The other day a poet friend of mine wrote a poem about me. I didn’t even know he wrote poetry so it was totally unexpected, but there it was on page 27 of his new collection. His carer had put the slim booklet of verses in the post to me with a note.
I’ve described him as a friend but that’s misleading. More accurately, he is an acquaintance, a colleague I once worked with on a project to do with the rehabilitation of prisoners. We hadn’t met for over twenty years but every Christmas we’d exchanged cards. I knew from his scribbled messages that he’d had a tough time over the years; heart problems, diabetes, new hips, new knees and probably much more.
I never expected to meet him again so our chance encounter took me by surprise. I didn’t recognise him at first, shuffling cautiously along on sticks, looking remarkably like those road signs warning motorists that old people might be crossing. If we had planned to meet we could have agreed to wear funny hats or a carnation in our button holes or something distinctive. As it was, we bumped into each other — literally, we were halfway across the Bay of Biscay and the ship was rolling in choppy seas — waiting for a lift to take us up to the restaurant.
He lurched towards me and I put out both arms to save him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘A bit unsteady on my pins I’m afraid. The Bay of Biscay up to its usual tricks.’
We’d last met waiting to be ushered into the presence of the Prisons Minister, a crucial meeting for which we had prepared carefully. He’d arrived late looking dishevelled and to my astonishment fell into my arms sobbing. Naturally I’d asked him what was wrong, at least expecting to hear that his mother had dropped dead that very morning. But, with his face buried in my shoulder (I’m quite a bit taller than him), he told me that his wife was taking the family dog to the vet where it was almost certainly going to be put down. I suppressed the urge to tell him to pull himself together, that he was putting a crucial meeting with the Minister in jeopardy and that the wellbeing of thousands of prisoners was at stake. But instead I recall patting his back comfortingly and asking him something banal like how old the dog was (fourteen I seem to recall).
The ship continued to lurch. He peered at me through thick spectacles. ‘Surely I know you, aren’t you Richard? Do you remember me, Barrie from the Prisoners’ Trust? Must be over twenty years since we met. How are you?’
I have to admit that my heart sank. Meeting this man again so early in the voyage was problematic. I’d have to spend the next couple of weeks working out how to avoid him. I’d never warmed to him and the last time we’d met had been an embarrassing shambles. Fleetingly I toyed with the idea of pretending to be someone else but, like a fool, I let the moment pass and played it straight.
‘Barrie? Well, this is a surprise.’ The ship lurched suddenly and we had difficulty shaking hands. ‘Are you travelling alone?’
‘No, I’ve a carer. She’s feeling seasick. How about you?’
Did he wink at me? I couldn’t be sure.
The lift arrived full of people going up to breakfast, with just enough space for us to squeeze in. A man in shorts, covered in tattoos and wearing a baseball cap, called out, ‘All aboard. Next floor, ladies lingerie.’ A few people groaned, as if to say, we’ve got a right one here.
With some difficulty we reached the restaurant, clutching the rails along the corridor for support, while the ship continued to roll. We stood in a queue waiting to be seated. In the distance, we heard the sound of breaking crockery.
‘I read about your knighthood. Well deserved,’ I said insincerely. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Yes, the least they could do after all those years hitting my head against a brick wall,’ he replied. We lapsed into an awkward silence.
‘Do you still have a dog?’ I asked him for want of something to say but he was distracted, busy clutching the rail with one hand and holding his sticks in the other.
‘Perhaps I should have stayed in my cabin,’ he muttered, swaying unsteadily. ‘This doesn’t feel at all safe.’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I’m surprised they’ve let us oldies out. You’d think the captain might have told us to stay put.’ The ship made another sudden lurch and, from the restaurant beyond the queue ahead of us, we heard a woman scream and the sound of more crockery smashing.
‘I’m going back,’ Barrie announced. ‘This isn’t sensible.’
As soon as he’d said this, the captain’s voice came out of a grill in the ceiling above our heads, apologising for the rough conditions and advising us to stay in our cabins until further notice. The queue outside the restaurant dispersed as people, muttering to themselves, staggered back towards the lifts. Reluctantly I accompanied Barrie in case he needed any assistance, even though I’d have much preferred to find my own way back without falling over. When we eventually reached his cabin, he fumbled in his pocket and dropped the plastic card that opened the door. I retrieved it for him.
‘Thanks, old chap. I look forward to having a proper chat when things have steadied.’
I went back to my cabin on the deck below Barrie’s where Rose was still where I’d left her: in bed. Very sensibly, she’d decided not to risk being vertical.
‘I knew you’d be back soon,’ she said. ‘I heard the captain’s announcement.’
I flung myself on the bed beside Rose. ‘You’ll never guess, I’ve just bumped into Barrie from the Prisoners’ Trust. He’s aged and was looking much the worse for wear. I hardly recognised him.’
‘Really? What an extraordinary coincidence! That must have been awkward. Does he know about me?’
‘I don’t think so. Things were so chaotic out there that we didn’t really have time to talk. He told me he has a carer and that was about it. Trouble is, we’ll have to work out how to dodge him for the rest of the trip.’
When we finally limped into Lisbon a fleet of ambulances were lined up on the dockside. From our balcony, we watched some passengers being stretchered down the gangplank. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I spotted Barrie being loaded into the back of one of the ambulances. His head was heavily bandaged, and he was accompanied by a much younger woman who looked oriental.
Rose said, ’ Surely, that’s Barrie. Has he still got that silly goatee beard?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t really notice.’
‘Yep, I’m sure that’s him,’ said Rose. ‘The poor man must have had a fall. The last time I saw him was when he visited my cell and made condescending remarks about my art.’
‘Yes, we had no idea he was in your cell and left the wing without him. We had to come back and rescue him. I remember people jeering and one of the women calling after him, ‘’If brains were taxed, mate, you’d get a rebate’’.’
Rose and I enjoyed the rest of our trip around the Med. The seas were calm, it was pleasantly warm and we didn’t have to spend our time avoiding Barrie and his prying questions.
We’d been back home for a month or so when a letter arrived from Barrie, apologising for his sudden disappearance — he’d fallen and hit his head on the wash hand basin and been concussed — and saying how sorry he was that we’d not had the opportunity to have a proper chat. A postscript said: ‘I’m wondering why you asked me if we still had a dog.’
I delayed replying, not wishing to offer him any encouragement and not sure whether he really wanted to be reminded about how his dog’s demise torpedoed our carefully rehearsed meeting with the Minister.
Another month passed before the slim booklet of Barrie’s verses arrived. A note from his carer explained that Barrie was in hospital having had another fall, but that he’d particularly asked her to send me his latest collection and referring me to page 27. It was about a prison governor who’d had to resign because he’d fallen in love with one of the inmates.
The old devil had known about us all along.
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