THE SONG OF HIAWALPOLE
(A TRIBUTE TO A CHAIRPERSON – NOT SO MUCH RETIRING AS RETIRED)
(With due acknowledgement to Longfellow)
[Written as a tribute to Audrey Walpole on her retirement as Chairperson of the Barnet Thirty-Plus Social Group and performed with musical accompaniment on July 17, 1985 – Cast of characters appears at the end]
Should you ask me, whence these members?
Whence these spinsters and divorcees,
With their stories of betrayals,
With their sorrows and their hang-ups,
Whence these newly separated,
With the fret and fume of break-ups,
And the bachelor contingent,
With their deep-laid egocentrics,
As of whistling in the kitchens?
I should answer, I should tell you,
“From the cities and the suburbs,
From the bounds of the Great North Ways,
From the land of the New Southgates,
From the land of the Cockfosters,
From the commons, ponds and parkways,
Where the hero, the Bob-Kurschner,
Feeds among the pubs and taverns,
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Jay-the-Linden,
The musician, the sweet singer.”
Should you ask where Jay-the-Linden
Found these songs, so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
“In the midst of Epping Forest,
In the mumblings of the rambler,
In the hoof-prints of the Houghton,
In the eyrie of the Eckett!
“All the sad-folk sang them to him,
In the Meadways and the Burroughs,
From the melancholy Marcias;
Don-the-Bake, the consort, sang them,
Pete-the-Loon, the wild-Gwen, Wawa,
The blue hero, Bob-the-Kurschner,
And the grouse, the John-the-Rayner!”
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, “Who was Jay-the-Linden?
Tell us of this Jay-the-Linden.”
I should answer your enquiries
Straightway in such words as follows.
“In the vale of Barnet’s centre,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant picnic-parties,
Dwelt the singer Jay-the-Linden.
Round about the Barnet village
Spread the members and prospectives,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the hordes of singing outcasts,
Brown in Summer, blue in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
“And the pleasant meeting places,
You could trace them through the borough,
By the Red Lion in the Spring-time,
By the Green Man in the Summer,
By the White Horse in the Autumn,
By the Black Bull in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Barnet’s centre,
In the green and silent borough.
“There he sang of Hiawalpole,
Sang the song of Hiawalpole,
Sang her wondrous birth and being,
How she chaired and how she voted,
How she ruled, and toiled, and harried,
That the Thirty-plus might prosper,
That she might advance her members!”
Ye who love the haunts of Barnet,
Love the sunshine of the Southgate,
Love the shadow of the Whetstone,
Love the wind among the Ponders,
And the Potters and the Bushey,
And the rushing of great traffic
Through the palisades of zebras,
And the thunder in High Loughton,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like Ecketts in their eyries; -
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawalpole!
Ye who love a “single’s” legends,
Love the ballads of a circle,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken; -
Listen to this Barnet Legend,
To this Song of Hiawalpole.
Ye who sometimes in your rambles
Through the Green-slades of the county,
Where the tangled barberry-wardles
Hang their tufts of crimson Beryls
Over stone walls grey with Husseys,
Pause by some neglected tavern,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced graffito,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the insecure, and weirdness; -
Stay and read this rude graffiti,
Read this Song of Hiawalpole.
I. THE PEACE PIPE
On the Moat Mount of the Arkley,
On the Mill Hill Stoney Quarry,
Wendy Sturgess, she the Founder,
She the Thirty-Plus envisioned;
Midst the local small ad columns
Placed an ad and called a meeting,
Called the Barnet tribes together.
* * * * * * *
And they met there on the Meadway,
With their hang-ups and obsessions,
Painted like the leave of Autumn,
Painted like the sky of morning,
Wildly glaring at each other;
In their faces stern defiance,
In heir hearts the feuds of ages,
The hereditary sex-war,
Spited spouseful thirst of vengeance.
Wendy Sturgess, she the Founder,
The creator of the circle,
Looked upon them with compassion,
With maternal love and pity;
Looked upon their fears and tremors
But as worries among children,
But as doubts and frights of children!
