Kitabı oku: «Ted Hughes: The Unauthorised Life», sayfa 6

His favourite fishing place on the Crookhill estate was a large pond, very deep in places. In the ‘Capturing Animals’ talk, he evoked the memory of seeing giant forms on the surface resembling railway sleepers. They were huge pike. His poem ‘Pike’, he said, captured not just a fish but ‘the whole pond, including the monsters I never even hooked’.29 The pond is as deep as England, deep as memory. It is at once his childhood, his unconscious and the spirit of place that made him who he was.

Throughout his life, he remained hooked by the mystique of the pike. They were, he said, ‘fixed at some very active, deep level in my imaginative life’.30 They filled his dreams. If he was feeling good about life, he would dream of giant pike that were also leopards, full of energy, connecting him to the vital forces of the universe. If he was feeling bad, he would dream that the pond of the pike was filled with concrete and bereft of fish. Nothing gave him more pleasure in the Seventies than fishing the loughs of Ireland with his teenage son Nicholas, plumbing the dark, mystic depths for what in a myth-heavy poem he called ‘The Great Irish Pike’.31

At the end of 1968, he and Gerald drove to Mexborough to find the pond. The Wholeys’ lodge was in ruins, its garden entirely overgrown. They went down to the pond and found that ‘it had shrunk to an oily puddle about twenty feet across in a black basin of mud, with oil cans and rubbish’. Ted’s son Nicky made a few half-hearted casts into the dank water. They felt low, despite the presence of Ted’s name carved on a tree as a token of memory. As rain began to fall, Ted made one token cast himself, which he described as ‘a ceremonial farewell’, and there ‘among the rubbish’ he hooked ‘a huge perch’, one of the biggest he had ever caught: ‘It was very weird, a complete dream.’32

Manor Farm is now a gastropub, the Crookhill estate a golf course, the pond of the pike shrunk by mud and reed. The magic landscape survives only in Hughes’s writings.

4
Goddess

In order to get into Oxford or Cambridge University, you had to stay on at school for an extra term and take a special entrance exam. Ted Hughes duly won an exhibition: better than a mere place, but below a scholarship. Its value was £40 per year (a scholarship was £60), as much a matter of prestige as cash. His fees and a grant towards living expenses would be paid by the government; he was of that lucky first generation in which, thanks to grammar school and university grant, bright boys from very ordinary backgrounds had access to the best education without having to worry about money.

In later years, Ted liked to put about the myth that he got his place at Cambridge only because John Fisher sent the Master of the college a sheaf of his poems and a letter singing his praises as a budding writer, which led to his being admitted as a ‘dark horse’ despite failing the exam. But this would not have got him an exhibition and indeed in the Pembroke College archive there is a letter in which Fisher apologises for sending the poems, recognising that it might have been inappropriate to do so.1 Hughes got a place to read English at Cambridge on his merits as a schoolboy literary critic.

But there was a hitch. At the end of his first year in the sixth form, the government had introduced a National Service Act. The army was not getting enough recruits – hardly surprising after the long years of war – so conscription was introduced for healthy males between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one. The Act was due to come into force on 1 January 1949. Just weeks before it did so, in the very month in which Hughes got his offer from Cambridge, the period of service was increased from twelve to eighteen months, in the light of the ‘Emergency’ in Malaya and the Berlin blockade that began the Cold War. There was a genuine fear that another major war might be on the way all too soon.

Boys with university places on offer were allowed to serve before or after taking their degree. Ted decided to get it out of the way and, following in Gerald’s footsteps, applied for the Royal Air Force rather than the army. By the time his application had been processed and he had passed the medical, the eighteen-month period would have made it impossible for him to go up to Cambridge in the autumn of 1950. While he was still in uniform, the period of service was further extended, to two years, because of the outbreak of the Korean War.

