It was now June. Last term of college before the long summer break. My book, The Great Romantics, was massively overdue. I had renewed it twice under special provisions from the library for those who stubbornly keep and will not relinquish their books. I was going to have to beg Mrs Johnson’s forgiveness, but first I was going to have to find her. I was going to get a fine. Never mind, I loved that book, couldn’t find it in the shops, and was reluctant to part with it.
‘Books, books, books,’ said Mrs Johnson, walking towards me with a brisk eagerness I recognised from her sister Amanda.
‘Where would we be without them? Rebecca Budde, just the person I wanted to see.’
‘Hello, Mrs Johnson.’
‘Hello, indeed. You owe me a large amount of money, young lady. Let me see now.’
‘I’m really, really sorry.’
‘No doubt you are. Well now, I’ve been having a think about this and here’s what I suggest, seeing as you’ve also failed to return A Short History of Brightley.’
‘That’s only a pamphlet.’
‘Still counts as a book. Well, Rebecca. Either you can pay me a large amount of money, or you could do some work here in the library for me after class.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘At least, ooh, let me see, about five pounds. And that’s subsidised by the college.’
‘Five pounds?’
‘Roughly speaking.’
Five pounds?! Dad would kill me. He could half fill the oil tank with that. (He couldn’t really.)
‘How many hours would I have to work?’
‘Let’s say one hour twice a week, and you can start next term. How does that sound?’
That was an afternoon spent washing dishes at the pub.
‘Okay then. Can I keep The Great Romantics until the end of term?’
‘So long as you hand it back then, all right?’
‘I will.’
‘It certainly has its teeth into you that book! What would we do without them? Marvellous inventions, finite and infinite at the same time. The story just goes on in your head. I can honestly say, Rebecca, that there is nothing in this world I love more than a good book. Apart from Mr Johnson and I’m not sure about him sometimes. I am joking of course.’
Mr Treadwell had the faint beginnings of a moustache.
‘Don Juan, First Canto, the verse that is marked on the page, please. This is our essay topic and this essay will count towards your final results for the year. Any questions?’
There was a collective groan from the class.
‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.’
I stared out the window at the traffic slowly climbing the hill.
‘These lines are spoken by a female character in the poem, Donna Julia. Wife and lover, Byron speaks through the female perspective.’
I have met her. I know her. Her name is Augusta.
‘Excellent, thank you, Rebecca.’
Did I say that out loud?
‘Why are you such a lively class, I wonder?’
‘Sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit, Mr Treadwell.’
‘A low form of wit is better than no wit at all, wouldn’t you say? So before I send you out into the wilds of England for summer, I want you to know your subject thoroughly inside and out. Relationships, concepts, context and language.
January 1788. Byron was but a baby at his wet nurse’s breast.’
Snigger from the back of the class at the word breast.
‘Yes, you all knew that date, didn’t you? The British government was shipping boatloads of convicts off to the other side of the world. In January 1788 the First Fleet sailed into Sydney Harbour, only it wasn’t called Sydney then, was it? Some of your ancestors, maybe, sailing to oblivion for nicking a loaf of bread.’
‘What does this have to do with Byron, Mr Treadwell?’
‘We don’t live in a vacuum, do we? Although some of you probably do. We are shaped by the times we are born into.
George the Third was on the throne, mad old George, but none of you have probably ever heard of him.’
My stomach rumbled. I was starving.
‘They have a lovely opera house.’
‘Who does?’
‘Sydney, Australia.’
‘Great, thank you for that insight, Rebecca. One day I hope to visit it, but for now could we get back to the essay question?’
‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.
‘So women had nothing else in their lives except love but men could do other things.’
‘Excellent, James, thank you . . .’
James Wright grinned at me. If he thought I was impressed by that he was mistaken.
‘So now we know about the women in Byron’s life. Don’t we? His half-sister, Augusta Leigh. His lovers, one of whom was Lady Caroline Lamb, we have talked about this. His wife, Anne Isabella Milbanke, and his daughter from that marriage, Augusta Ada. Augusta was a popular name in the nineteenth century. You should all know this and I expect to see it in your work when I read your essays. Answers focused on the quote, please.’
Augusta. That name spoken so casually in the classroom hissed in my brain. I stared at my legs under the table. I felt like the unstable king, George the Third. I was in a period of madness and recovery seemed far away. What would Mother do with George the Third? Come on, George, sit yourself down and get some of this in you. At the very least she would have cooked stuffed cabbage for him and one of her moist crumbling apple strudels. Would my mother still love me if she knew about my madness? My ghosts? When was lunch? I really was very hungry indeed. Something weird was happening to me.
I couldn’t wait for class to finish so I could go home.
‘How different is life today? If Byron was alive in 1974, what would he think?’
‘He’d think David Bowie was God.’
‘Yes, and?’
Silence. Fidget, cough. Could I bring Algernon to college?
How about Augusta? Let her explain the past.
‘Mr Treadwell?’
‘Ah, someone else speaks. How interesting this might turn out to be.’
‘Can’t we just do “So, We’ll Go No More a Roving”?
I understand that one.’
‘Thank you, James, but no. Off you go, essay outlines back before the end of term, please.’
Two lines would do me nicely. Two short lines, Byron, can you hear me?
I read and reread those two lines on the bus home until I felt sick from the constant movement.
Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis woman’s whole existence. My head banged against the bus window and maybe that knocked some sense into me. Half a mile to Brightley and I was like Helen Keller in that film Mum loved—Helen Keller drawing water from the well. Helen Keller knew. What did she know, Budde? Think it through, think, Budde, think. She understood the meaning of words she could not hear. The cold wet liquid rushing through her hands was water. How did she know that? The word became the water. She felt the meaning of the word through her hands. When she touched the water she could feel it because the water was the word. She could drink it, bathe in it, it was hot, it was cold, it was wet. It kept her alive.
Going home to Brightley on the four fifteen bus, I thought I understood what Byron was saying in those two lines. I could hear the voice of the poet reaching down for me. I knew who was prancing around in the dark thinking she had found him. Oh Mr Treadwell, I am never going to be able to write this stuff in an essay.
The driver let me off at the corner as usual. A huge crow flew past. Brown eyes swivelling like secret worlds. Augusta, My whole existence. Taken up with love. I was The Great Romantic. Consumed with finding love. Cream buns and cake had permanent residence in my brain. Wasn’t love the most important thing in the world? Augusta was like me. Or was I like her? The crow landed on the gate and watched me, never once taking its eye from me, head cocked to one side, staring from its stark black feathers.
Augusta? You still want love. Same as me. That’s why you’re here.