“Oh my children! My poor Children!
Listen to the words of wisdom,
Listen to the words of warning
From the lips of the Great Founder,
From the Creator who made you!
“I will send a Prophet to you,
A Chairperson of the Singles,
Who shall guide you and shall teach you,
Who shall toil and suffer with you.
If you listen to his counsels
You will multiply and prosper;
If his warnings pass unheeded,
You will fade away and perish!”
II. THE FOUR WINDS
“Honour be to Merville Potter!”
Cried the members, cried the first ones,
When he was in triumph chosen
By the sacred twelve of Barnet,
From the regions of the North-West,
From the kingdom of the Herts-Lands,
From the land of the Two Brewers.
“Honour be to Merville Potter!”
With a shout exclaimed the members.
“Honour be to Merville Potter!
Henceforth shall he be the Chairman,
And hereafter and for ever
Shall he hold supreme dominion
Over every kind of member.
Call him no more Merville Potter,
Call him Chairman, El Supremo!”
Thus was Merville Potter chosen
Chairman of the Club Committee,
He himself the El-Suspremo
Gave some honours to his children;
Unto Jean he gave the kitchen,
Gave the purse to Peter Clinton,
And the minutes, so demanding,
To the pleasant Beryl Summons.
Thus the places were divided;
Thus the children of the Chairman
Had their stations in the Circle,
At the centre of the Circle,
For himself, as El Supremo,
Stayed the mighty Merville Potter.
III HIAWALPOLE’S CHILDREN
Downward through the Barnet twilight,
In the days that are forgotten,
In the unremembered Minutes,
From he highest fell the Stovell,
Fell the loyal Joy-the-Stovell,
She the one above all others.
Thus was born the Hiawalpole,
Thus was born the new Supremo;
But the loyal Joy-the-Stovell,
Hiawalpole’s gentle sponsor,
In her turn expired, deserted
By the former El Supremo,
By the mighty Merville Potter.
By the shores of South Herts Golf Course,
By the shining Stray-of-Whetsone,
Stood the wigwam of the Stovell,
The Supremo, Joy-the-Stovell.
Dark behind it rose the High Street,
Rose the black and gloomy Woodside,
Rose the Tally-Ho of corners,
Bright before it beat South Finchley,
Beat the clear and sunny Glebe Land,
Beat the shining Stray-of-Whetstone.
There the retired Joy-the-Stovell
Nursed the little Hiawalpole,
Rocked her in the Linden Gardens,
Bedded soft in picnic-parties,
Safely bound with wines and cheeses.
Many things the Stovell taught her
Of the form of Constitution;
Showed how major Club proposals
Had to be supplied in writing;
Showed how booking-in for functions
Had to have sufficient notice,
How, if members had to cancel,
Promptness showed consideration.
In the club on summer evenings
Joined the little Hiawalpole,
Joined the eat-outs and the dances,
Heart the slap-slap-cock of shuttle,
Sounds of music, words of wonder;
Of all functions learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How to price the social evenings,
Where to hold the monthly dances,
How to play the card and board games,
Why some members were so timid,
Talked with them whene’er she met them:
Called them “Hiawalpole’s Children”.
Then the Pillock, the great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
He the traveller and the talker,
He the friend of Joy-the-Stovell,
Made a diary for the Circle;
From a Christmas gift he made it,
Will a ball-point made the entries,
Touched with tongue and pressed with blotter,
Which he gave to Hiawalpole.
[IV – V]
VI HIAWALPOLE’S FRIENDS
Most beloved by Hiawalpole,
Singled out from all the others,
Bound to her in closest union,
And to whom she gave the right hand
Of her heart, in joy and sorrow,
Was the gentle Don-the Baker.
Straight between them ran the pathway,
Never grew the grass upon it;
Singing-birds, that utter falsehoods,
Story-tellers, mischief-makers,
Found no eager ear to listen,
Could not breed ill-will between them,
For they kept each other’s counsel,
Spake with naked hearts together,
Pondering much, and much contriving
How the Barnet tribes might prosper.
