MacCaig, who died in 1996, shares a small part of my history, as well as a tiny part of my psyche. For a few minutes we actually share the same story, though I have no proof he remembered or mentioned the episode. However, because of it, I abandoned him as a writer for fear I should stumble upon a work called, perhaps, ‘A Heartless Bastard’. That would be soul destroying; I’m less concerned with the noun, it’s the adjective that would really bother me.
The possibility that a literary figure of such international renown might so immortalise and damn me has been the cause of my avoidance of his writings. Indeed, at one time I actually considered penning a letter to him, begging forgiveness and understanding. There were obvious problems with that approach, given he might not have had a clue what I was rambling about besides, having written to Philip Larkin asking for literary advice when I was at school, I was apprehensive of any direct contact that could see it chronicled in an archive while attracting a response akin to “Don’t ever bother me again”.
So, nothing was done, and it is only now that I feel able to share the tale and hope it provides a lesson of some kind for my grandchildren. There is no doubt I don’t come out of this shared tale with MacCaig well but though I know I should have behaved differently, I’m still not exactly sure how. There may even be a moral here, though I’m still not quite sure what it is. In fact, there may be more than one.
The MacCaig connection goes back to 1974 and the University of Stirling. I was an undergraduate, not quite 18 and had just embarked on my first year studies. Norman MacCaig was the Reader in Poetry. I had seen him if not “from a distance” then certainly not in close proximity. He was very distinguished looking, gaunt and wiry with wonderful piercing grey/blue eyes (if I remember correctly).
One morning I was making my way into the main teaching block, having crossed the link bridge, and saw MacCaig, maybe 20 or 30 yards before me, heading in my direction. This was my opportunity for a brief one-to-one encounter. I could greet him and smile. Would I say “Mr MacCaig” or could I get away with “Norman”? Maybe just a nod, and a smile? Whatever, I knew some form of contact was vital with this literary giant.
Unfortunately, this one-to-one equation wasn’t perfect. Between us was a student, stricken with severe mobility problems he was struggling in the corridor, supported by crutches. It obviously took a titanic effort to move as he battled towards his destination.
I was level with him while MacCaig was still a good few paces away, when the student went crashing to the floor, crutches clattering and his bag slithering away.
Nimbly, I stepped over his debris and outstretched limbs and had only managed a pace or two as MacCaig jogged to this fallen soul’s rescue. Passing me, he gave me a look that has stayed with me to this day; a look of bewilderment, disdain and disgust at my disregard for this stricken soul. I turned to watch him as he helped the student to his feet, who offered his gratitude, praising the poet’s kindness. As MacCaig offered his physical support, in a half-bent position he saw me standing watching this scene and gave me a long withering look.
I turned and walked away.
After that, obviously I saw MacCaig in the corridors many times and if I acknowledged him, which I may or may not have, I have an image of a terse nodded response. That may well be a false recollection but I am certain we never exchanged a verbal greeting over the next three years.
And that ends the tale of the encounter between MacCaig and myself. If he remembered it at all, it is fairly accurate. I appreciate any reader will be puzzled why I would share a story of such callous indifference on my part to someone much less fortunate than myself, with me focusing instead on trying to make an impression on someone I deemed ‘famous’.
Now, while this tale does indeed mark the beginning, middle and end of ‘The Heartless Bastard’ as played out on that morning, there is another tale that impacts on this, and that occurred just 48 hours before Norman MacCaig strode down that corridor.
Stirling University is in a beautiful location. Becoming a student was the start of my great adventure and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. The halls of residence were on one side of Airthrey Loch, with a forested backcloth, and you were connected to the main teaching block via a link bridge. The views were stunning, times were exciting, life was good.
As I reached the link bridge on this morning, I could see a good distance ahead of me, someone struggling on crutches. He was making slow progress and I was closing on him quickly. He managed to wrestle the doors open into the block and I remember how surprised I was no-one even bothered to open the doors for him.
Just inside was the newsagent, the student union shop and the library. There were a few folk milling around, just coming and going, with no-one paying much attention to their struggling fellow student.
I would have just been a couple of paces behind him when one of his crutches slipped and he crashed painfully to the floor, the contents of his bag scattering. Everyone else just appeared to ignore him as I immediately, ran to his rescue, picking up a folder, grabbing his crutch, then turning to see how I could help get him back upright.
At that point, he twisted on the floor, lashing out with his other crutch, narrowly missing my head. I froze, totally bewildered as he screamed at me: “F*** off! F*** off you c***! F*** off!”
“Hey, I’m only trying to help you,” I replied as reassuringly as I could.
“I don’t need your f***** help!” he roared. “I’m telling you ‘f*** off!”
I made an effort to help him on to his feet which brought another swipe with the crutch and more shouting, “F*** off! Don’t you f****** understand, I need to do this on my own? Now f*** off and leave me alone!”
The shouting hadn’t attracted any attention at all. People coming though from the link bridge just gave us both a wide berth, ignoring the scene: me standing over a fallen student grasping for his crutches while he roared obscenities at me.
Shaken, and I suppose understanding his anger and frustration, I had no option but to leave him to struggle to get back upright. It was a lesson learned. Then, two days later, the curtain rose on his, and my, Norman MacCaig encounter.
In the months ahead this fellow would occasionally crash to the floor and everyone just navigated around him. I still wonder if the Reader in Poetry noticed that too. I never got used to it.
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