Testo Grass Seed - Ivor Cutler
Testo della canzone Grass Seed (Ivor Cutler), tratta dall'album The Collection 1959-1961
I want to take you back several years—no, no, many years by now
I want you to imagine that you are sitting listening to me
Not today, but on a night during the Second World War, when the
Nazi blitz on London was at its fiercest. I am sitting in
Broadcasting House, Portland Place, in the only habitable part of
It at that strange time, the basement. You are possibly sitting
In a basement too. I am broadcasting what was then a weekly radio
Feature, the Postscript to the Nine O'Clock News. November 1940
I am going to talk about a woman I know. She's forty-seven, below
Normal in height and in breadth, and lives in London. Her calling
Is both the humblest and the most independent of all. She doesn't
Answer to the name of a "Lady Help." Oh no, when she answers
The phone, all you hear is "This is the charwoman speaking. Yes?"
Her face in repose is melancholy and a little vague. Her grey hair
Curls quite prettily over the temples, but her looks are spoiled
By one protruding tooth which her married daughter keeps begging
Her to have out, but she won't hear of it. A gypsy once told her
That one day it's going to bring her luck, and she's sticking to
It. Her clothes are soon described: spotlessly clean, but all
Black, and always black. I've seen her at two christenings in
Black. A shapeless little black toque on the top of her head
Neat little black boots, one slightly over, a tiny fur tippet
And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, obviously a prized wedding present
A brooch with her Christian name flashing across it: "Alexandra."
Any fine morning she's to be seen kneeling on the steps, "doing
Them," the heels of the little boots tapping against each other
As she leans to and fro. Once she's actually on her job, her
Vagueness vanishes. Whether it's polishing the lino or sorting
Out the ration books, she works swiftly, noiselessly, and with
Beautifully precise and cheerful movements. The work done, she
Gets up and the melancholy sets in again. She doesn't talk much
When she does, it's mostly superfluous. For instance, I've never
Yet known the air-raid warning die away without her face coming
Slowly round the corner and her saying, with a look as if she really
Meant to mispronounce the word that way, "That was the serene."
She's been told her pronunciation is not correct and that nothing
Could be less serene than what she's describing, but no, it's like
Her tooth, she's sticking to it. She has two vices. One is singing
While she's washing up, in a very high, completely tuneless voice
The most unsuitable songs. Some time ago it was "The Night is Young"
And "You're So Beautiful." Just lately, when one has become pretty
Well bomb-conscious, her choice is even more unsuitable: "Give
A Little Whistle." "Roll Out the Barrel" she won't hear of, as
It somehow spells "drink" to her and she's got a prejudice. The
Other vice is bomb stories, told in the most spiritless manner
It's the same ritual every time. I have to play up to her, but
It's quite easy. It just means saying "Yes" over and over again
"You know the big store, sir, next the pillar box?" "Yes." "You
Know the picture house next the store?" "Yes." "You know the little
Garage that stands on the other corner?" "Yes." "Well, it's gone."
I said her face was melancholy and reposed, but when something
Really interests her, those eyes suddenly brighten and dart about
Like a bird's, and she even talks. That something which interests
Her isn't the war, which she ignores, and is only mentioned once
When somebody asked her if she didn't think somebody's Austrian
Maid was a fifth columniste, she looked more severe than I've ever
Seen her look, and the old tooth stuck out farther than ever as
She said, "There's only one man that knows all those things, and
That's Mr. Churchill, God bless him. You'd better drop him a line."
No, no, there's only one interest in her life, and that's Reg
Reg is her only son, aged fifteen, an office boy in the city
It isn't that she praises him; on the contrary, she's always
Running him down. "That lad'll be the death of me. People say it's
High spirits, but he's a bad boy." I gather that Reg's great
Accomplishment is combing his hair forward, raising one arm, and
Giving an impersonation of Hitler which is apparently, war or no
War, the talk of the stock exchange. He sounds to me rather a trying
Young chap, but he's her whole life. The only time she's in any
Hurry to finish her work is on Reg's half-day, when she has to get
Home for his dinner. Only he'll bolt it all, and off on that bike
Again, sixty miles an hour, naughty boy, "The serene's gone, sir."
She told me once, in one of her gushes of confidence, that her little
House over the river that she's lived in since she was married, when
They still had gaslight, is going to be Reg's when he grows up. The
Caution she takes as much pride in it as in her ladies' and
Gentlemen's places, and a Bible in a tin box at the
Bottom of the cupboard, tucked behind the dresser her
Mother left her, there are twenty-three one-pound notes
To start Reg in a bit of a shop when the war's over
Oh, but I'm telling you all this in the present, and some of it ought
To be in the past, because on Thursday morning she was late for
The first time since two years ago, when it was discovered that
She'd had pneumonia for forty-eight hours without anybody knowing
She was so late that when I left the house she still hadn't come in
I missed that steady, careful climb down the steps, the discreet
Little cough, the bomb story, and Reg's latest escapade. It seemed
Odd not to see those delicate, veined hands scampering like mice
After the dust under my desk, with the little boots somewhere in
The rear. When I got back about twelve, though, I was relieved to
Hear the clatter of dishes in the sink. No singing. The carpet had
Been hoovered. She'd given all the brass handles on the desk an extra
Polish. I called out, "Everything all right?" She called out, "Yes?
" And I thought no more about it. And then I realized that the noise
Of dish-washing had stopped. There wasn't a sound. I was mystified
And walked into the kitchen. She was standing perfectly still in
Front of the sink, her hands wrist-deep in the soapy water, looking
Out of the window. I spoke her name, and with a great and simple
Dignity, she turned her head.She looked at me, and I knew my
Presentiment had been right. She smiled. I noticed
With a slight shock that her poor old tooth had
Gone, but that didn't spoil the smile, somehow
"You know, sir," she said, "you know the way you teased me
About me bomb stories? Well, I got me own bomb story now."
I followed her eyes to the edge of the draining board
And there I saw the charred halves of two one-
Pound notes. She was obviously shaken, but no worse
"What about Reg?" I said
"Well," she said, looking out of the window almost absentmindedly
"He's all right. Soon as he saw I was okay, he went off on
His bike, the naughty thing, to help with another fire in
The next street, and a wall fell on him, and he fell in a
Crater, and he's in hospital with his legs broken, but he's
All right. When I left, he got the nurses in stitches with
His imitation of Hitler, you know, the one. He's all right."
She was looking out of the window, quite without movement
A single tear rolling into the wrinkles under one eye, when
Slowly and unconsciously almost, she said two things which
I don't think should be forgotten. She said, "You know, sir
He's a very small boy for his age, but he's got spirit."
Then came the only comment on the war I've ever heard
Her make. "That Hitler," she said thoughtfully, still
Looking out of the window. "That Hitler dropping bombs
On Reg and me and such. You know he's a bad loser."
After a lot of difficulty, I persuaded her to go back to Reg and her
Own affairs for the rest of the day. She finished washing up, dried
Her hands methodically on the roller towel, folded up her apron
Put it carefully in its drawer, made up the laundry, perched the
Little toque on top of her head, and set off. I watched that tiny
Unobtrusive figure going its way along the street. She
Got to the fallen masonry strewn on the corner, stopped
Gave one firm twitch to her fur tippet. Black boots
Proceeded to pick their way steadily through the rubble
She was gone. The toughest, bravest little fighter of us all
Credits
Writer(s): Ivor Cutler
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