Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
Once she was a true love of mine
…a song written in a time
When no-one took credit for
the writing
Medieval bards or shapers,
wandered the country
Delighting crowds with
songs, tales and capers
That were passed like
Chinese whispers
meanings drifted, ideas were
lifted
re-shaped and shifted
songs and stories were woven
into what Carl Jung would
call
the collective unconscious
eight hundred years later....
.. ..
My grandfather Fred
Sung songs for a living in
Jung’s time
When all ideas were stamped
with the heavy ink of authorship
In 1921 Fred, his wife Elsie
and their daughter Elva caught a ship
To London from Melbourne
They could afford the trip
because he was an opera singer
Story telling at its’ best
dressed
He had a good voice and a
broad chest
For his Wagnerian roles, he
was best known
A baritone or sometimes bass
His was a public face
And as is the case with such
a face
Disgrace is never far from
view when you fall
So when he fell in love with
my Grandmother Esther
They decided it was a good
call to keep it a secret
Lest the reputation he had
built should suffer
Their affair lasted for
years
And Esther bore first one
child then another
With extraordinary guile
She kept her pregnancies
secret and all the while
arranged for the brothers to
be fostered
In a town far away from the
big smoke
Known for its’ name in an
old folk song
Whose meanings were many and
whose origins were unknown
Remember me to one who lives there
The first-born died young
But the second son Peter
Was blessed with better
fortune
Peter’s been telling stories
all his life
I’ve always listened
Often they’ve blossomed
from thoughts to short
sketches
to scribbled piles of pages
to typed scripts
to full productions
with songs and costumes on
stages big and small
I’ve watched him direct
hundreds of people, family, friends, one and all
In plays and pantomimes he’s
written
For no ends save the
unexplainable yen
To fashion stories and songs
Understanding the lift an
audience feels
When they sing along
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
The urge was strong in him
His invisible father had
planted a seed
That sang a little song in
him
But like Scarborough Fair
He didn’t know the author of
the song he was singing
My father grew up a secret
Wrapped in the itchy contradictory
wool
of speak when you’re spoken
to
and don’t answer back
He’s eighty now
And I have heard too many
tales to mention in one poem
But my favourite yarn
Leaves me feeling like I know
him
Back then, when he was the
secret boy
With secret desires to
entertain
Back then, when those urges
had no reason or name
Picture it
A sunny summer Saturday
Late 1930’s
The seaside town wakes to
excitement
Kettles are boiled, collars
starched
Shirts, skirts, shorts,
shiny shoes and packed lunches
As hundreds make their way
to the brand new lido
All talk is of the day and
the hunches
Of folks with a nose for a
winner
It’s the Scarborough
swimming-gala
But my Dad’s not a swimmer
At least he wasn’t then
But not wanting to be left
out, he hatches a cunning plan
Fit for his heroes of the
silver screen
It’s just a matter of timing
and not being seen ‘til the right moment
So while the crowd gathers
across town
Races underway
Dad sneaks into his foster
auntie’s wardrobe
No thought for the price
he’ll pay
A moment to peruse
Then he slips into a dress
Puts on some shoes
and a cloche hat for finesse
Walks down stairs, grabs a
large umbrella
opens the door to the street
And makes his way calmly to
the pool
Clopping along with big
ladies feet
It’s a neat plan and it’s
going like clockwork
He arrives as they’re taking
a break, in-between races
Peering out from behind a
bush
All he can see is a sea of
faces
Now how the next bit
happened I don’t know
You’d think when the 9 year
old boy in ladies clothes
Climbed the ladder to the
high diving board
Someone would blow the
whistle
But maybe being the son of
an invisible father
Made my Dad some kind of
invisible boy
Whatever it was, to his
surprise and unbounded joy
No-one seemed to notice him until
he got to the top
A hush ripples around the
crowd in a wave
Which breaks into feverish laughs
and calls
He’s neither coward nor
brave
Just certain of his task
Surveying his audience
He puts up his umbrella and
holds it aloft
To bask for a moment in the
undivided attention
Of a crowd of a thousand or
more
The moment he’s been waiting
for
As he steps off the board
30, maybe 40 feet high
He’s sure the umbrella will
just let him float down from the sky
He’ll enjoy the laughter and
soak up the applause
As the crowd erupts and he
becomes the cause
Of the town’s celebrations
“A Scarborough sensation
Such wit! Such vision!
A hilarious plan executed
with amazing precision!”
Of course he plummets and
hits the water with a smack
A lifeguard rescues him
Slaps him on the back
To help him cough up the
water he’s swallowed
You can imagine the chaos
that followed
So when I asked him, “Dad,
why did you do it?”
He just shrugged as if to
say
“if you saw an open door,
wouldn’t you go through it?”
It was like he wouldn’t take
credit for the idea
Like it was just there
Like a song that was hanging
in the clear air
Scarborough Fair’s about two
lovers
Who can’t or won’t be
together
They set each other
impossible tasks
To prove their love for each
other
Ensuring they are forever
kept apart
The secret son of the
invisible father and the distant mother
Leapt with no thought for
the impossible that day
But that’s just one ending
I’m telling the story now
Sending it to you
To do with, what you may
Chris Redmond Oct 2009
.. ..