THE BALLAD OF EDMUND TUPPENCE
by Mark Gullick
The third of four cantos in a look-in at the state of love in postmodern London. Canto One available HERE
Ah, poets! Mightier than gods, it seems.
To visit space and time like seaside towns,
Take future, past and ravel up in dreams
The farthest star, the deepest plummet-sounds,
To travel round the blessed earth on beams
Of light, but still returning to safe ground.
But what could be less safe — pray, say your part —
Than looking at the landscape of the heart.
Forgive our blasphemies and grand delusions!
We are not gods, but mortal — sad to say it.
But mortal with the gift of an illusion.
A secret, mind; I’m not bound to betray it.
But what’s the cost? What chaos, what confusion!
The bill, we can afford (We never pay it).
We pick up lives as children pick up sticks
And throw them down, to teach selves new tricks.
What of our lovers? Surely, we have not
Lost sight of them, not failed to plot their tale,
Nor, like some children’s plaything now forgot,
Abandoned to a toybox or a sale.
Be not afraid; we have them. Never fear
That poets will desert their poems, fail
To guard their muses, fail to tend their fate.
So, back to work! We should elucidate.
We spoke of time, and how we use it much
As artist oils, musician scales or crochets.
Ah! Bardic problem, technical as such,
To do with rhyme and how we’d better watch it.
Do not clutch straws where no straws lie to clutch
(We thought the rhyme in two would go and scotch it).
But what of all this chatter, if you please?
We never can resist a little tease.
So, let us hie for Sally Q’s apartment.
We’ll find our paramours in glowing form.
For Sally, well, we all know where her heart went
The moment Edmund T. was safe and warm.
I’ll tell you what that nonsense at the start meant.
I play for time; please, be not too alarmed,
But though I stand in Sally Quicklake’s room,
I find it empty, empty as a tomb.
The poet never panics! Fine. Now tell that
To all the bards who ever lost their sweethearts.
They’ll tell you straight; they all know very well that
This type of lassitude would strain effete hearts.
And now you hear the tolling of the bell that
Summons a judgement that will soon defeat hearts
Doughtier than mine. They’re thinking of some other!
(I do seem to be in a spot of bother).
There is but one known cure. They’ll call us in
Like falconers to falcon, though these be
Hawkers of the mind. Should we put trust in
Our own ephemeral creations? Please, be
Patient. This game is not to be out-plussed in;
I hope our paramours look not to tease me.
Now, like the Ouija, watching its glass glide,
I’m getting something from the other side!
The signal’s strong. We move across the city.
A rather moneyed area of town,
Alighting in a street sedate and pretty.
Georgian houses bask as we walk down
The latest of locations for our ditty.
We haven’t found our lovers yet. We frown
To think we have mislaid them. Where’s the place?
But wait. That window! That familiar face!
No need for us to hide. Though omnipresent,
The poet is invisible, ethereal.
And as we pass through future, past, and present,
To bring our modest verses for our serial,
We trust our poem’s subjects don’t resent
Our presence, though unseen and near-sidereal.
We stand among you. Please, don’t be alarmed.
It is our privilege, and we are charmed.
We slip and slide, like kobolds, elves, or sprites,
Through keyholes, skylights, chimneys, window cracks
To join you. You are not alone at nights,
But poets sit with you. We have your backs.
You cannot see us. We’d be bang to rights
For breaking – – yes, and entering. Our tracks
Cannot be seen. ‘Tis but our words that stay,
The emblems of our guilt, our love, our play.
And so, we glide ‘twixt doorjamb, frame and frame,
To hover for a moment then proceed
To climb the stairs (no creaking spoils the game),
And on our mission, instantly succeed.
Two well-known voices can be heard — the same
As drew us to the very verse you read.
That’s Sally’s voice, and I will bet you thruppence
The other one belongs to Edmund Tuppence.
Just as before, we enter all invisible
To see a sight that staggers and amazes.
Prepare yourselves: This next scene may seem risible.
‘Tis Sally, Edmund, but that’s not what fazes.
This is a holy trio, indivisible.
