The day a cup of coffee saved my life

The day a cup of coffee saved my life

“I am going to tell you how a cup of coffee saved my life.”
Great Uncle Mostyn extended his wrinkled hand and selected a piece of Turkish delight from the silver box on the table. He had changed in the ten years since I had last seen him.His hair was still coiffed in silver swirls which gave him the air of an elegant meringue, but no amount of rouge and powder could rejuvenate a face seamed and pouched with age.
“You’re not paying attention, dear boy”
“I am, uncle- honestly”
But in truth I wasn’t. I was looking out at the garishly wonderful South American sunset which flooded the horizon beyond his shoulder. I was listening to the rustling of palm trees and the asthmatic breathing of Uncle Mostyn’s parrot, Sewell.
Uncle Mostyn tapped the table pettishly with his fan.
“Edwyn ! I am an old man.I am ninety eight years old. It is therefore quite probable that I am dying. I wish to relate an episode in my life when I faced a man with a gun. You might do me the courtesy of at least appearing to listen !”
“I’m all ears, uncle”
“A disfigurement which could easily have been avoided if your mother had paid attention to me immediately after your birth,” snapped Uncle Mostyn. He steepled his fingers and stared moodily at Sewell, who was taken with a sudden bout of coughing, like a tubercular old tramp.
“It happened,” he said suddenly, “In 1929. I was working in the beverage department of a large store in London-a store which still has Royalty among its clientele. It was a wonderful education for a boy not quite twenty years old. During the day I learned the provenance of every tea, coffee, infusion or tisane which graced our shelves. To this day I remember the peculiar properties of a coffee bean grown only on the slopes of a volcano in Uzbekistan. At night…I learned…other things altogether.
Which was why, in the late summer of that year, I had to leave England in a hurry, following an unfortunate incident with the Bishop of Wolverhampton’s chaplain and a Sunday newspaper. I took a steerage passage to New York where I landed…almost legally…on October 23rd.”

His voice was as soft and hypnotic as the gentle susurration of the waves as they crumpled onto the beach behind him.
“I spent my first week in America at the Algonquin Hotel, drinking malt whisky and eating oysters.”
“And after that ?”
“I had no money so they threw me out on the street. Americans have no sense of style.”
Uncle Mostyn’s old, cracked face suddenly clouded with terrors more than half century old.
“It was not an agreeable time….New York winters are particularly unpleasant…it is a damp, biting cold that rolls in off the river…..for three nights I slept in an alleyway behind a bakery…it was warmer there, you see…but the smell of fresh bread was torture….I wandered from humiliation to…humiliation, getting colder and hungrier by the day. “
His eyes closed. Outside the evening was turning to blue velvet.
“What happened then ?” I whispered.
He was awake in an instant.
“I smelled coffee.”
“And that saved your life ?”
Uncle Mostyn looked at me pityingly.
“Of course ! Even the aroma of a good coffee is enough to revitalise the spirits.”
He held out a small chunk of Turkish Delight to Sewell , who took it carefully in his hooked beak and then began to suck on it noisily.
“This,however, was not a good coffee.” Uncle Mostyn continued “ It smelled like yesterday’s grounds boiled up for the third time…but I was desperate. I stumbled down some stairs. I saw a sign- “Sullivan’s Coffee Lounge” – I pushed open the door, greedy for warmth…”
“And then ?”
“I collapsed on the floor,”he said , “It was the voice of an angel who brought me back to this Vale of Tears.”
“What did the Angel say ?” I asked.
“’ Give the poor sap a cuppa cawfee’ “ said Uncle Mostyn in an execrable Irish accent. “ I had encountered the proprietor, Mrs Sullivan ”
The geography of my uncle’s face relaxed with the memory.The high places were levelled and the valleys raised. For a moment he could have been a youthful seventy five.
“ She picked me up so easily, I might have been a feather pillow- then put me into a chair and placed a steaming mug into my aching grasp.”
“It must have tasted wonderful, “ I said.
“It was appalling. Quite the worst cup of coffee I have ever tasted. I told her so, muttering through numbed and frozen lips – ‘This is not coffee. This was made from something which probably contained powdered owl droppings. It might have been shown a coffee bean once- as something to aspire to.’
“And what did she say ?”
“The poor bastard’s delirious. Stick him on the couch and throw a blanket over him. I’ll chuck him out in the morning.”
“And did she ?”
“Good gracious ! No ! When I told her that my name was Seamus O’Neill she clasped me to her ample bosom and begged me to stay on and work behind the bar.”
“But your name isn’t……”
“Of course it isn’t !” said Uncle Mostyn testily,” I played on her good nature- as she later played on mine. I started off tending bar- which meant pouring shots of diluted lighter fuel for customers crazy enough to think that it was gin. I made coffee for the ones with more intelligence- bad coffee at first- that was all I had to work with- and then- later on- good coffee – Ethiopian Chestnut and Guatemala Gran Reserva…that kind of thing. To start with our clientele consisted of bored clerks with tight celluloid collars, plumbers and janitors.. if we were fifty dollars up on Friday night it was a good week. But then word went round and we began to get bohemians…socialites who would drop in for a bath-tub gin and a decent coffee after seeing a Broadway show. Ma Sullivan left more and more of the business to me- it gave her more time to indulge her little hobbies.”
“Which were ?”
Uncle Mostyn screwed up his face into a mass of wrinkles.
“She played the horses. An Irish vice, I believe. But we had an equal division of labour, Ma Sullivan and I – I earned the money and she spent it. We were doing well- making two, sometimes three hundred dollars a week and yet…”
Uncle Mostyn stared glassily at the wall. For a long moment I thought he had died, or at least had a fit.
“And yet..” I prompted.
My uncle re-entered his ancient body with a noticeable jolt.
“And yet there was never any money to pay for the booze, or the coffee or a painter to give the walls a lick of paint…and she was always talking to Joe Lezzard.”
Uncle Mostyn leaned forward intently, his eyes the colour of lightly poached eggs
.
“ Joe Lezzard was a regular. He came in two or three times a week and Ma Sullivan had decreed he could have whatever he wanted- on the house. I liked him because he dressed well- a neat three piece suit in dark grey and a silk tie. Every Friday night he and Ma would retire to the back room; I guessed the intercourse that took place there was financial, rather than carnal as Ma Sullivan weighed three hundred pounds and had a face like a broken shovel. But Ma ‘s private life scarcely peeked over my horizon. I was young, I was good looking, and for the first time since I arrived in America…I had money in my pocket.