He did not see active service. The RAF didn’t really know what to do with its compulsory recruits. There was an awful lot of sitting around, which for Ted meant the opportunity to read and to write. For two years he would be identified as ‘number 2449573 A.C. 2 Hughes E. J.’ (the abbreviation stood for ‘Aircraftman Second Class’). He sent witty, flirtatious and bored letters to Edna Wholey, first from Hut D35 of the RAF station at West Kirby on the Wirral, then from the Ops Section and after that from the Signals Section at RAF Patrington, near Hull in Yorkshire. His reports were of severe haircuts, rough and tumble in the barracks, dreadful food, pointless exercises, rain, rain and more rain, made bearable only by food parcels from home, the anticipation of the next ‘48’ (two days’ leave) and the quiet opportunity to read once he settled into his position as a flight plotter. He dated several local girls, none seriously, though he described one of them – Hilda Norris – as having ‘eyes like a tiger’.2

Patrington was a radar station for ground-controlled interception, whereby fighter planes would be guided towards an incoming target. Since there was no immediate prospect of Russian bombers or missiles winging their way over Bridlington Bay to the Holderness marshes of the East Riding, the screen was usually blank and, especially when on night duty, Ted was free to deepen his knowledge of the psychology of Jung and the canon of English literature. Shakespeare, Yeats and Blake were his constant companions. Among prose-writers, he especially admired William Hazlitt, regarding his essays as a model of ‘what-prose-ought-to-be’.3 The influence tells on the lucid, muscular prose he wrote throughout his life. He also composed poems for Edna, including an ‘epithalamium’ for her marriage – though he expressed some displeasure at the idea of her being with another man. They were pals who flirted rather than true lovers. He writes of kissing her wrists, not her lips. But he felt possessive about their special bond with each other and with their secret Crookhill places.

The finest poem he wrote during his National Service was addressed to another girl, Jean Findlay, the great beauty of Mexborough Grammar School. Ted had wooed her with poetry when he was a sixth-former.4 Now he saw her when he went home on leave. Walking back from a date, a love song formed in his head. On returning to duty – night watch, three o’clock on the morning of 13 June 1950, ‘after slogging at stupidities’ – he finished it in a two-minute heat of inspiration. It was the only early poem that he cared to preserve. Simply entitled ‘Song’, he included it (as a last-minute addition) in his first published volume, The Hawk in the Rain. He later said that it had a kind of ‘natural music’ that he never recaptured – or not at least until the more personal voice of his later poetry.5 Influenced by the medieval traditions of courtly love in general and the early lyrics of Yeats in particular, it turns Jean Findlay into an icy or marbled lady, blessed by ‘the tipped cup of the moon’, caressed by the sea and kissed by the wind but unwilling to give herself to the poet. His heart has fallen ‘all to pieces’ at the thought of her.6

The all-male world of National Service was frustrating for young men of nineteen and twenty. Ted had a lot of time to turn Edna and Jean into creatures of his imagination. Thinking about them both, and writing poems inspired by them, made him reflect on ancient types. Was Edna in the woods an embodiment of woman as nurturing Mother Nature? And Jean the incarnation of desirable but dangerous Beauty?

His thinking about such dualities was shaped by his reading of Jung’s Psychological Types, that book to which he had been introduced by his pathfinder Olwyn. She was now down in London, studying for an English Literature degree at Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. She graduated in the summer of 1950 with a lower-second-class degree. As at school, she had not quite achieved her full academic potential: there was something prophetic in a sixth-form end-of-term report that read, ‘Olwyn has done creditable work on the whole. But she must not allow herself to be distracted.’7

Jung’s book divided human beings into two character types, introverted personalities who were highly subjective and absorbed in their own psychological processes, and extraverted personalities who were attuned to objects, to other people and to the external world. Jung treated this model as a key to all mythologies. His massive book worked through virtually the entire history of Western (and not a little Eastern) thought, dividing up ideas and writers according to extravert and introvert. Special value was attached to the inner life of the introvert, the type that was said to be typical of the creative artist.

Jung gave considerable space to a very distinctive exegesis of Carl Spitteler’s allegorical prose poem Prometheus and Epimetheus (1881), making it the basis for the proposition that the mythical figure of Prometheus is both the exemplar of the creative artist and the archetypal introvert who surrenders himself entirely to his inner psychic function. Hughes took the model to heart: he told Olwyn of how he tried ‘to inhibit all conscious thought and fantasy, so that my unconscious would compensate with an increased activity’.8 His hope was that poetry would emerge directly from his unconscious, rather as Samuel Taylor Coleridge claimed that the vision of Kubla Khan came to him fully formed in a dream. For Ted, dreams would always be the taproot into the unconscious. Throughout his life, many of his journal entries consist of records of extraordinary dreams.

