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For the rest of April we fell into the pattern of Audie being at our place about three times a week. Sometimes I'd arrive home to find the two girls together; once Audie arrived, knowing that Rachel was at the library. It was, indeed, difficult. But it was also fun.
I had finished my paper for Modern Europe and had sat my in-class essay in Australian Politics. I'd taken a chance there and written on neither topic. Instead, I'd written an essay on how the next election was Abbott's to lose, that unless Gillard did something drastic, she would not gain enough public confidence to overcome the bad taste of her two defeats of Rudd: defeats by the party politicoes, not by the electorate. Rudd, by existing, was an example of her unpopularity; she needn't worry as to what he'd say or do: he'd do nothing, as he'd promised. And his keeping the promise would point a finger at her. Abbott just needed to be calm, confident and careful.
I hoped I'd get away with it. I'd received "high distinction" in Economics as a Social Science. Rachel had coasted through with high distinction in both Myth courses. She'd learn about Cultural Difference in a few days.
I was rereading David Cohen's Fear of Tennis. I had thought it very funny, but no one seems to have paid it much attention. It takes place in Perth. Les Murray said it was one of the best books of 2008, and I'm a fan of his.
Murray, a poet born in 1938, had gone to University of Sydney. He's been declared an Australian "national treasure."
My mobile rang. It was Rachel. "I'm going to hear a visiting poet read. You'll want to get here to hear him, too."
"Who is it?"
"Angus Sinclair from Wollongong."
"Really? I haven't seen him in – oh – 15 years."
"That's why I'm calling. I'll meet you in 20 minutes at the Cultural Centre, okay?"
"Right. I'll put on clean clothes."
Oh my, I thought. Angus Sinclair. Martha's Angus. [see "Aftermath"] Still at Wollongong. I got into a pair of chinos and a clean shirt and walked over, considering how small the universe was.
There were about two dozen in the audience. The three of us sat towards the rear of the room. A prof introduced Angus. Apparently he'd published a small book every five years. His hair and beard were still ginger, but visibly grey-white. He looked sad.
"Thank you. I'm glad to be here, and I glad to see you," he began. "I'm going to read a few poems and then pause and answer any queries you might have. I hope not to depress you overly, but these are dark, not joy-filled works. If you can't bear it, just go ahead and leave."
He read two. They were about loss and loneliness. He said: "This next one's somewhat longer." It was, it was solitary and bewildered. While most of it was relatively free in form, there was a repeating section of four lines that echoed again and again. I recognized it as the second stanza of Dunbar's "Lament,"
Our plesance here is all vain glory, /This fals world is but transitory, /The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:/Timor mortis conturbat me.
[Our pleasure here is all vain glory, /This false world is transitory, /The flesh is porous, and Fate is sly –/ Fear of death unsettles me.]
Angus was looking back at the great Scots poets of the late 14th and the early 15th centuries. But I could sense that he found no consolation. When he finished, there was silence. Then a young man in front raised his hand and was recognized.
"Mr. Sinclair, these are very different from your earlier verse. Might you comment?"
"Yes. Several years ago I suffered a great personal loss. That cloud has not lifted from me." Everyone was silent. After a minute or two, Angus said: "Let me read some more." He did. They were also quite heavy. They were good and well-constructed, but not entertaining.
"Thank you all for allowing me to expose my burden to you. I wish I could be more amusing. I suppose I'm now a dour Scot."
There was polite applause. One woman produced a copy of one of Angus' books and he duly signed it. Then the prof and we three were left.
"I wanted to say hello," I said. "But it may not be appropriate."
"Do I know you?"
"I'm Patrick Hollister, sir. It's been many years."
"Oh my God! Little Patrick!"
"Not quite so little any more. And this is my fiancee, Rachel. You may remember her."
"I do. I do. And this?"
"This is Audie, a close friend of ours. She pointed out your reading to Rachel and Rachel phoned me. Can we talk? Can we take you for dinner?" I turned to the prof. "I don't know what you've planned. Of course, you're welcome to join us."
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