And then, one morning in early summer, I returned to the bar after a night of…diversion…to find the door open and unlocked. This was not just unusual- it was unheard of. Ma had three locks on the door and she and I were the only people who had keys. Cautiously, I went inside. The air smelled of sunshine and last night’s cigarettes. The place was empty.And then I heard an indistinct noise from the back room. I moved softly behind the counter and picked up the baseball bat Ma kept there for customers who were reluctant to pay. The door to the back room was ajar….

“Hi Seamus !” said Joe Lezzard , “ I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be you.”
Joe was standing by the open safe .He held out his hand and I noticed it contained a large black revolver. The muzzle stared at me like a malevolent eye.I suddenly realised that I had lost the power of speech; my throat felt as though it was filled with sawdust.
“How about you put the bat down,” Joe suggested, “ We don’t want no accidents, do we…”
I laid the baseball bat slowly on the floor.
“Now back off,” said Joe, “Let’s you and me go sit in the front parlour- and we can have a little talk.”

Joe sat down at one of the tables. The gun gestured me to do the same.
“Now the first thing I gotta do,” said Joe, “is give you this.”
He reached into his inside pocket with one hand while the gun watched me warily. He pulled out an envelope and threw it on the table.
“Read it,” said Joe, “It’s got your name on the front.”
It was a note from Ma.
“DEAR SEAMUS ,” it said in unsteady capitals, “MY PORE FATHER IS ON HIS DEATHBED IN DONEGAL IRELAND AND I GOTTA BE WITH HIM. LOOK AFTER THE BAR TIL I GET BACK.IM SO SORRY MY DEER BOY IMELDA SULLIVAN”
“There must be some mistake, Mr Lezzard,” I gasped.
Joe shook his head.
“You’re a nice guy, Seamus,” he said, “I guess you’re a fruit but that don’t matter. You deserve to be told the truth.Truth One is this- I work for a fine gentleman called Mr Dillaglio who ensures that the business premises in this part of town remain undisturbed by fire ,theft or mayhem.That’s why I drop in from time to time- to collect a small weekly payment from Ma Sullivan to ensure same.With me so far ?”
I nodded.
“Truth Two is that Ma Sullivan owes Mr Dillaglio- owes him big – like eight weeks without so much as a dollar. Does this sound right to you `?”
I shook my head violently.
“Seamus- I gotta tell you. Ma Sullivan has been using Mr Dillaglio’s money to back the ponies. Using- and losing. Ain’t that a shameful thing ?”
“Absolutely awful,” I gabbled.
“Truth Three is that Ma Sullivan is about as Irish as you are. Her real name’s Ellie Foston- Canadian- she was seen catching a train north at two thirty seven this morning. I guess she’ll be over the border by now.”
I thought I could see the tiniest glimmer of light at the end of a long tunnel.
“Excuse me…Joe…” I said, “But I wonder if Mr Dillaglio would be interested in taking over the business..?”
Joe seemed to give this idea serious consideration.
“Yeh, “ he said at last, “Mr Dillaglio would be very interested in so doing.”
I was beginning to feel a little more confident.
“Perhaps,” I ventured, “He would like to retain the current bar manager …”
Joe shook his head.
“Mr Dillaglio is a man of great patience and understanding…but he has his reputation to consider. An example has to be made…you understand..”
He reached forward and patted my hand.
“But Ma Sullivan has gone….” I protested.
“Exactly,” said Joe, “Which leaves …you…”
I knew then, with a terrible,cold certainty, that I could be dead within the next few minutes.
“But you can’t !”
I lurched to my feet and started to move towards the street door.
“Don’t move !”
Joe was on his feet. The gun was staring hungrily at my forehead.I heard the oiled click as he pulled back the hammer.
“Now sit down…I don’t want to kill you here…it’s a messy business…cleaning bills to consider.”
When you are staring into the black mouth of death, all fear leaves you. A profound calm flooded through my body. I felt clever, resourceful, intensely alive.
“Perhaps,” I said, “I could have a cup of coffee before…”
“Sure !” said Joe, “We got time. Make me one while you’re about it- but no funny business.”