We cannot look away, avert our gazes.
There’s no question of possibly or maybe.
Sally and Edmund seem to have a baby.
The time has come to make a fleet confession.
You do recall us talking about time?
Well, time is not a simple plain procession
Of figures, happenstance, and pantomime.
It jumps and flits, a movable concession.
And those of us who deal in line and rhyme
Will often jump ahead. Anticipation
Is like a ticket bought at the wrong station.
You will recall our billing, cooing doves
Were left in circumstances curious —
Ed’s injuries, as fate struck from above.
Remember how we met characters spurious?
And Sally playing nurse, the velvet glove
(This rhyming would make any poet furious,
But we did not use ‘love’ here as a rhyme;
In terms of poesie, we skipped jail time!).
So, now. As we then left our sainted pair,
Their guardian Royal Mullins had arrived
With case mysterious, laid it on the chair,
And was about to open it. Alive
To what it might contain, we left them there
And took what turned out to be a long drive
Down time’s highway. But now we have returned;
By art, we’ll learn what Sal and Eddy learned.
You see, when Edmund’s father passed away
(An underhanded tale that will be told
But is a story for another day),
The Tuppence infant was but two years old.
Now, Mullins was… a fam’ly friend, let’s say,
And took the orphaned Edmund from the fold.
His sister Millie Mullins nursed the boy.
Childless herself, she found young Ed a joy.
There is a moral problem here. We’re sure
You realise Royal Mullins is no saint.
He’s known to you, and also to the law.
He knows the taste of prison food and ain’t
About to go for second helpings. Nor
Would he allow his protégé to taint
His life. He taught him crime, but mark, first;
He also kept the young scamp out of Parkhurst.
Of course, he taught the boy the underworld
And all its highways, alleyways, and mews.
And so, the teenage Edmund soon unfurled
His own illegal plans. Could Royal use
A henchman? Royal knew this was no world
For carelessness; that gets you in the news.
And so, although the boy was oft admonished,
His talent for the criminal astonished.
It must be said that Royal did despair
As Ed’s attention wandered to narcotics.
He’d seen enough of casualties there,
Sufficient nutters, madmen, and psychotics
To fill a loony-bin — and that was where
They ended up. He knew the symbiotics.
For those that deal in pharmaceuticals
Are often indisposed when duty calls.
And so, it was a firm apprenticeship.
No drugs on duty — only once a week.
And no hallucinogenics, or the trip
You take next could be off to see the beak.
Just business, and a sound relationship
‘Twixt real world and insanity. We speak
Of those who start with habits young and germinal,
But ride the drug train past the final terminal.
As Royal reared the chick in Millie’s nest,
He noticed that the boy was making money.
He took his share, and Eddie kept the rest,
But still, it was a land of milk and honey.
For Edward was phenomenally blessed
With charm and personality so sunny.
He knew his market, and he aimed to please.
The boy could charm the songbirds from the trees.
The tribute Royal took was not for self
(He paid his sister money for the boy).
The rest? No biscuit-jar upon the shelf
Or simple bank account — a risky ploy
For criminals who wish financial health.
Instead, the mentor took care to employ
A genius accountant and investor —
And not from London; slightly north of Leicester.
This shrewd financial genii took the cash
From Eddie’s deals and made the money work.
He never made investments which were rash,
Avoided hedge funds — where all perils lurk —
Eschewed the ostentatious and the flash
And every wally, imbecile, and burk
Native to the black financial trade.
You should have seen the money that he made!
Sally did. You should have seen her face,
And how her pretty eyes grew quickly bigger
When Royal showed her what was in his case
(We’re not at liberty to name the figure).
But let’s just say the money was a taste,
A sweet hors d’oeuvre. She really had to snigger;
She’d not seen so much cash in all her life.
She felt, for the first time, a gangster’s wife.
But, obviously, problems still remained.
What to do with Edmund? How to bring
Him back? He’s like a living doll, restrained
By mental chains. A songbird needs to sing.
Edmund’s faculties must be retrained.
But where to start the process? That’s the thing.
