LISA TUTTLE MEETING THE MUSE It began, she fell in love, with the image of
a man. As a child she had seen his face for the first time in black and
white, hardly bigger than a postage stamp: young poet said a line below the
grainy dots of newsprint. So this was a poet, she thought, gazing at the
shadowy representation of dreamy eyes and shaggy hair, tinglingly aware that
something had entered and lodged in her heart, like the Snow Queen's love for
little Kay. Seven years later, in the poetry section of the college
bookstore, she picked up a book with the title The Memory of Trees. The
author's name, Graham Storey, seemed familiar; she glanced at the back cover
for a clue, and saw his face again. Something turned over inside her as she
stared at the picture of a poet no longer so young. Gone was the Beatles
hairstyle; his hair was cropped now. The eyes that stared out at something far
beyond her had a dreaminess contradicted by the fierceness of the rest of his
face, the thin, tight-lipped mouth, the jut of nose and chin. There was a
ferocity in him, but she sensed it would be directed more at himself than
anyone else. She sensed enduring sadness, a pain held tightly within. She
bought the book, of course, although her budget did not allow it; she could do
without a few meals if she had to. She read it straight through for the
first time that night, alone in bed, with an intensity of concentration she
seldom brought to her studies. She read each poem many times, until it was
part of her. Previously a lazy, erratic student, although bright, now, driven
by her heart, she became a scholar. The university library had a copy of his
first collection of poetry, but she also discovered poems, letters, even
essays and reviews he had written by combing through every poetry-related
publication of the past decade that she could find in the stacks. She followed
cross-references and hunches until she had compiled an impressive dossier on
him, not only his work and influences, but his life, the man himself. She
learned from a chance reference in one book that he had been in correspondence
with W.H. Auden -- and that his letters, Graham Storey's actual letters, were
in a collection in the Humanities Research Center on the University of Texas
campus -- and she, as a student, had access to them. She sat by herself in a
small, cool, well-lighted room with a box-file open on the table and picked up
the typewritten pages in her hands, raised them to her face, inhaling with
eyes closed. What might be left, besides the words, indentations and ink on
paper, after so many years? Cell fragments from the skin of his hands, a hair,
a trace of cigarette smoke. . . .? She stared and stared at the signature in
blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formality of his full name,
but the last two letters were signed simply G. How that initial reverberated,
how personal it became, how it haunted her! The fact that it was one of her
own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest a connection between them,
proof they had something in common. Her handwriting altered under the impress
of his. At first it was evident only in the way she wrote the letter G, but
soon she began to change the way she signed her name, aspiring to make her
signature more like his, and then, unconsciously (for she had too small a
sample of his to be able, consciously, to copy it) the rest of her handwriting
shifted in accord with her signature, becoming smaller, neater, more
precise. She could not have said, later, when the plan began, but it was only
natural, loving him as she did, to want to meet him, and to try to think of
ways. She entertained fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking
along the Drag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. The English
Department did sponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not
impossible that they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of
her poems, several of which had been published in various little magazines,
and be so impressed that he'd write her a letter. But she knew these were
childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent too long alone the vast, sad
truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how much she knew about him or how
much more she learned, it would bring her no closer to him while he continued
unaware of her existence. Time passed, and she went on loving him while she
got her degree and got a job. She went on living in Austin, in the same rather
run-down apartment building near the University, and continued to socialize
with the same sort of people, even sleeping with one or two of them, while
still dreaming of the faraway English poet and the very different life they
might have together. More than once she started a letter to him, but she
always drew back from mailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until
she could meet him face to face. Then, she felt sure, although she was
certainly old enough to know better, she would find a way to make him love
her. So she dreamed, and wrote, and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved
every penny she could toward the journey of a lifetime. Standing in Victoria
Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from jet-lag and lack of
sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a telephone book. The
sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar touch. Storey, G.
