Skylark

I was travelling by myself along a motorway one early spring morning. The roof was down and I could feel the air buffeting me. Sometimes it was cold. Other times ,when it held the heat of the sun, it was soft and warm. Despite the surrounding noise of the traffic I could still hear some birds singing and music from the radio. It was the early morning show on Radio Three from the BBC playing an eclectic mix of music. Around eight thirty there was always a break from the mainstream classics of Beethoven, Mozart, Handel and the like. There would be "classics" within their own genre be it pop, rock, folk or my favourite; Jazz.

Past mornings at this time there had been Ella Fitzgerald singing an extended version of “Mac The Knife”. It was extended by accident because she forgot the words half way through and had to improvise resulting in a jazz classic. Dave Brubeck playing “Unsquare Square Dance”, a challenge to any aspiring drummer let alone anyone attempting to keep time with any nearby cutlery, pens or pencils. Jacques Loussier playing his modern arrangements of Bach by bending and moulding notes like Salvador Dali did with watches and chickens but in a such a respectful way I am sure the composer would appreciate.

This one morning the host, Petroc Trelawny, introduced “Skylark” whose words were written by Johnny Mercer and the music by Hoagy Carmichael in 1941.

Until those two creative men synergised their talents the letters and musical notes were stored somewhere. Just waiting without form or emotion to receive a message they were needed. It was their turn to be used to express whatever feelings those two creative minds experiencing. Maybe they were both looking for love or even trying to recover love lost, but who could help them? The skylark; nature’s winged symbol of joy and freedom that could fly without the burdens of disillusion, heartbreak and disappointment that people experience.

I heard the name of the vocalist “Marion Montgomery accompanied on the piano by her husband, Laurie Holloway”. I slowed down slightly to reduce the sound of the buffeting air. Soft ephemeral piano notes drifted from the speakers to mingle with the sunlight and air swirling around me. And then the voice. Smokey, soft and with the slightest of husky undertones came on:

Those words could have been from the pen of Shakespeare or Milton to become indelible memorials and part of a Western literary canon, but they aren’t; yet. They were written over eighty years ago and are still in the gauche vestibules of popular culture waiting to be canonized.

Within the moment of time that it takes a particle of light to pass through a hydrogen molecule, the smallest measure of time known to man, a zeptosecond; the sounds I was hearing were being passed through every held memory to return and create very immediate emotions.

My first job when I was about thirteen or fourteen years old was working for the local shoe repair shop. Every Saturday I would cycle around my designated route delivering repaired shoes, collecting the money and collecting more shoes for repair. My route was through the villages of Holyport, Stud Green, Moneyrow Green, parts of Maidenhead and Bray which was on the way back to the shop.

This one winter’s morning it was cold. Not just cold but a bone penetrating cold that came with a frost clinging to the trees and a light killing mist. The last house I had to call on was in Bray High Street. It was a small black and white cottage that is still there I had called their several times before, but no one had answered the door. This morning I did think “maybe not and I can be on my way…but just in case perhaps I should”. I did and the door opened.

A lady stood in the doorway in full evening dress. The warmth from inside the home wafted around her. She took one look at me in my bundled layers like a refugee from Siberia

“Hi honey, you look frozen…come in. Now why are you out on a morning like this?” she asked in a smoky, soft voice with the slightest of husky undertones laced with a southern states accent.

My glasses steamed up.

“I wonder if you had any shoes for repair?” I answered.

“You’re not from round here are you honey?”

We had only been in the country for three years then and I still had a lot of Canadian accent.

“No, I’m from Edmonton in Canada…do you know it…where are you from?” I asked.

“Know of it but not been there. Mississippi…a lot warmer than here. What’s your name honey?”

“Alan” I answered.

“Well pleased to meet you Alan…I’m Marion and over there at the piano is…Laurie, do you need any shoes repaired that Alan can take away?”

The man looked up from the piano, smiled, played some random notes that wafted towards me in the warmth and said he hadn’t but thank you anyway.

It only took a few minutes for me to warm up as we chatted. My glasses cleared. It was time to go and cycle the last two miles back to the shop where I could dump the load of shoes I had collected, dump the dreaded bike, get my weekly wages and then cycle, without any slipping gears, home to get warmed up again.

Before I left I got a warm hug and was told to look after myself, especially in this cold weather.