Jumbled Juices

The adolescent boy could not wait. In 10 days his boarding school would shut for the summer and he would be home with endless days of sunny freedom laid out before him, a patchwork quilt of time that was his. Fishing in Scotland, fudge in Scotland, playing with his friends around the deserted castle in Somerset where he lived, reading novels, football on the grass with his brothers, an eternity of upland upliftings stretching beyond a distant horizon.

His father arrived at the school gates. It was a bright sunny day. The drive would be an hour long over the Mendip Hills before descending onto the coast and his home in Clevedon. He settled into the passenger seat and, after pleasantries, his Dad broached the subject of his school report.  He already knew that he had been lazy, that he hadn’t put in his best effort. But, he thought, there were strange things that were happening within him which honestly interfered with his good intentions. He had no idea what they were but he found his inner self turbulent, unreasoning and very, very peculiar. He didn’t like it much but had been told that all teenage boys went through such strangeness.

“You know, Peter, your Latin report could be far better.”

No answer.

“I’ve bought a book called “Teach Yourself Latin”. I’ll help you through it. One hour a day. It will be fun.”

Inward groan. He slumped down in the passenger seat.  He knew that argument was pointless. He heard the prison door slam behind him, saw himself in a bare cell with nothing but a bed, a toilet and two books, one of which was a Latin Primer and the other a Latin self-help book, the biggest bar to his freedom. He saw his summer idyll disappearing in the distance, his bucolic dream gone. But, he rationalised, as they rose over the hills passed prosperous farms, stone dykes, ancient hedgerows, his father was a busy man, his medical practice was a major commitment. Peter  would have time to do what he wanted to do even if one of those precious hours was to be spent with the drudgery of declensions, the crucifixions of conjunctions.

Days passed  and he managed to get into some form of Latin routine albeit not without putative procrastination and pusillanimous whining. His father would spend some time each evening going through the most recent chapter ensuring that his grounding was solid enough to facilitate moving on to the next concept. He didn’t enjoy it much but he didn’t complain.

On one such evening after supper they were going through the requisite chapter when suddenly his father stopped in mid-appraisal, went back and reread something and was suddenly ecstatic.  Why anyone would be so excited by a Latin text was beyond the boy? But the unusual burst of exuberance piqued his interest. Dr. Wattie Davidson had found a printing error in Professor Frederick Kinchin-Smith’s text. Suddenly Peter was set another task. His father stood up, he paced excitedly, he disappeared from the room. Within five minutes he had returned with some letter writing materials, envelopes and paper. Peter viewed the arrival with alarm.

“You have to write to him”.

‘Who?’

Amazed look.

“Professor Kinchin-Smith, of course”.

Groan.

“Why?”

“About the printing error in his book. What else?”.

Aghast look, physical groan, rising whine.

‘Aaah, no, Dad, do I have to?”

“Yes, yes, Peter, come on, it’ll be fun.”

Gob-smacked, mouth open.  “Fun”. No it wouldn’t.  Suddenly mowing the lawn seemed attractive. Hanging out the washing for his mother looked like an excellent way to pass half an hour. “Fun”! Writing a letter to somebody he had never met, who wasn’t Julie Christie or Diana Rigg, was supposed to be a highlight of his day. His father was now focussed and giving him letter writing advice.

“Make sure you give him his proper title. It has to be ‘Dear Professor Kinchin-Smith’, after all  he’s not a long lost uncle and you are scribing to him in a professional capacity. Should it end ‘Yours faithfully’ or “Yours sincerely”, I can’t remember. I have a book on proper letter writing around here somewhere.”

And he was gone to the other room to rummage, to seek, to find and, Peter hoped, never to return.

After many pernickety postulations and several failed attempts the letter was finally written. An address was found. It was sealed within an envelope and Peter was instructed to walk to the post office the following day, buy a stamp and send it on its way.

The day dawned. Peter arose after his father had gone to work. His mother ushered him out of the door as soon as he had breakfasted. He set off along the path that skirted Dial Hill and the local cricket ground. The day promised to be dry and hot. The path had been neglected so that occasionally blackberry bushes draped an errant barb. Low enough, he trod on them to keep them down, high enough, he ducked under. Eventually he emerged on Dial Hill Road and saw that the Bristol Channel was clear of cloud and there were views of Wales in the distance.  He crossed and headed down the Zig Zag path to the Hill Road shopping area. He passed a rubbish bin and hesitated before it. Nobody would be any the wiser if he tossed out the letter and lied to his father . After all it was unlikely that he would receive a reply. But, something stopped him and he continued down to the Post Office at Six Ways. He bought his stamp and posted it.

Peter’s summer holiday was coming to an end. They had had their three weeks in Scotland. They had stayed with grandparents in Nairn and visited relatives in Aberdeenshire. His Dad, his two brothers  and he had fished . They headed south to home. Work for his dad and back to school for the rest of them.

Entering the family home there was a pile of mail on the doorstep. His dad picked it up. The three boys went out to the grass to play football, a chance to stretch their legs after a long journey.  They had not been playing long when their father appeared excitedly from the front door.

“Peter, Peter, he’s written back.”

He was called inside to open the letter from Professor Kinchin-Smith. His dad hovered over him as he slit the envelope.  Peter began to read.

“Dear Mr. Davidson,

                 The late Professor Kinchin-Smith would have appreciated etc, etc.”

Peter handed the letter to his dad and went out to play football with his brothers. He didn’t harbour too much resentment that he had been asked to write a letter to a dead man, indeed, he was wise enough to reflect that, in death, the good professor may have done him a favour. It now seemed unlikely that he would be asked to communicate with somebody in this manner ever again. There he was at Millfield School studying two ‘dead’ languages (He was also cramming Ancient Greek) and writing epistles to one ‘dead’ author of one of those ‘dead’ languages. There is a certain ironic juxtaposition there which hits home after about five decades worth of hindsight. But, Dear Reader, I’m not really sure what it is.

But, Friends, (and I can ‘but’ you many ‘buts’, I’m afraid), I have always had a liking for the written word whether that be reading or writing. Like all of you, I suspect, I suffer from the tyranny of technology but since a friend reintroduced the fountain pen to me, I have rediscovered the joy of handwriting. It has taken the absence of the jumbled juices that flow through teenage bodies to realise how lucky I was back then. With it has come a rediscovery of letter writing with the result that this last Christmas there have been many unsuspecting victims who have received a Davidson missive through their letter box.  Thankfully all recipients are still above ground and healthily happy!

“Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”

‘Nunc est bibendum’, Friends, just to show you that there is indeed some useful phraseology in a dead language!

Thanks for reading.