Another Excerpt from
a Verse Memoir
I
Somebody must’ve heard me singing
'cause Fiddaman’s asked me to join the
choir.
And instantly, my ears start ringing;
my aching heart is set on fire.
I accept his offer in jubilation
without a second’s hesitation.
Intuitively, I know my voice
is my great gift. I have no choice.
Come autumn, he’ll attempt to teach me
how to play the violin.
My mother wants me to begin.
But ultimately, he'll beseech me
to tackle the trombone instead.
Mummy’s not pleased, it must be said.
II
The Head, Ted Foster, was a tyrant,
forever putting me in my place.
Perhaps it was a job requirement.
Perhaps he didn’t like my face.
But anyway, one summer morning,
for no good reason, without warning,
he moved me to the senior dorm.
The reception there was very warm:
they flogged me with their towels, then planted
nettles in my apple-pie bed,
and in my slippers, their bloodlust fed
by hearing I was disenchanted.
At 21, I’d take revenge
by dropping acid at Stonehenge.
III
A huge “FREE SCOTLAND” has been painted
up on a crag out in the sticks.
It stumps me, as I’m not acquainted
with bloody 1746
or any of Scotland’s background story
having been raised on Jackanory.
Practised now in wearing a mask,
I sense it's wisest not to ask,
not least because Daddy’s the driver,
and he’s a very important man,
struggling through the best he can,
himself a boarding school survivor.
Deep down, I somehow understand
I’m growing up in a foreign land.
IV
Later I’d read about the spider
Robert the Bruce observed in a cave
and identify with this outsider,
seeing that fortune favours the brave.
I’d learn to cope, be self-reliant,
in many ways become a giant.
Courage was never something I’d lack;
I always felt that I’d bounce back
thanks to my dad’s indoctrination
over the chessboard: he’d reply
to danger with “Never say die, say why!”
then find a brilliant refutation.
Quite a motto. His other one
was KISS: “Keep it simple, son.”
Duncan Gillies MacLaurin