As Sally sits and brushes Edmund’s hair,
She knows he needs a curative. But where?
Of all the parts that Royal Mullins plays,
He’s no psychologist. ‘Trick cyclists’,
His father used to call them, in the days
When language helped the speaker to enlist
In bold invention, metaphor, which plays
Its own tricks. I suppose, if you insist,
I’ll give a small representative vignette
(To my best knowledge, poesie’s not a sin yet).
We say ‘a busted flush’ for something which
Goes wrong, or pear-shaped. Hold hard! There’s another!
A kettle of fish, a hair’s breadth, and a stitch
In time. These portables announce no other
Than that language is a lush and rich
Companion, sister, lover, friend, or brother.
But words for Edmund T. still prove elusive.
He says some things, but let’s not be intrusive.
Now something moves in Royal Mullins’ mind.
A buried thought, half-seen but half not seen,
A deep-sea eel which winds and then unwinds,
As black as coal but lit up with a sheen
From time to time. Poor Royal always finds
A cigarette would keep his memory keen.
He used to smoke… But wait! His mind is freed!
It’s Muriel the hypnotist we need!
Smoke? Why, what our man Royal did was not
Smoking as we know it. It was far more
A dedicated service, duty, what
Our fathers called ‘necessity of law’,
And eighty snout a day was not a lot
When you had seen what Royal Mullins saw.
To say his job was stressful’s euphemistic.
(I know. That rhyme? I wasn’t optimistic…)
But Muriel the hypnotist was found
And set to work to get RM off cigs.
She put him under, and when he came round,
For cigarettes, he cared not jot or figs.
He broke the habit with a single bound,
So why not get her in? Now Mullins twigs
That mesmerism could unchain Ed’s mind,
And ease the ropes that hold, the ties that bind.
The wise woman is sent for, and arrives
As on a magic carpet. Over dinner,
Sally Q explains how Edmund lives.
His accident, his simple speech, and in a
Moment, Muriel looks up and gives
Young Sal a smile best described as a winner.
A godsend is our mesmerising Muriel.
I honestly believe that she could cure you all.
A moment now. Suspend the action, freeze
This therapeutic minute. Can we just
Assume all’s well, with nonchalance and ease?
I think not. Yet, it seems as though we must
Accept this treatment, if only to please
Young Sally, and in her to place our trust.
She, with no wish to stay a virtual spinster,
Conversed with Muriel, who’s now convinced her.
Hypnosis fascinated Sigmund Freud,
The dark unconscious summoned like a djinn.
His mentor, Charcot, often got annoyed
When critics claimed it was a mortal sin
To render women liable to avoid
The niceties of conversation in
A state of catatonia, alone
And with a man, without a chaperone.
So, Edmund sits with beatific smile
As Muriel begins her practised art.
She softly talks to Ed, and in a while,
His eyelids close, his breathing slows. A part
Of Sally which before was in denial
Can feel faith rise in her expectant heart.
She feels the tears begin to bathe her cheek
As Edmund smiles again and starts to speak.
Since coming under Sally’s care, our Ed
Has spent his days with children’s picture-books.
For hours, delighted, he has sat and read
Of turtles, bears, and bunnies; now, he looks
At none of these, but reads them out, instead,
From memory. Now Sally’s crying brooks
No delay. She is weeping not through choice,
But from the silky sound of Edmund’s voice.
We’ll hurry time again and crop its hide,
To set it at a trot to run ahead.
As Muriel continues work inside
The labyrinth of Edmund’s shapely head,
Sally sees a turning of the tide.
The children’s tales are gone, and now, instead,
The lad partakes of normal conversation,
No more a stranger to communication.
And as the weeks glide past and Edmund T.
Learns to talk and laugh and even sing,
His memory returns as perfectly
As though it never left. But here’s a thing:
His recall’s not quite perfect, for, you see,
There’s something not quite there, something missing.
Since meeting Sally, he recalls each second.
Before that time? There’s not a moment reckoned.
Now let us treat space as we treated time,
And move our operations to the west.
It would be foolish to believe that crime
Will let its children be so dispossessed.