I went behind the counter and switched on the coffee machine; I reached for the tin of ground coffee and then stopped….”
Uncle Mostyn paused. Outside the tropical night glittered like a cheap mirror ball.
“You recall I mentioned a certain coffee,” he said, “Grown on the slopes of a volcano in Uzbekistan.”
“Yes.”
“It is a curious bean. Used by the Uzbeki shaman to contact the spirit world, it has a double effect. First it sedates, and then…if taken in the correct strength, provokes visions.”
Uncle Mostyn leered.
“I had bought a small packet the week before- as a trial. I made two cups of Uzbeki- one heavily watered for me and one – double strength- for Joe, and took them back to the table.
Joe took a slug of coffee.
“That’s good,” he said, “You make a good cup of coffee. I’m really sorry about this.If it was up to me I’d just break your legs and take whatever’s in the till- so I can say I’ve earned my crust.But MrDillaglio needs a corpse. He’s got to have a photo in the paper – “Bar tender slain in coffee house slaughter” – it keeps the troops in line. He is a very demanding man, Mr Dillaglio .”
“Life must be very difficult for you,” I said carefully, studying his face for signs of somnolence.
“ Then there’s my wife Delia- always on at me for a new coat and when can we change the car and when am I going to get a promotion. The protection business is very precarious, you know. You got bad debtors to deal with as well as other mobs muscling in on your territory and then there’s the image – I mean you got to look smart. If you’re going to ice some guy it’s only fair to make sure that the last thing he sees is a decent suit.”
Joe’s face was misted with sweat.
“Tell me one thing-” he said ,” Have you got any brothers ?”
“No”
“Then what’s that bastard doing behind the bar ?”
He swung the revolver round and pulled the trigger. Two bottles of gin disintegrated into glittering rain.
“Jesus ! “ said Joe, “Three of them now ! Which one is you ?”
I dived under the table as he blasted the empty room. At last I could hear nothing except the click of the empty cylinder as Joe pulled the trigger over and over again. At last there was nothing but silence and the smell of cordite and gin.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Joe was kneeling beside me. His pupils were the size of pinheads.
“Excuse me, “ he said, “But have you got any more ammo? I seem to have run out”
Then he collapsed beside me on the floor and started to snore.

It was time to move on. I went back to my room and collected my stuff. Then I went back to the bar. Joe was still fast asleep. I thought for a moment about leaving him there. Then I found a trolley out back that we used for shifting crates of gin around. I loaded Joe aboard and dropped him off on the front doorstep of the Trappist monastery down the street. He did very well there , I believe, and became a respected theologian in later years.

By two o’clock I was on a train headed south. There was a song at that time – one line of it was going round and round my brain…..”

The tropical night was filled with tiny noises- the hush of waves on the beach, the wind rustling in the palm trees. My uncle’s face hung in the light of the hurricane lamp like a old oil painting, cracked and dusty with age.

“What was it ?” I asked.
Uncle Mostyn’s pale eyes flickered with amusement.
“ The song ? Something about there being an awful lot of coffee in Brazil.”

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John Donne 1572-1631

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Look at this man. Face like an axe blade, a sensualists’s mouth. What is he looking at, out of the frame ? A pretty woman ? Probably.

This is John Donne .
The shape-shifter. Born a Catholic in a time of persecution, he knew family members who had been hanged, drawn and quartered. Around the time this portrait was painted, he was toying with aetheism- which was also punishable by death. Later in his life he became an Anglican and ended up Dean of St Paul’s. He was The Man Who Loved Women ( “a great frequenter of plays..and ladies” said a contemporary.) His erotic poetry is so powerful, you have the feeling he’s just jumped out of bed to write it down, leaving the girl asleep under the covers.

