mayflowers blooming on Brecon, and of a love once found and lost on the road between Merthyr Tydfil and Ebbw Vale.
Glamorgan sang.
His voice was an alto sounding tones of purity and simplicity which swung his audience into rapport with his sentiments, and, strangely, Ward felt himself drawn by the singer’s tenderness and delight in simple things. However, Ward parted company with Glamorgan after they reached Ebbw Vale.
Glamorgan sang a ballad, about a lass picking berries in the bracken, which he announced as his own composition, but Ward recognized the melody from an old English folk song, “Strawberry Fair.” Ward’s sense of fairness so turned him against the otherwise pleasant lyrics that he failed to applaud the performance.
At the finale, Glamorgan sang to his lute another “original” composition:
My lute, awake! Perform this last
Stanza which we have now begun,
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
In a ritualistic bow, Glamorgan bent before his audience, and, in the silence before applause, indignation wrenched a shout from Ward’s throat.
“Your galley is loaded with forgetfulness, Glamorgan. That envoy was written by Thomas Wyatt, 1503-1542.”
The dimming spotlight was focused on the bowed head of Glamorgan, who raised his luminous eyes toward his heckler’s voice. His lips twisted and his alto screeched in accents which Ward, who had spent a sabbatical at Cambridge, recognized as Liverpudlian.
“Up your bloody arse, perfesser!”
Then all was dark. Ragged applause arose and died with the rising lights, and Glamorgan had vanished.
“You ruined his act, Al,” Freddie said. “Miss Frost is up yonder, watching. If it hadn’t been dark, she’d have you whiteballed from one end of the Strip to the other.”
“Not unless management countenances literary and artistic theft,”
“Wow,” said Dolores.
Freddie nodded to Ward, and said, “Hey, Margie, I learned a new Afro dance. Like to do it?”
“Groovy.”
As the jukebox blared again and the lights started to spin, Freddie led Margie onto the dance floor.
Ward stretched lazily and turned to Dolores.
“I had a bad trip down from Atascadero and I’ve got to spin rubber back to my pad. Could I see you home on my BMW 280?”
“BMW 280, wow!” Dolores was dreamy with excitement. “But my papa wouldn’t like it.”
“You have to declare your independence sooner or later.”
“But he’s coming to get me.”
“Maybe I could talk to him. I’m not a bad sort.”
“Maybe you could, Al. You talk different.”
“Let’s try it, anyway,” Ward rose and took her arm.
Through flickering darkness where strobes danced to the vibes from the juke, he led her into the quietness of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the steady light from the wall tapers, Ward looked at his prize. She seemed to float, her feet barely touching the carpet, as if helium filled her breasts.
He said, “Dolores, you have a lovely face, and you walk with buoyant grace.”
“He’s been to the John,” she said, explaining his inadvertent rhyme to herself. “They always talk like that when they’ve been to the John… But he said you had a pretty face… Nobody ever says nice things about my face… He’s not a teat man, Dolores.”
A mild touch of schizophrenia, Ward decided. A spin in the night air would be just the thing to bring her all together again. He could understand her feeling. He had felt a schism within himself after their communal smoke.
At the checkroom, he picked up his helmet and enjoyed the comments on his pink suede shirt when he tipped the girl a dime.
Outside, the moil of sidewalk people again formed a lane for them, but now the youngsters looked on Ward with sadness. From somewhere, he picked up a feeling of final things and held Dolores closer to him, thinking perhaps his mood sprang from a subconscious fear of hepatitis.
As they turned up the side street, Dolores asked, “What day is
Glamorgan sang.
His voice was an alto sounding tones of purity and simplicity which swung his audience into rapport with his sentiments, and, strangely, Ward felt himself drawn by the singer’s tenderness and delight in simple things. However, Ward parted company with Glamorgan after they reached Ebbw Vale.
Glamorgan sang a ballad, about a lass picking berries in the bracken, which he announced as his own composition, but Ward recognized the melody from an old English folk song, “Strawberry Fair.” Ward’s sense of fairness so turned him against the otherwise pleasant lyrics that he failed to applaud the performance.
At the finale, Glamorgan sang to his lute another “original” composition:
My lute, awake! Perform this last
Stanza which we have now begun,
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
In a ritualistic bow, Glamorgan bent before his audience, and, in the silence before applause, indignation wrenched a shout from Ward’s throat.
“Your galley is loaded with forgetfulness, Glamorgan. That envoy was written by Thomas Wyatt, 1503-1542.”
The dimming spotlight was focused on the bowed head of Glamorgan, who raised his luminous eyes toward his heckler’s voice. His lips twisted and his alto screeched in accents which Ward, who had spent a sabbatical at Cambridge, recognized as Liverpudlian.
“Up your bloody arse, perfesser!”
Then all was dark. Ragged applause arose and died with the rising lights, and Glamorgan had vanished.
“You ruined his act, Al,” Freddie said. “Miss Frost is up yonder, watching. If it hadn’t been dark, she’d have you whiteballed from one end of the Strip to the other.”
“Not unless management countenances literary and artistic theft,”
“Wow,” said Dolores.
Freddie nodded to Ward, and said, “Hey, Margie, I learned a new Afro dance. Like to do it?”
“Groovy.”
As the jukebox blared again and the lights started to spin, Freddie led Margie onto the dance floor.
Ward stretched lazily and turned to Dolores.
“I had a bad trip down from Atascadero and I’ve got to spin rubber back to my pad. Could I see you home on my BMW 280?”
“BMW 280, wow!” Dolores was dreamy with excitement. “But my papa wouldn’t like it.”
“You have to declare your independence sooner or later.”
“But he’s coming to get me.”
“Maybe I could talk to him. I’m not a bad sort.”
“Maybe you could, Al. You talk different.”
“Let’s try it, anyway,” Ward rose and took her arm.
Through flickering darkness where strobes danced to the vibes from the juke, he led her into the quietness of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the steady light from the wall tapers, Ward looked at his prize. She seemed to float, her feet barely touching the carpet, as if helium filled her breasts.
He said, “Dolores, you have a lovely face, and you walk with buoyant grace.”
“He’s been to the John,” she said, explaining his inadvertent rhyme to herself. “They always talk like that when they’ve been to the John… But he said you had a pretty face… Nobody ever says nice things about my face… He’s not a teat man, Dolores.”
A mild touch of schizophrenia, Ward decided. A spin in the night air would be just the thing to bring her all together again. He could understand her feeling. He had felt a schism within himself after their communal smoke.
At the checkroom, he picked up his helmet and enjoyed the comments on his pink suede shirt when he tipped the girl a dime.
Outside, the moil of sidewalk people again formed a lane for them, but now the youngsters looked on Ward with sadness. From somewhere, he picked up a feeling of final things and held Dolores closer to him, thinking perhaps his mood sprang from a subconscious fear of hepatitis.
As they turned up the side street, Dolores asked, “What day is
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