Then the singer, Jay-the-Linden,
Jay-the-Linden, the musician,
He the best of all musicians,
When he sang the members listened;
All the members read his programmes,
All the menfolk gathered round him,
All the women came to hear him;
Now he stirred their souls to passion,
Now he melted them to pity.
From the diary notes he fashioned
Paragraphs so sweet and mellow,
That Jill Dilks and Vera Fisher,
Ceased to murmur in the Wood Street,
That the Woodhams ceased from singing,
And the Sybil, she the Ashton,
Ceased her chatter in the Oakwood,
And the Roberts and the Lemos
Sat upright to look and listen.
Yes, the cook, the Smith of Southgate,
Pausing, said, “O Jay-the-Linden,
Teach my quiches to melt the tastebuds,
Softly as your words the programme!”
Yes the jay-bird, he the Aubrey,
Envious, said, “O Jay-the-Linden,
Teach me words as wild and wayward,
Teach me jokes as full of frenzy!”
All the many social evenings
Borrowed lustre from his writing;
All the members’ hearts were softened
By the weirdness of his humour;
For he wrote of treasure-hunting,
Wrote of sports days, films and dancing;
Wrote his “bitsas” and gave mention
To the former event-givers,
In the kingdom of the Kurschner,
In the land of Pete-the-Pillock.
Very dear to Hiawalpole
Was the singer Jay-the-Linden,
Dear, too, unto Hiawalpole
Was the strong man, Don-the-Baker,
He the strongest of all mortals,
He the mightiest among many;
For his very strength she loved him,
For his strength allied to goodness.
* * * * * * *
VII HIAWALPOLE’S SAILING
“Give me of your trust, O Barnet!
Of your full support, O Barnet!
Rambles by the Lea Green River,
Lakeside concerts in the valley!
I a singles group will build me,
Build a sturdy club for sailing,
That shall float upon the current,
Like a Bargery in Autumn,
Like a Stephen Winter Woolley!
“Lay aside your punch, O Barnet!
Lay aside your hot fork suppers,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in Hendon,
And you need no hot fork suppers!”
Thus aloud cried Hiawalpole
In the ears of Gwen-the-Forrest,
By the rushing Pauline Fletcher,
With the spinsters singing gaily,
All the widowers were singing,
And Gibson, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, “Behold me!
Jesus!” said Gibson, “Behold me!”
And the Group, with all its members,
Rustled and gave up its mourning,
Giving (for a small donation),
“These events, O Hiawalpole!”
“Give me of your pubs, O Kurschner!
Of your great and flowing taverns,
My club members now to succour,
Make more pliable to heed me.”
Through the mouth of Bob-the-Kurschner
Came a sound, a cry of horror,
Came a murmur of resistance,
But it whispered, breathing bitter,
“Take my pubs, O Hiawalpole!”
“Give me pork to carve, 0 Findlay!
Of the Orange Tree, O Brenner!
My own group to bind together,
So that we may feed together,
That the Vegan may not enter,
That the Beth Din may not get me!”
And the Brenner and the Findlay
Put aside their air of mourning,
Tugged at forelock, pulled at tassels,
Said together, “Come tomorrow,
Eat-outs, yours, 0 Hiawalpole!”
“Give me of your tapes, 0 Freestone!
Of your Beatles and your Abba,
So that we may dance together,
That the loneliness not enter,
That the hard rock sound may get me!”
And the Freestone, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its ancient cassettes,
Rattled like an Art Garfunkle,
Answered rocking, answered rolling,
“Take the lot, 0 Hiawalpole!”
“Give me of your plants, 0 Evans!
All your plants, 0 Pat-the-Evans!
I will make a swop-shop of them,
Take some cuttings for my members,
And some roots to deck their gardens!”
From East Barnet, Pat-the-Evans
‘neath her floppy hat looked at her,
Shot her rose-bush barbs, like arrows,
Saying, with an earthy rumble,
Through the tangle of her shrubland,
“Take my plants, 0 Hiawalpole!”
