⭗

Southwell, the Chapter House, the delicate, convoluted carving on the capitals, foliage is it, yes, leaves, the book The Leaves of Southwell, now I think of it, though I did not know of it at the time, but June did, she knew the cathedral was important for at least this, that was perhaps the main reason why we visited it, when was it, fairly late in our friendship, for I had by then begun to take a great deal of interest in architecture, at about the same time they moved to Lincoln, but how could it be, for they had the car, we went by car, their little blue Austin, which I had picked up for them, yes how the mind arranges itself, tries to sort things into orders, is perturbed if things are not sorted, are not in the right order, nags away.                  Southwell, said to June it was a useful place to bring children, to show them differences, for the nave was Norman, the choir EE, and the Chapter House, octagonal, best of all, was Dec. The carving I was marvellously impressed with, appropriately, from a technical point of view, the depth cut under the leaves, at such angles, but did not see the point of representing natural things thus, why, it is all tied up with truth, with things being what they are, and so on and so forth.             There was some good carving, too, on the choir screen, in a stone more translucent than that in the Chapter House, which I enjoyed more, on my own, for we had split up, all three of us, to go separate ways. And the stink of such dead places. The car was parked outside, was it, did I drive there, or with Tony, still a learner then? It does not matter. Certainly I remember a bookshop, and going into it, perhaps I bought The Leaves of Southwell there, it seems most likely, for I certainly have a copy. I rather think they were at Lincoln then, but had come over because they had to pick up the car from June's father, living in a village outside, but what was I doing there? I never stayed at Lincoln, nor at the father's, so either I came up for the day, no, it was evening when we picked up the car, or they were still here in this city. But the car was certainly at the father's, for it was he who had found it for them, at his local garage, I think, knew that it was in good condition, was worth buying. But why did they want me to pick it up? Neither of them had a licence at that time, but Tony was learning, was competent enough. To get it back to their house as soon as possible, here, I suppose, wanting to own it, in fact, I know the feeling. This one was an Austin, pale blue, a pastel shade, but it was not their choice, merely what was available, for some reason, they had to live with it: I can't remember the model, what it was, but see it clearly, dumpy, solid, poster blue. June's father told me about the main road junction on to a by-pass of this village, perhaps over-anxiously warned me, I don't know, perhaps his was a proper concern, I don't know. After we were well away from the village, they were guiding me on a ride, a journey. Tony took over, drove well enough, all he needed was experience, he passed his test not so very long after this. The mining villages around this city, I had not seen them before this first journey in their car. The fields around, just fields, no slagheaps that I remember, and suddenly the great wheels at the pithead on the skyline round a bend, classically, as if not industrial, not black country visual clichés. We had a drink in a pub somewhere, near a new bridge here, on the way back, it was dark by then, though summer, and in the car park there was some incident, I think someone was backing into Tony's path, and he kept going, they both kept going, and I was supposed to be the one looking out for a learner, but I could not reach the brake as it was the other side of Tony, farther from me, and all I could do was to push the horn button, to touch the horn ring, did it have one, that model, and the other man stopped in time.