Pupil (c. 1950)
Father, brother, cousins –
all pupils of the George Palmer
infant and junior schools situate
just beyond the brow of Whitley Hill*
………… then,
………… ………… finally,
………… ………… ………… me,
but, right now, I’m with my parents:
we’re walking past Thomas Huntley’s
and George Palmer’s factory where
some of my paternal ancestry double-
baked daily, making biscuits
to feed the world.
I’m amassing my town piece by piece –
histories geographies facts and myths –
creating my innocent’s sense of place.
We follow the factory’s grand façade from
King’s to Forbury Road: cross the bridge,
then the road when slowing traffic permits
to follow the Gaol’s not-so-grand
high perimeter wall.
Unimpressed by the dismal face
the place displays to the world we fed,
I try to imagine instead how pleasant the view
would be now had the Abbey on whose
land it stands never been despoiled.
Nevertheless, it’s a famous place, I’m told,
since Oscar Wilde spent two whole years
hard-labouring behind that wall: the reasons
for his detention, however, could not be said,
not even whispered in my juvenile ear –
his only saving graces it seemed were
his writing children’s stories, and a ballad
about the Goal (which sounded fun, but,
could only be read when I had grown
and become mature).
After the road curves we pause to study
the stonework of Saint James’. Once,
apparently, some stones were Abbey stones,
though it’s difficult to decide. But, to build a new
Catholic church where part of the Abbey stood
using some of its ancient stones sounded like
common sense to a junior Methodist like me.
Now I’m keen to hurry my parents, to go into
those Forbury Gardens that I love: right in
the heart of my town where only a murmur
of traffic is ever heard – so peaceful even
for a child. And, as always, we stand to admire
the big black Lion; I run twice around
the bandstand; we look deep into the fishpond
then follow the path that takes us to
the ruined Abbey’s remains.
Its founder, the first King Henry, still lies buried
beneath those flints flung down long ago by
the last same-named King – but why, Henry,
why deprive my town of its Abbey? –
it must have been so majestic.
Melancholy and quietude mingle with
the juxtaposed austerity of Reading’s Gaol:
one day this child will try to learn why
it’s hard to make sense of it all . . .
Geoffrey Winch
*Quote from The Reading Standard, 26th October 1907
researched by Barnes-Phillips, Daphne for:
So Many Hearts Make a School (Reading: The Corridor Press, 2007)
—
Geoffrey Winch was born in Reading in 1943; educated at George Palmer Junior and Stoneham Grammar schools. After initially working in Reading, he subsequently worked in Hampshire, Warwickshire, and West Sussex where he is now retired. He’s been associated with several creative writing groups, and was instrumental in establishing the Swanbourne Poets group in Arundel in 2023. His poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies mainly in the UK, US and online. He has also published seven collections, most recently Velocities and Drifts of Winds (Dempsey & Windle, 2020), and Coffee at Cockburn’s (Felworth Books, 2023) which is a collaboration with Cherrie Taylor. Encounters with Oscar and Other Sequences will be published by QQ Press in the summer of 2024. ‘Pupil (c. 1950)’ will be the opening poem of the sequence. Geoffrey can be contacted at geoffreywinch@gmail.com
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