All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the problem of finding
herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city. The next day she set
off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it should be inhabited
by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the farflung tendrils of
London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the Metropolitan Line. His
street she had located in her newly purchased London A to Z and she felt
confident of finding her way there from the station. She had no plans for
what she would say or do after she had made her way to his door. She was
praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her and feel what she
had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face. It was a sunny day, but
breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. She felt glad for her
cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Even before she saw the
number and was sure, she had recognized his little white cottage with the
honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, and both her breath
and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for the reply. A woman opened
the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured, rather exotic
way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long dark hair. "Yes?" "Does Graham Storey
live here?" "Why?" "I wanted to see him." From the way the woman looked at
her, she had the sudden, despairing conviction that she would not be allowed
in. To this woman, whatever her connection to the poet, she was just some
person from Porlock. "I'd like to meet him. Please, won't you tell him, won't
you ask him -- not if he's working of course. Don't interrupt him. But if I
could come back later, I wouldn't take up too much of his time. . ." "You're
American, aren't you?" "Yes." "Here on a visit?" She nodded. "It's my first
time." "How do you know Graham?" "I don't. Not personally. Just his work.
I've admired it for so long..." The woman smiled suddenly. "Oh, you're one of
his readers! Well, he's not here right now, but-- would you like to come in? I
can show you round." This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. "Maybe
I'd better come back when he's in." "Oh, he won't mind me showing you round.
I'm sure he'd want me to. After you've come so far, I couldn't just send you
away again with nothing. Come in, come in." "Really, I'd like to meet
him." "Then you can come back again in a few days, when he's here. Better
ring first to make sure he's in. But as long as you're beret come in for a cup
of tea. Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?" It
would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she
wondered about the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her
hippy, gypsyish clothes -- cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver
bangles on her arms and a ring on every finger -- she was unlikely as either a
housekeeper or a secretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false
naivete," Are you Mrs. Storey?" The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have
introduced myself. I'm his girlfriend, Amy Carrick." There was something in
the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her head that made her suspect
she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet's presence. "Where is he now?
Will he be back soon?" "He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland.
He does that sometimes, when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how
poets are. Wouldn't you like to see his study, where the magic happens? Just
through here. This is his desk, this is his chair. He always writes long-hand,
on this sort of pad. There are his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of
biros, but he's taken his favorite pen away with him." It was like being
shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forced upon her and
never allowed a moment for thought Or a meaningful private discovery. Although
she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelieving everything the
woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems. Perhaps he
wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the back of the
desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been written at
that desk, with Graham Storey in that chair. "Go on, I can see you're dying
to try it. Go ahead, I won't tell him, sit down, see what it feels like to sit
in the poet's chair!" She backed away. "Could I use your bathroom,
please?" Amy led her to the other end of the small house, where the bathroom
was beside the kitchen. "I'll make us a pot of tea while you're freshening
up." She ran the water to mask any sound, and had a look around the bathroom.
There were no signs of a woman's occupancy, no makeup, moisturizer, or
tampons, not even a toothbrush in the mug beside the sink. Only one person
lived here, and he was away. "Why don't you take a seat in the lounge, make
yourself at home. I'll be in with the tea in a couple of minutes," called Amy
as she passed. There was one armchair and a sofa in the room called the
lounge, and by the evidence, a crumpled tissue and a paperback lying open on
the seat, it was obvious that the other woman had been sitting in the armchair
earlier. Perversely { "make yourself at home!"), she chose to sit on the
chair, lifting the book (A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman) and tissue
and setting them on the nearest surface, then settling herself, wriggling her
bottom deeper into the already flattened cushion. As she did so she felt
something small and hard under her. Probably a button or a coin, she thought
as she raised a buttock and slipped one hand beneath the cushion. She had
found a small gold key attached to a thin gold ring. The key seemed too small
and delicate to be of any practical use, so perhaps it was the sort of charm
that more usually would be worn as part of a bracelet or necklace.