Thus the Barnet-group was builded
By the Shepherd, by the Tinkler,
In the bosom of Gwen Forrest;
And the borough’s life was in it,
All its sports days and its tennis,
All the lightness of the Clifford,
All the toughness of the Williams,
All the Greenslade’s supple sinews;
And it floated on the current
Like a Bargery in Autumn,
Like a Winter Stephen Woolley.
And thus sailed the Hiawalpole,
Down the rushing road of Edgware,
Sailed through Hendon Way and Fryent,
Sailed through Colindeep and Harrow,
While her friend, strong Don-the-Baker,
Made the teas, and bread he buttered.
XIV PICTURE WRITING
In those days, said Hiawalpole,
“Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the members,
Fade away the great occasions,
The achievements of the sportsmen,
The adventures of the walkers,
All the wisdom of the Scrabblers,
All the craft of solo players,
All the marvellous Lakeside concerts
Of the Findlays, Primes and Perrys!
“Great times pass and are forgotten,
Goldman speaks; his words of wisdom
Perish in the ears of Chapman,
Do not reach the Barnet stations
Where the Philistines are waiting,
Or the fastness of East Finchley,
(Mensa corpore non sano . . . ).
In the programmes of our Founders
Are no hints, no details given,
Who attended them we know not,
Only know they were our Founders.
From what streets they came, and districts,
In what old ancestral tavern,
Be it beaver, Bell or Badger,
They did tipple, this we know not;
Only know they were our Founders.
One day Hiawalpole walking
On the hills of Hadley Common,
Pondering, musing on the common,
On the welfare of her members.
From her bag she took her colours,
Felt-tipped pens of different colours.
On the smooth walls of a toilet
Painted many pithy figures,
Like unto the Cistern Chapel.
Flushed with pride she viewed the figures,
Each depicting event-givers.
Eddie Bargery, the Mighty,
He the Dance-at-Hatfield giver,
With his belly thus projecting
To the four winds of theborough.
Everywhere the great beer spirit
Was the meaning of this symbol.
Franklin, Monica-the-Mighty,
She the outside-events maker,
At the Serpentine depicted,
With the Davis, she the Swimmer,
Very breasty, very crawly,
And the spirit of the freestyle
Was the meaning of this symbol.
Max-and-Norma drawn as counters
On a scrabble-board were painted,
Max white-haired and Norma darker;
Triple-worded, double-lettered,
The most faithful event-givers.
For eat-outs she drew a meat pie,
With a little mustard on it;
Smiling faces for the parties
And the Stella Lemos dances;
And for rain and cloudy weather,
Ron Higgs with his card games evenings.
Footprints pointing towards a wigwam
Were a sign of invitation
To the Avenue of Princes;
Bloody hands with bats uplifted
Were a sign of table tennis:
Ping-pong players soft and simple.
XXI THE WHITE MAN’S FOOT
From his wanderings to the East End,
From the regions west of Wapping,
From the Essex land of Ilford,
Westward now returned the Pillock,
The great traveller, the great boaster,
Full of new prospective members,
Trustful all, the many females.
And the members of the circle
Listened to him as he told them
Of his marvellous adventures,
Full of awe, declaimed in this wise:
“Gosh! It is indeed the Pillock!
No one else attracts such females!”
He had seen, he said, a tavern
Bigger than the Railway Tavern,
Gayer than the Jolly Brewers,
Bitter such as none had tasted!
At each other looked the members,
Looked the drinkers at each other,
Smiled, and said, “It cannot be so!
Garn!” they said, “It cannot be so!”
Also, said he, in a snack bar
Was a great machine with pistons,
A machine with liquid steaming,
Hotter than the hottest tea urn,
Stronger than the strongest coffee!
And the tea and coffee drinkers
Looked and tittered at each other.
“Coo!” they said, “we don’t believe it!”
From its spout, he said, to warm one
Came a dark brown steaming liquid
Which the natives called espresso,
Stronger than the best Nescafe,
Tastier than Brooke Bone’s tea bags.
“Cor!” they said, “what tales you tell us!
Do not think that we believe them!”