When he did marry, he made an unfortunate choice- the niece of his master, Sir Thomas Egerton, who did not approve. Donne was put in prison until the marriage was proved valid. They were banished to to a village in Surrey, where he scratched a living as a lawyer, working at the kitchen table as a pack of children played around his feet.

Then he began a second career….this time as an Anglican priest. In 1615 he was made a Doctor of Divinity at Cambridge and by 1621, he was Dean of St Paul’s.

By this time, the libertine had turned into … a kind of mystic. The erotic passion of his early years had turned into something deeper. You could say that he began a love affair with God- full of joy and doubt, pleadings and exulations. His religious poetry still has the same passion and drive, intellectual toughness and theatricality- but he’s talking to, shouting at…God.

Remember that I said the two main subjects of poetry are sex and death ?

He did both, often at the same time.

Next time we’ll look at one of his sonnets. It’s tricky, contradictory, and hard to understand.

So be there.

Right ?

Who’s first on the desert island ?

UA Fanthorpe.

She didn’t like her first name, which was Ursula, and was hence always called “UA.” She taught English at Cheltenham College for 16 years and then left to be a secretary and receptionist at Bristol hospital. It was there that the patients, their anonymous suffering and  quiet lives, provoked her to write.

She writes about “ the permanently rickety, elaborate structures of living” which we all create to maintain our lives and relationships. Her style is modest ,deceptively  simple and shockingly powerful. She describes a life of out-patient appointments,visits to X-ray, family visits, and ultimately death- the last scene of all.

“…..there the actor lies

Alone, and in the long dim hours explores

Dissolving senses .”

and

“ Patient, she sat in a wheelchair

in an x-ray department waiting

for someone to do something to her”

Notice the ambiguity of “ patient”, the pause after “waiting” and the hopelessness of “someone” and “something.” And what about the simple language, which gives you just enough to see the picture, but leaves you, the reader, to create the emotion behind it.

But you would  be wrong to think that her work was relentlessly glum. She had a sharp sense of humour. She  inhabits other times and places, explores territory you think you’re familiar with, and gives it a twist, releasing something fresh and funny as she does so.

She describes Christ, frustrated at his dim disciples, trying to get them to understand what he means:

“I am tattooing God on their makeshift lives” he says, “ My Keystone Cops of disciples , always/ running absurdly away or lying.”

She conflates the Royal Family and the Archers:

“They’re loyal to their fans, they never stray.

Death changes the cast list, but not the play.”

And sometimes she writes something  so simple, so powerful, that creeps up on you and hits you in the solar plexus.

Have a look here.

http://lucidsavant.livejournal.com/166527.html

This is one of her best. I challenge you to read it aloud without filling up

Step right this way, UA- the palm trees are over here.

A cold song for a cold night

Ok-  this week we’re going to the  Boss, the Top Banana, the Mensch- we’re going to look at something by William Shakespeare.

Arrgh ! No ! Not Shakespeare thingy  ! He’s old fashioned and boring and you can’t understand him and he’s like…just dull !

Silence oik ! And listen to this:

What do you think ?  Lovely reading but isn’t the poem a bit olde worlde ? A bit twee ?

A bit chocolate box ? Think again

Line 1 OK- I concede- an average opening line for a winter poem. We’ve all seen icicles

Line 2. Dick the shepherd tells us this a rural poem. Why is he blowing on his nail ? Because he hasn’t got any gloves ! Because he’s poor and cold and his finger ends hurt like hell.

Line 3. We get the first hints of a household here. There’s Dick the shepherd and Tom the servant- and Tom is carrying logs in because they’re going to be needed on the fire.

Line 4. It’s so cold the milk is solid. We’re starting to get a Breughel winter scene here.

Line 5. Key words are “nipped” -you feel as though the blood is freezing in your veins. And “foul” – the roads are impassable

Line 6. The owl. Not the most cheerful of birds- then why “ merry” ? Are we getting the feeling that The Boss is being a bit ironic here?

I won’t do a full line-by-line run through of the next verse. I’d only point out (a) the breathless use of “ and” throughout the poem. He can’t wait to tell the story of our house. (b) there’s a cast of characters here- the parson who can’t be heard because of the coughing, Marian, and greasy Joan- who’s probably the kitchen maid. And  why is she keeling (scraping) the pot ? Because she’s hungry and she’s scraping out the last bit of meat or dried on gravy, that’s why.

So the “merry note” of the owl isn’t so merry after all.

Far from being a jolly, rilly-me-dilly-me-and-a raspberry -o song, this is a harsh portrayal of a household on the breadline, in the middle of a filthy, cold winter.

Difficult ? Not really. Bland ? Certainly not.Powerful ? I think so.

There, that didn’t hurt, did it ?