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A very young English girl raised her hand and proceeded to read her own poem from a handwritten notebook in her lap. It was about rising sea levels. Her voice was sad, Claire thought – sad and heartfelt. Her neighbour, possibly her boyfriend, took the girl’s notebook from her lap and, turning pages, said he would read her poem about suicide.
‘Only one poem from each poet,’ said Panmelys quickly, cutting him off.
Again, she searched through her stack. ‘Aha!’ she said, pulling a piece of paper folded in fourths from inside the cover of a very old book. She held it up triumphantly. ‘I’d like someone to read this one .?.?.’
Claire held her breath as Panmelys stepped towards her, holding her gaze.
At the last second, she turned to Ronan and handed the page to him. ‘You, I believe, have the voice for this one.’
Ronan took the paper from her hand and, handing his mug of tea to Claire, began to unfold it.
‘Stand up,’ said Panmelys, and she led Ronan to stand in front of the window, centre stage.
Ronan looked at the page, obviously scanning the words. He seemed happy enough with his task. He looked at Claire. She thought she caught the merest twitch of his left eyelid, a hint of the conspiratorial wink he used to give her when they needed to make a connection in a crowded room.
‘The Planter’s Daughter,’ he began.
‘A bit louder, please,’ interrupted Panmelys.
Ronan cleared his throat. ‘“The Planter’s Daughter” by Austin Clarke.’ He began again, warm and confident, in what Claire knew was his schoolteacher’s voice.
‘Lovely,’ said Panmelys. ‘Now, embrace the rhetoric!’
A wave of muffled laughter circled the room, but Panmelys batted it away with her hand.
Claire sat rigidly still, a mug of tea in each hand, listening.
‘When night stirred at sea
And the fire brought a crowd in,
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went –
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly,
And O –’
Just there, with the shape of that ‘O’ still on his lips, Ronan looked up, looked over and straight at Claire.