Only Hiawalpole laughed not,
But she gravely spoke and answered
To their doubting and their jeering,
“True is all the Pillock tells us;
I had had it in a snack bar
From the great machine with pistons,
Seen it warm the palest faces
From the regions east of Wapping,
And the far off land of Kilburn.
“Let us welcome, then, these strangers,
These prospective eastern members,
Hold out Barnet’s hand of friendship
To them when they come to see us,
For they may have much to teach us,
And we need some new blood in us,
Now before the old ones leave us
Like the withered leaves of Autumn!”
XXII HIAWALPOLE’S DEPARTURE
Heavy with the weight of office
Grew the heart of Hiawalpole,
As the joyful-sounding members
Frolicked round her Kingsbury wigwam;
Though she tried hard to disguise it
At her monthly social evenings.
From the kitchen, shrill and ceaseless,
Spake the candidate, Penn-Sayers,
While the guests of Hiawalpole,
Weary of electioneering,
Frolicked in the Kingsbury wigwam.
From her place rose Hiawalpole,
Went to speak to B. Penn-Sayers,
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Not to worry guests that frolicked.
“I am going, 0 Penn-Sayers,
On a long and distant journey,
Far beyond thebounds of Barnet,
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See they have their share of dances,
See that boredom never face them,
Never blank dates on the programme,
Never want for picnic parties,
In the Barnet Singles’ Circle!”
Back into the parlour went she,
Bade farewell to all the spinsters,
Bade farewell to all the old men,
Spake persuading, spake in this wise:
“I am going, 0 my Members,
On a long and distant journey;
Many walks and many sports days
Will have come and will have vanished
Ere I may again hold office.
But you have a new committee;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Read the programmes that they give you
When the G.P.O. has brought them
From the last collating evening.”
At the door stood Hiawalpole,
Waved her hand at guests departing.
In the Avenue of Princes,
Derek Snell despatched his Volvo
From the edges of the kerbside,
Shoved it into fourth and top gear;
Whispered to it: “Homeward, homeward!”
And with speed it darted forward.
And the party guests departing,
Set the road on fire with rear lights,
Turned the avenue to crimson,
As they left the Leader’s wigwam,
Left her to her dreams of splendour
As a foremost party-giver,
Left their noble Hiawalpole,
Drove into the depths of Barnet,
Drove into the Stray of Whetstone,
Drove into the Mount of Arkley.
And the Thirty-plus of Barnet
Had their voting evening meeting,
And the new committee chosen
Lifted high the Salisbury splendour,
Till it sank into the beer fumes.
And the old ones, more than holy,
Took the line of least resistance.
And they said, “Farewell to Edna!”
Said, “Farewell, 0 Hiawalpole!”
And Gwen Forrest took the programme
And prepared her countless footnotes,
Sighing, “Farewell, Jay-the-Linden!”
And with notes upon the margin,
Jean-the-Taylor took up office,
Sobbing, “Farewell, Don-the-Baker!”
While the hero, Bob-the-Kurschner,
From his perch among the beer-mugs,
Screeched: “I’ll still control the members!”
Then Penn-Sayers-B the prophet,
Paid her tribute to the Leader,
Saying that, “With her permission
We may find some virgin members.”
And the Allison, the dealer
In the new enquiry section,
Took the mantle of the Gibson,
Took up, too, relations public.
And the members answered, saying:
“We have listened to your statements,
WE have heard your words of wisdom,
Now let’s drink another bitter,
It is well for us, 0 Brothers,
That we haven’t far to get it!”
Then they rose up and departed,
Each one homeward to his wigwam,
Musing, all the men and women,
On the strange new club committee
Which they had, in wisdom, voted
To protect the tribes of Barnet.
Thus departed Hiawalpole,
Hiawalpole the Beloved,
In the glory of the Salisbury,
In the High Street of Old Barnet,
To the Avenue of Princes.
And the regions of the North-West,
And the lands of the Two Brewers,
And the kingdom of the Herts-Lands,
Vowed to honour her hereafter!
CAST OF CHARACTERS
as known in the year 2000 http://www.conts.com/Pinoman/Cast.htm