And though Ed’s future now seems so sublime,
His past still lingers; actions far from blessed
Lurk in the shadows. Deals from Edmund’s past
Are present still. The die was long since cast.
We are the curators of Edmund’s life,
His prior dealings on the tracks’ wrong side,
And dealing drugs will also deal out strife
And cards malevolent. And woe betide
Those who live on the sharp edge of the knife
Should cross another, or offend the pride
Of street-scum whose dark memories are long ‘uns.
And Edmund’s fallen foul of just these wrong ‘uns.
So, let us go back to the underworld
We came from when we followed Eddie’s course.
A twilit empire with black flag unfurled,
A country whose inhabitants are coarse
And rough-edged, where obscenities are hurled,
Whose rarest mineral is called remorse.
This nation’s damned; its native population
Is governed by a dark administration.
Villains, vagabonds, and criminals
Are old as time; we never were without them.
They prowl and wait like hungry animals,
And lick their lips and keep their wits about them.
At bus stops, alleyways, and terminals,
They stalk like jackals; never think to doubt them.
Their path runs close to yours, and if you stray,
You will become their hamstrung, hunted prey.
This, as we know, was Ed’s environment.
Though violence was never his MO,
Associates of his were violent
Beyond the call of duty. And we know
That violence is vicarious. Absent
Morality, and jungle law rules. So,
Although young Tuppence never hurt a fly,
The spiders may hurt Tuppence, by and by.
You see, this world of warped morality
Still has a code of sorts, a type of honour
Which, far removed from our reality,
Is still a binding law graven upon a
Heart of stone. This chill normality
Could turn a transgressor into a goner.
And Ed transgressed — and more than once, it seems —
Betrayed the folk who stalk our darkest dreams.
Now let us use our arts poetical
To join two miscreants at their abode.
Nappo Clark, wretched and dropsical,
And Clovis Dredger, neither of whom bode
Much good for anyone — and whimsical
Where violence is concerned — and they are owed
A certain sum of money. When all’s told,
The debtor is a cove we know of old.
A drug deal is a drug deal (or, it should be),
But economics is a fickle wench,
And really not as faithful as she could be.
This truth is known to our two untermensch.
They gave young Edmund moneys, said they would be
Waiting on a particular park bench.
And so they were, a warm spring day, and sunny.
But Ed went on the razzle with their money.
From that day forth, the squalid pair had vowed
To ‘do’ young Edmund (sorry for the parlance).
They cursed our boy with imprecations loud
And showed themselves as mentally unbalanced.
Ed didn’t care, was positively proud.
Embezzlement was just one of his talents.
But actions long since finished with may yet
Return to haunt the actor, you can bet.
This underworld, we previously described
As though it were a country or a nation,
And, like a state or land mass circumscribed,
It has a system of communication.
And after Clark and Dredger had both bribed
The quack who ministered Ed’s medication,
They had their means for criminal redress:
A name and, more important, an address.
So, now, as we return along the breeze
To Sally, Ed, and Royal, we must own
We feel discomfited, and our unease
Matches our impotence. They are alone.
Had we a choice and were ourselves to please,
We’d warn them, bid them pack up and begone.
But poets, though we seem omnipotent,
Are but mere scribblers, all too impotent.
Now Napper Clark and Clovis Dredger own
The means of their revenge. They hire a crew
Of ne’er-do-wells. They dare not go alone;
They know of Royal Mullins’ presence. You
Should know his reputation sets a tone
Of fear that runs from Canning Town to Kew.
He is preceded by his reputation
For knocking heads together with elation.
And as the twilight falls, this motley horde,
Like Midians, do prowl and prowl around,
Their hideous intention underscored
By weaponry they’ve bought and stole and found.
An army now, in violent accord,
Are in the garden, still without a sound.
And now they wait. We fear the worst, my friends.
We dread to think how this offensive ends.
Mr. Gullick is a philosopher (Ph.D. University of Sussex) who writes on English politics and culture for American magazines. He was born in London in the early 1960s, and he currently resides in Central America.