Without thinking, she slipped it onto her ring finger and it was a perfect
fit. She turned it so that the key lay in the palm of her hand, and she closed
her hand around it just as Amy came in with a tea-tray. "Here we are! Milk or
lemon?" "Lemon, please." "I thought so. I've noticed Americans don't often
take milk in their tea. Graham never takes tea at all. He's a coffee drinker,
but it has to be strong." She craved all such details of his life out of
habit, but resented this woman for being the source. Anyway, she might be
lying. She certainly didn't live here with Graham as she had implied. "Have
you been to America?" "Me? Oh, no. I used to work in a care where we had a
lot of American tourists coming in, that's where I noticed. Graham says
noticing little details like that is really important in a poet." "Are you a
poet?" "I try," she said, casting her eyes down, more coy than modest. Then a
thought alarmed her, and her eyes came up quick and fierce. "Are you?" "Oh,
goodness no. I'm just a reader, I can't write." The lie soothed whatever dark
suspicion had briefly disturbed Amy's complacency. She knew she'd been right
in her reflexive, almost instinctive, lie. She didn't want this woman knowing
too much about her. When she left -- as soon as she had finished her tea --
she was still wearing the key-ring. Distrusting the other woman as she did she
couldn't bring herself to hand it over to her. She justified this with the
thought that all the other rings on Amy's hands were silver, so this was
unlikely to be hers. This might belong to Graham's real girlfriend, in which
case it would be much better to give it to him when she came back another day.
After all, it was his house she had found it in. But as soon as she was
outside on the street she was gripped by panic, realizing that however she
justified it, she had just stolen a piece of jewelry. She should have shoved
it back under the cushion again before she left -- what had possessed her to
put it on in the first place? The panic died away as she accepted the fact
that it was too late now, and she'd just have to try to explain herself when
she met the poet. Her hand made a fist around the fragile key as she walked
away. She fell asleep early and woke, disoriented but wide awake, just before
dawn. It was too early to have breakfast or go anywhere, nothing would be
open, and although she would have enjoyed just walking through the streets of
London she was afraid it wouldn't be safe. With a sigh she reached for the
book she had been reading the night before, but soon cast it aside. Her dreams
had been more interesting, unusually vivid and strange. There had been one
scene in particular . . . Thinking about it, she remembered something She'd
seen walking back from the poet's house in Harrow, and made a connection.
Words hung in her mind, glittering slightly, suggesting new connections,
conjunctions, interesting clashes. She scrabbled in her bag for her notebook
and a pen. By the time the maid knocked on her door several hours later she
had completed a poem, and she had the thrilling feeling that it was the best
she'd ever written. During the next few days she saw the sights of London and
she wrote. She wrote in the early mornings in her room, she wrote in cafes,
tea-shops, and restaurants in the afternoons, and in pubs or her narrow little
hotel room in the evenings. She had never known anything like this
overpowering burst of creativity, and she'd seldom been so happy. Writing
poetry had always been a struggle for her, and the results of that struggle
usually mediocre. Now everything was changed, as if a rusty old lock had been
oiled, the key turned smoothly and the door was finally, fully open. The poems
were not easy to write, they didn't spring into her head full-blown, she had
to work at them, shaping and re-shaping the initial idea, but it was like
working in clear daylight after bumbling around in the dark for so long. She
had something to say now, and the words to say it. The skill had come,
perhaps, from all the years of practice, of looking and listening reading and
trying to write, but why here, why now? She developed a superstition about
the key-ring, which had not been off her finger since she found it, but it was
not something she was able to put into words -- it would have sounded too
silly. Yet she had not gone back to Harrow-on-the-Hill, or even thought about
it, during her week of writing, and now, as she began to think about Graham
Storey again, feeling that old familiar tug of longing, the thought of having
to give the ring up, to give it back to him, was almost painful enough to make
her abandon her original plan to meet him. Finally she shut herself into a
telephone box and dialed the number she knew by heart although she'd never
used it. A man's voice answered, repeating the last four digits she had
dialed. Unable to think of any response, she hung up. She put all her recent
poems into a big brown envelope and set off for Harrow. She didn't know what
she would say, but she would let him see that she wore the ring, let him read
her poems--and then he would decide her fate. Standing before his green door,
her hand poised to knock, something else seemed to take over and decide for
her. Instead of knocking she bent down and leaned a little forward and pushed
the envelope containing her poems through the letter-slot. Feeling as free,
happy and satisfied as when she read through a poem she had just written and
found it good, she walked away from his door. Haft-way down the hill on her
way to the station she remembered her name was nowhere on any of the poems or
the envelope. He would have no idea who had written them, and of course none
at all of how to get in touch with her. But that didn't matter. She understood
now that she had written them for him, and now he had them. She would get in
touch with him after he'd had time to digest what she had written, and then
they would meet, two poets together at last. She had grown tired of city life
and the turmoil of London, so the next morning she took the train down to
Cornwall, dreaming of high white cliffs above the slate-blue sea, of quaint
fishing villages, of ancient stone circles and wild moorland ponies. The
weather was kind. She sat and wrote in the sun in the ruined castle
of Tintagel, and in quayside cafes in half a dozen Cornish fishing villages.
