls.

Slowly back through the hot streets, over bridges and bridges. Following the carillon, calling us home.

Calling us today, everyday. Still waiting our coming. Fifty years now, faithful and true.