‘If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along the corridor in the other direction.’ Dietrich Bonhoeffer
I received a package in the post containing my American travel book, No Particular Place to Go, a stamped addressed envelope and a letter from someone in Warwick requesting my signature, or, if possible, a signed photo of myself. She enclosed a few of her poems, in case I was interested. She didn’t want to put me to any trouble. I signed the book and had a look at the poems. They were good in a very up-to-date, knowing sort of way, mostly about sex. I wrote a few suggestions on them, then sent everything back with a complimentary letter and a photo of myself. The following week she wrote back saying she was putting a collection together and wondered if I would mind casting an eye over it before she sent it off. I agreed to this, adding that I would like a signed photograph of her. I knew that she would recognize this request from a story in my travel book in which I ask for an American fan’s photo, only to be met off the Greyhound bus in San Francisco by her irate Italian boyfriend.
Some months went by before the typescript arrived. Attached to it was an old black-and-white photo of a ladies hockey team, signed on the back with a big heart ‘Love from Natalie’. I edited the book and sent it back to her. A few weeks later she wrote saying she was working for the Leamington Spa Poetry Festival and invited me to come and do a reading. A couple of school workshops were thrown in for the following morning, which, together with the reading, would make up quite a handsome fee. I agreed to this and she wrote back saying that the Festival was putting writers up in private houses, in order to save money, and that, if it was all right with me, I would be staying with her. I wrote back saying this was all right with me.
When the time came, I set off for Leamington wearing my best shirt and feeling optimistic. To get to Leamington, you take the train from Paddington, change at Reading, then take a train north. I got out at Reading, made enquiries and got on the next train to Lymington on the south coast. (I found out later that this is where you take the ferry to the Isle of Wight.) Realizing what I had done, I ran up and down the compartment like a trapped animal, asking people whether I should get out at the next stop, or stay on the train to Lymington and start again from there. Opinion seemed to suggest that I should stay on the train. So it was that I arrived at Lymington just as my audience were taking their seats for my reading at Leamington. Instead of amusing them with stories of mishaps in the States, it seemed I was off gathering material nearer home.
I rang Natalie on her mobile, explaining what had happened. She said not to worry, jump on the next train and she’d keep the audience happy. I changed trains at Reading again and arrived at Leamington Library exactly three hours late for my reading. Natalie was waiting in the entrance for me – a pretty graduate student on work experience.
The audience was sizeable and everyone was very nice about the long ‘intermission’, during which they were afraid to say they’d made a start on the wine and nibbles. Natalie whisked me to the podium and I began the difficult task of being worth waiting three hours for. Almost as soon as I started it became apparent that this was not going to be possible. Within a minute, the audience were shuffling their feet, as if they were getting ready to leave. Although they had been able to control themselves, even enjoy themselves, while sitting there doing nothing, to have this feat capped by a reading was too much for them. I understood how they felt. I apologized once more and asked if I could buy anyone a drink. As I descended from the podium, Natalie approached, saying what a valiant job I’d done and would I mind signing a few copies of my book. Not a trace of dismay, or even surprise, showed on my face as she introduced me to her parents, in whose house I was going to be staying. They were teachers at the school where I was going to be taking the workshops next morning, so they could take me there in their car. I expressed my delight with these arrangements.
There were one or two copies of my libidinous travel book to sign, then it was a short walk to where I would be staying. As we left the library I found myself walking with Natalie’s mother, who, to my alarm, was holding a copy of the incriminating item in her hand. She told me how much she’d enjoyed the reading and how pleased they were that I was going to be staying with them in their spare room. Looking me in the eye and with almost no hint of irony in her voice, she added, ‘I’ve read your book.’