She lived each day -- walking, looking, eating and writing --without thinking
beyond the moment, and she was happy. When the weather turned and rain swept
in from the sea, she got back on the train. She visited Exeter, Bristol, Bath
and Brighton. And then one night, sitting in a pub in Brighton with a halfpint
of bitter and her notebook and pen, she saw two lovers, a few feet away from
her, holding hands and kissing. She felt a pang of loneliness as she
remembered how she had loved Graham Storey, yet never met him. She was
scheduled to fly back to Texas in just over a week. The next day saw her back
in Harrow. She pushed her latest poems through his letter-slot, but then,
instead of retreating to a hotel in London, she hauled her duffle bag further
up the hill where a pub called The King's Head had rooms for rent. She spent
the rest of the day wandering around the hill, browsing in antique shops,
gazing at the picturesque old buildings of Harrow School, and reading
inscriptions on tombstones in the churchyard. She had dinner in the hotel
restaurant, and afterwards settled herself in a quiet comer of the lounge bar,
having decided to spend the rest of the evening writing. She hadn't been
there long enough to set pen to paper when Graham Storey walked in. He wore
jeans, an opennecked white shirt, and a scruffy old tweed jacket going at the
elbows. He looked around with a gaze as wide-open and innocently curious as a
baby's and intercepted her stare. She was unable to look away. After a moment
his eyes left hers and he turned to the bar. She shoved notebook and pen away
in her bag. She was trembling. A few minutes later, as she had known he would,
he carried his drink away from the bar, across the room, and joined her at her
table. It was an ordinary sort of pick-up, with nothing poetic about it.
Probably, if she hadn't known who he was, she would have brushed him off --
she had no liking for the sort of casual encounters that began in bars -- but
if she hadn't known who he was, she would never have stared at him in that way
which encouraged, practically demanded, his attention. When they got around
to exchanging names, she did not reveal that she knew who he was. He touched
her left hand very lightly. "Married?" Her heart pounding very hard, she
turned the ring on her hand so that the key was visible. "No. You?" If he
recognized the ring he gave no sign. "Never. Women never stay with me for very
long. I can't blame them. I'm a selfish bastard, and my work comes before
a relationship. No woman likes to feel she's second-best, not even those who
seem the most sympathetic, even those originally drawn to me by the work."
He hesitated, as if expecting her question, and then explained, "I'm a poet,
you see, and one with a rather old-fashioned attitude toward the Muse. Oh,
don't feel embarrassed because you haven't heard of me! I'm quite successful
as a poet, but I know how little that means in this country today!" When
closing time was called, he gave her a look shifty and shy and invited
her home with him. This was the invitation she had longed for, the answer to
her dreams, yet she hesitated at the intrusion of an unwelcome memory. "Do you
have a girlfriend?" He gazed at her with unbelievably guileless eyes. "Not
yet. But I'd like to." He put out his hand and caught her fingers. "What do
you say?" She said yes. They were up most of the night talking and making
love. In the morning they went back to the King's Head to get her things, and
she moved in with him. It was only supposed to be for a week. But when the
time came to fly home, she forfeited her ticket and let the plane go without
her. Graham was overjoyed, but as soon as they had celebrated, he told her she
would have to find a place of her own. "I love you, but I can't live with
you-- how can I work when I'm always aware of you in the next room, and
wanting to make love to you? I can't live with anyone. Poets shouldn't." She
had never told him that she was a poet, too, although she continued to write,
often early in the morning while he still slept, and was producing a complete
poem nearly every day. Each one she left as a love-offering on his desk.