According to Jung, the union of opposites in the works of Spitteler took the form of the worship of women, a symbol for worship of the soul. In a move typical of Jung’s development of Freud, it is suggested that the libido is originally attracted to woman in an erotic fashion, but then fastened on to a symbolic function that had something to do with the development of religion. As Ted would come to see it, the girl is replaced by the Goddess; the choice between two girls is transformed into a battle between two aspects of the Goddess.

Aircraftman Second Class E. J. Hughes finished his National Service and went home to prepare for university. His formal discharge was signed off later in the year, summarising his record as follows: enlisted, 27 October 1949; discharged from National Service 5 October 1951; ‘Trade – Ground Wireless Mechanic – care and maintenance of transmitting and receiving gear’; ‘Trade Proficiency – Good’; ‘Character – Exceptional’; ‘Bearing [the options being Very Smart, Smart or Untidy]: Smart’; ‘Rank on discharge – L.A.C.’ (Leading Aircraftman, one rank above entry level); ‘6' 2" fresh complexion, blue eyes, brown hair’.9 His bearing was not always smart in later years, but transmitting on the radio would, in another way, become an important part of his life: in the early Sixties, his principal source of income was as a freelance contributor to the British Broadcasting Corporation.

A letter dated 30 May 1951 arrived from the Awards Branch of the Ministry of Education, informing him that the University Supplemental Award offered to him in 1949, and postponed due to his National Service, was now being converted to a state scholarship, enabling him to study for his English degree at Pembroke College, Cambridge, with effect from the coming October. The award consisted of a grant to cover the whole or part of the tuition fees, together with a maintenance grant, its amount to be determined on the basis of parental income. A subsequent letter, following the financial assessment, informed Hughes that his university fees would be paid, and he would receive a grant of £218 per annum, in addition to the £40 exhibition that he had won from the college.

In the late summer, his father found a shop that would enable them to return to the Calder Valley. The family left Mexborough and moved to Woodlands Avenue at the Hebden Bridge end of Todmorden. Though on the other side of Hebden Bridge from Mytholmroyd, they were back in the family domain, once again on the north side of the valley. You went over a railway bridge and up on to the hillside. The road had a very respectable and rather suburban feel to it. One side of it was lined with Thirties houses, some semi-detached. The Hugheses were at number 4, opposite a big house called Stansfield Hall. It felt a rather indeterminate, in-between sort of place, but it was the home to which Ted would return in his university vacations.

As a ‘going up’ present before he left for Pembroke, his teacher John Fisher, to whom he owed so much, gave him a copy of Robert Graves’s recently published The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth.10 Reading it through the lens of Jung, Ted was engrossed. He saw in Graves a mature mirror of his own youthful self. ‘Since the age of fifteen poetry has been my ruling passion,’ began Graves. And so it had been for Hughes. Poetry is rooted in magic, the book claims; poets are in touch with a mysterious primeval magical potency. The poet is priest and judge, prophet and seer, ‘in Welsh derwydd, or oak-seer, which is the probable derivation of “Druid”’. The truest poetry tunes in to ancient rhythms. Graves’s very first example was the Welsh bardic Cynghanedd with its ‘repetitive use of consonantal sequences with variants of vowels’, as illustrated by the lines:

Billet spied

Bold sped,

Across field

Crows fled,

Aloft, wounded,

Left one dead.

Which sounds rather like a Ted Hughes poem.

Graves signs up to the belief of the Welsh poet Alun Lewis, who was killed in the Burma campaign, that the ‘single poetic theme’ is Life and Death, ‘the question of what survives of the beloved’. He then gives the Theme a capital letter and turns it into an ancient story that he finds played out in the myths and epic poems of every culture. It involved a battle between the God of the Waxing Year and the God of the Waning Year for the love of the ‘capricious and all-powerful Threefold Goddess, their mother, bride and layer-out’. The poet identifies himself with the God of the Waxing Year and his Muse with the Goddess, while ‘the rival is his blood-brother, his other self, his weird’. Graves’s next paragraph haunted Hughes all his writing life:

The Goddess is a lovely, slender woman with a hooked nose, deathly pale face, lips red as rowan-berries, startlingly blue eyes and long fair hair; she will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she-wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag … The test of a poet’s vision, one might say, is the accuracy of his portrayal of the White Goddess and of the island over which she rules.

