Ben and Tillie

Ben and Tillie scraped by

in the basement of tinned-up twenty-three

 

I checked them out occasionally

as they opened the door

the stench of boiled cabbage,

tobacco smoke, raw poverty,

turned my stomach, gagging me

 

late at night, by candlelight,

Tillie tended marigolds in plastic pots

bluebells and hollyhocks filled window boxes,

old sinks, gumboots, anything would do 

 

Ben smoked a lot, coughed a lot -

did bugger all much else

 

he had been a singer -

lead tenor in a male voice choir,

still fancied himself as Al Bowlly,

crooning,  tunelessly,

We’ll meet again,

By the light of the silvery moon,

Shanty in old shanty town

 

Tillie had sung at Covent Garden -

third soprano in Fidelio,

that was many years ago

her vibrato falsetto, I’ll be seeing you,

set all the neighbourhood cats

a’wauling

 

nights of mean stride pianola,

thumping out hits on well-worn rolls,

wartime favourites,

Pack up your troubles.

It’s a long way to Tipperary.

There’s a long long trail a-winding

 

while Tillie sang and Ben syncopated

on a three string ukulele,

 

I crept the steps and stowed behind tubs

packs of butter, sugar, bread,

cheese, eggs, tea bags, beans,

and rolling tobacco,

rough enough for Ben

to keep his cough in shape

 

come one November lightless

early-closing Wednesday,

a silk-ribboned black top hat,

tail suit, polished shoes, and cane

processed sedately

before a milk-carthorse dray

with a coffin aboard.

and battered ukulele

balanced on top

 

Tillie decked in widow’s weeds limped behind

 

that night, as she hit the pianola,

 

‘…I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you’

 

a copperplate note on Basildon Bond, blue,

“dear good neighbour,

thank you very much for all you do

but if it’s all the same to you,

no more tobacco from now on.”