Neither of them ever spoke of this. She believed that she would be the
exception, the one woman he could live with, but obviously it would take him
some time to come around to this realization. In the meantime, she was not
going to be a drag on him in any way. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to
tap into the blackmarket world of low-paying jobs, despite the soaring
unemployment figures currently making headlines, and soon she was working as a
cook-waitress at a care in South Harrow. She found a room to rent nearby, but
spent little time in it. Now that she had a place of her own, Graham wanted
her in his place as much as possible, and they spent every night
together. Two months passed, then three. She was still happy, although no
longer writing. It might have been lack of time and energy -- it was
difficult, between her job and Graham, to ever get two consecutive hours to
herself--but she felt the real reason lay deeper, that the well of creativity
she had magically tapped into had run dry. Or maybe it was just the need to
write which had gone. She didn't really regret it. Once she had wanted to be a
great poet, but now she just wanted Graham to marry her. She'd be legal then,
she could give up the smell of stale fat frying that always clung to her hair
and clothes and get a decent job, she could give up that poky furnished room
in South Harrow and live honestly with her husband, maybe they would have a
baby . . . One day after work as she let herself in to Graham's house she was
aware of a changed,charged, atmosphere. The skin on her arms and back
prickled. She thought she smelled something in the entrance hall, like a
woman's perfume, but when she sniffed it was gone. She went to the kitchen to
make herself a cup of tea and found the kettle still warm from recent use. Yet
Graham never drank tea. The last of a pot of coffee, well-stewed by now, still
simmered away on the hot-plate of his coffee-maker. It was at that moment,
sensing the recent presence of some possibly threatening stranger, that she
realized the key-ring was gone. She clutched her left hand in her right,
tightly, as if she'd cut it and had to staunch the flow of blood. She couldn't
remember the last time she'd noticed it, but surely it had been there this
morning? More than three months, almost more than four, now, since she'd
first walked into this house, a stranger, and found the ring and put it on.
She had never taken it off since, she was sure she hadn't taken it off, and it
had always been a perfect fit, so how could she have lost it? She began to
search, frantically, crawling around on the kitchen floor, then rummaging
through the cushions of the sofa and the easy chair in the lounge, aware even
as she did so that she was more likely to have lost the ring at work. Maybe
she had taken it off to wash her hands and left it beside the
wash-room sink. She didn't find it, not that day and not ever, no matter
where she searched. Graham was no help. He said he hadn't noticed that she
wore a ring. When, indignantly, she described it, he said yes, he remembered
something like that, but he hadn't seen her wearing it for ages. He also
denied that he'd had a visitor that day, gazing at her with his unbelievably
guileless blue eyes, and she was afraid to insist. She had the sudden cold
unwelcome thought, as he kissed her gently and told her not to worry,
commented that she looked tired and perhaps should have an early night
tonight, that he had fallen out of love with her. She got up early the next
morning and tried to write. It was the old, nearly forgotten struggle in the
dark once again, and she knew, in the certainty of despair, that it would
always be like this from now on, since she had lost the ring. That evening he
took her out to dinner at the Indian restaurant at the bottom of the hill.
Over the nanns and the curry he told her he needed to go away for awhile, by
himself. He thought he'd probably go to the Lake District, or to the Highlands
of Scotland. He needed to do some walking and some thinking. The Muse hadn't
been answering his call lately; he was in a rut. And while on that subject, he
rather thought the two of them were in a rut as well; some of the magic had
gone. A little time apart would be good for them. When he got back, they'd see
how they felt. He'd give her a ring when he got back. She clung to the
fragile hope he offered, struggling to believe that when he got back all would
be well, that all was not yet lost. He made love to her that night as one who
performs a familiar task, his thoughts far away, yet she still tried to tell
herself that it was as good between them as it had ever been. The next
morning she woke before he did, and wondered as she lay there beside him if
there was any point in getting up and trying to write. She had just
about decided there was not when she heard something fall through the
letter-box. An image came into her mind as she heard the sound, of a large,
brown envelope containing a sheaf of unsigned poems. It was hours still before
the postman would come--this had to be a personal delivery, and the person who
delivered it, she knew with absolute certainty, would be wearing a gold
key-ring. Her name didn't matter, only her function as Graham Storey's muse.
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