Graves applied the term ‘poet-laureateship’ to the grounding of the Goddess in an island landscape and the role of the poet as the guardian of the spirit of both place and tribe. Hughes took this to heart. For better or for worse, in some of his richest poems and some of his poorest, till death parted him from Sylvia Plath and on until his own death, in health and in sickness brought on (he believed) by writing too much prose, Hughes married his imaginative vision to Graves’s claim that ‘a true poem is necessarily an invocation of the White Goddess, or Muse, the Mother of All Living, the ancient power of fright and lust – the female-spider or the queen-bee whose embrace is death’.11

Like Jung, Graves then went on to apply his system across cultures and ages. Hughes immersed himself in chapters with titles such as ‘Fabulous Beasts’, ‘The Return of the Goddess’ and ‘The Roebuck in the Thicket’ (a vital motif for the very first version of Birthday Letters). He took special pleasure in the Celtic material, which added Welsh traditions to the Irish myths he had already encountered in Yeats. Here was the ninefold Muse Cerridwen who was originally the Great Goddess in her poetic or incantatory character, who had a son who was also her lover, the Demon of the Waxing Year, before she was courted by the Thunder-god (‘a rebellious Star-son infected by Eastern patriarchalism’), by whom she had twins, Merlin the magician and his sister Olwen. Ted lapped up all this and regurgitated much of it forty years later in his heftiest tome, Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being. He once told Graves that The White Goddess was ‘the chief holy book on poetic conscience’.12

All developed cultures, Graves suggests, eventually destroy the Goddess and replace her with a patriarchal sky god. ‘This stage was not reached in England until the Commonwealth, since in mediaeval Catholicism the Virgin and Son – who took over the rites and honours of the Moon-woman and her Star-son – were of greater religious importance than God the Father.’13 This idea chimed nicely with one of the tenets of certain prominent members of the English Faculty where Ted Hughes was now heading: that during the Civil War, just after the age of Shakespeare, a ‘dissociation of sensibility’ fractured English culture and society, and that it was the job of the poet to repair it.

In October 1951 he went up to Cambridge.

5
Burnt Fox

Cambridge is a city of water and history. Pembroke College, where Ted Hughes matriculated in the autumn of 1951, is at the top end of Trumpington Street, which leads out to the village where Chaucer’s Reeve’s Tale was set. Immediately outside the college was Fitzbillies bakery, which had served Chelsea buns to generations of students. Turn right and you are in King’s Parade, dominated by the most glorious Gothic chapel in the world. Crossing the road from Pembroke, you pass the Pitt Building, which housed Cambridge University Press, the oldest publisher in the world. Then you are in Mill Lane, where gowned undergraduates attended lectures by such luminaries as Dr F. R. Leavis and (until his death in the year that Hughes went up) Ludwig Wittgenstein. In summer, you could hire a punt at Scudamore’s Boatyard by the mill pond, beside which were two much-frequented and watery-named pubs, the Anchor and the Mill. From there, the river Cam meandered via Byron’s Pool towards the village of Grantchester that had been immortalised by King’s College student Rupert Brooke.

In Michaelmas term, when freshmen arrived, Cambridge was bitterly cold and shrouded in fog. According to student lore, the wind came straight off the Ural mountains. Ted wrapped himself in his Uncle Walt’s Great War leather topcoat and fed all his change into the guttering gas fire in his room. But walking around town, among the colleges, there was something in the air that made everyone seem wide awake. He dressed in black, dying his own corduroy from the Sutcliffe Farrar factory. One contemporary said that he looked like a fisherman on a stormy night, while another – a jealous fellow-poet – remembered his ‘smelly old corduroys and big flakes of dandruff in his greasy hair’.1

Ted Hughes and Evelyn Waugh could hardly have been more different as writers,2 but they had one thing in common: the friends they made at university became friends for life. Ted’s best friend in college was an Irishman called Terence McCaughey. They were supervision partners, which is to say that they had their weekly tutorial together in the room of the Pembroke College English Fellow, M. J. C. Hodgart, an authority on medieval ballads who also had a passion for James Joyce. McCaughey recalls how he and Ted bumped into each other in Heffers bookshop, where they were supposed to be buying set texts in their first or second week as freshmen. One book on the list was an anthology of Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose. Ted explained that he already had a copy, passed down to him by his sister, but that it was an older edition lacking the vocabulary list. He proposed selling this to McCaughey and buying himself a new one, complete with vocabulary, thus simultaneously getting a bargain and doing a favour.

They soon became fast friends, their Yorkshire and Irish accents contrasting with the self-entitled voices of the public schoolboys who lorded it over Cambridge. They shared a love of music, nature and words. They would spend their evenings in one or the other’s room, reading poetry aloud or listening to Beethoven on 78rpm records. They went to the cinema together, especially enjoying the comedies of the Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton. Sometimes at dusk they walked along the Backs of the colleges or strolled on to Coe Fen, where, among the grazing cows, Ted blew mimic hootings to answering owls. They supplemented college food – which was no better than that of the National Service mess – with brown bread, cheese mixed with marmalade and, a particular Yorkshire delicacy, treacle sandwiches. Olwyn came to visit and Terence was amazed at the seriousness with which she and Ted discussed their friends in terms of horoscopic compatibility.

McCaughey went on to become a clergyman. They kept in touch by letter and occasionally visited each other. On Ted’s last trip to Dublin, just four months before he died, Terence took him to the recently renovated University Church, built at Cardinal Newman’s behest for the Catholic college. Quietly, Ted said, ‘This fairly closely persuades me to become a Catholic or a Christian.’3 But this was a sentiment felt in the moment: there was no subsequent deathbed conversion to orthodox faith.

About two-thirds of the Pembroke undergraduates were from public schools, one-third from grammar schools. Ted inevitably gravitated towards the latter group. Brian Cox was a typical example. Born in Grimsby into a frugal, lower-middle-class Methodist household, he grew up an avid reader, burying himself in the Grimsby public library after his mother died of tuberculosis when he was ten. After National Service, during which he wrote half a novel, he won a scholarship to Pembroke. With his friend Tony Dyson, another Pembroke man, he attended a term of Dr Leavis’s classes but was disillusioned by the narrowness of his taste and the seeming puritanism of his critical method. Cox blamed Cambridge English for killing his own creativity and driving him to become a critic rather than an imaginative writer. Looking back on his time at college, he felt that he had learned more from his contemporaries than from the English Faculty: breakfast, lunch and dinner were taken in the college hall and the students who were ‘in passionate love with literature’ sat together, arguing ‘over the long wooden tables about Shakespeare or Donne or Dickens meal by meal’.4

In his first year, Ted had to prepare for the ‘Preliminary’ examinations, which had to be passed but did not count towards the final degree. He took a medieval paper, in which his special delight was the anonymous alliterative poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, with its green giant carrying away his own chopped-off head, its seductive enchantress and wintry northern English landscapes (including a journey across ‘the wilderness of Wirral’ where Ted had begun his National Service). For the Shakespeare paper, Richard III, Othello and Measure for Measure were set texts, but with his voracious literary appetite he habitually woke at six in the morning and read a complete play by nine. The whole canon was at his command.

Then there was a compulsory language paper (‘use of English’ and translation from either French or Latin) and a paper offering, first, passages for detailed explanation and comment from the Metaphysical poets and Sir Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici, and second, essay topics on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century authors. ‘Swift is the only stylist,’ he opined, the exemplar of ‘clarity, precision, concisenesss and power’.5 The Irish satirist taught Hughes the art of entering a word as if it were a world, of writing prose that is instantly accessible and memorable yet wild in imaginative reach. There was also a paper on literary criticism and, indeed, underlying all the work was the distinctive Cambridge method of practical criticism: close reading of the words on the page, dating of passages by their style, discrimination of good poetic writing from bad. In everything that he wrote, Hughes chose his words with care. He judged his own writing by the high standards instilled by John Fisher and reinforced by the Cambridge school of criticism. His letters to Olwyn are prose poems in themselves: ‘Sometimes I think Cambridge wonderful, at others a ditch full of clear cold water where all the frogs have died. It is a bird without feathers; a purse without money; an old dry apple, or the gutters run pure claret.’6

In his second term, King George VI died and there was a sense of national excitement and new hope projected on to the young Queen. He exclaimed to Olwyn that they were the new Elizabethans, the first since the time of Hamlet; he wrote a masque in which the first Elizabeth met the second; he dared to dream that he might become the poetic soul of a new English Renaissance. His principal extra-curricular activity was the university Archery Club – a suitably Elizabethan sport.

Six feet two inches, dark and handsome, he cut a figure striding along King’s Parade in his long dark coat. Reminiscing, he told of an occasion when an undergraduate called out, ‘Ted, Ted,’ ran up to him, shook his hand and said ‘Thank you for saving England.’ He had, he explained, been mistaken for Ted Dexter, the charismatic university cricket captain who made his Test debut while still an undergraduate. The two men did indeed share the same dark good looks. Whether or not there is embellishment in the telling,7 the spirit of the tale is true: saving England by re-embodying the heady spirit of Elizabethan poetry was indeed our Ted’s mission. He believed that a person’s whole biography was visible in their walk.8 All who knew him at Cambridge remembered the long coat and the confident stride, whereas his poetic ambition was, at least in his first year, kept under wraps.

The end of the academic year was marked by a May Ball, held in June. Ted was still in touch with Edna Wholey, who was now living with her husband in nearby Bedford. He had been to stay with them for a weekend and, though he confided to Olwyn that their company now bored him, he went over again and asked Edna to accompany him to the Ball. She declined, probably because her husband disapproved of the idea, but a visitor happened to present, a stunningly beautiful dark-haired Italian called Carina, niece of a Bedford celebrity, boxer and bit-part movie actor Tony Arpeno. So Ted asked her instead. Since they had never met before, everyone was rather startled when Carina accepted. Her parents booked a hotel room in Cambridge, waited up anxiously all through the night of the Ball and whisked her off to the station at dawn. A surviving photo from Ball night shows Ted with his trademark lock of hair falling over the eyes. He has the facial expression of a cat that got the cream.

Summer back home in Woodlands Avenue, Todmorden, was dull in comparison, with Gerald far away in Australia and Olwyn working in London. After graduating, she had taken a secretarial course at Pitman on the Bayswater Road in order to make herself employable. Ted set up a study for himself in the attic and prepared for his second year.

When he returned to Pembroke in the autumn, he had different accommodation. It was a good-sized first-floor room with large windows, tucked away in a building that had once been the Master’s Lodge, reached via an opulent staircase and looking out over the Fellows’ car park. He was screened from street-noise, but annoyed by a loud public schoolboy on the floor above. He took revenge by playing Beethoven far into the night.

Music was a serious passion. Olwyn moved to Paris that autumn to take up a secretarial job at the British Embassy, and he wrote to tell her of many a concert. His standards were high: at a recital by the legendary pianist Solomon (Cutner) there were some disappointingly slight encore pieces and then, in response to the cry ‘More Beethoven!’, a rendering of the Waldstein sonata which Ted did not consider up to scratch. He expressed a good deal more enthusiasm for his new academic supervisor, a graduate student called Eric Mottram, who was a poet and an enthusiast for avant-garde American poetry. ‘I never knew anyone so forceful in his flow,’ Ted told Olwyn. Supervisions were heated, argumentative, energising, extending well beyond the appointed hour’s length.9

By day, Ted took charge of the reorganisation of the Archery Club. He kept a great bow in a corner of his room, and practised for hours. By virtue of representing the university against Oxford, he won a ‘half-blue’. In the evenings, besides concerts, there were films and plays – and the pub. The highlight of Michaelmas term was a poetry reading by Dylan Thomas, at the Cambridge Union under the auspices of the English Society. For the first time, Ted witnessed a charismatic poet in the flesh, holding an audience rapt with his word music. Afterwards, together with McCaughey and a couple of other friends, he followed Dylan Thomas and the society committee to the Eagle in Bene’t Street so as to listen in on their conversation. Thomas and his acolytes spoke of filling Swansea Bay with beer. Elated, Ted and his friends then returned to Pembroke and burst into the room of Francis Holmes à Court, a literary-minded undergraduate of aristocratic pedigree (he subsequently succeeded his father, the 5th Baron Heytesbury). There they met another Welshman, a freshman called Daniel Huws who had been at school with Holmes à Court and had now come up to Peterhouse, just across the road. Ted, still high on the oxygen of Thomas’s poetry, didn’t really notice him, but the following year their respective circles of friends conjoined in the Anchor pub, with its dark-brown bar, table-football machine and, downstairs, benches by the landing-stage beside the punts waiting for hire.