Revelations to a Ward Nurse

"What do you do, then?" she enquired with interest and bright eyes.

This was in the ward where patients wait until fit enough to escape.

Slightly stunned by her question, I hesitated a bit before murmuring:

"Lots of things, I suppose."

"You sound like a teacher. I'd say you're a teacher," she declared.

She had inadvertently opened a floodgate.

"I suppose I could be described that way, but not formally," said I.

"What do you mean?" And again: "You sound just like a teacher."

"I am the Magister [Latin for Teacher], recognised by Robin

all of half a century ago in old Londinium when he resided at

26 Freegrove Road on the ground floor where very weak tea

was consumed and weaker, watery porridge was prepared on 
a small burner. He saw it. While others had known it, Robin

articulated it in words of intelligence, music and artistry. When

he left these shores for goodness knows where, he bequeathed

me his collection of obscure vinyl albums. I still have them."

"Can you recall the names of any of them that I might know?"

"Lots of Messiaen. Also the Rolling Stones, Webern and Schönberg."

"I've heard of the Rolling Stones. So you're a Magister?" 

"I am the Magister. Or, at least, that was told to me."

I slipped my very colourful cotton shirt on as I prepared to depart.

Volunteering: "I am a musician, an artist pitched in B♭. I paint

with words and also with oils. I am, however, not of this world."

Her eyes opened even wider. "I can see it now. What do you play?"

"My instruments are the tenor, baritone and bass saxophones.

Though I seek to acquire a contra-bass horn one distant day."

Her only reply was: "Cool."

"Yes," said I, "Cool jazz, post-bop and especially the avant-garde."

"Yes, I can see it now you're in that flowery shirt," she added admiringly.

"Well, I have signed all the forms; so I'll be off." I moved toward the exit.

She cupped her chin in one hand, tilting her head at an angle of 44°.

"What are you really?" she almost whispered, as I moved further away.

"The Magister. The entire universe vibrates in the pitch of B♭.

If you listen from deep within - with an open mind and heart -

you will hear the truth I convey. The music is always there.
The notes have a period of oscillation of ten million years."

"Cool, cool ..." she chanted from the back of the ward, as I swept into

the distant corridors of ether-laden walls from far off yestercentury. 

When I returned to where I dwell, I grabbed by big bass horn in B♭, and

blew it for all I was worth with windows open and a strong wind rising.

Portrait (detail) of Robin (oil on canvas)

Robin with his girlfriend Janet (oil on canvas)

Robin with Janet at 26 Freegrove Road, N7

Robin shortly after his journey to the East.

Robin was born at 5.00pm on 11 January 1944 at 41 Calabria Road, which remained his place of residence until the age of twenty. Thence he resided at 6 Granville Street, Loughborough, until he was twenty-two when relocation to Chepstow Crescent, Notting Hill occurred. This was followed when he was twenty-three with a move to 133 Brecknock Road. A few months later he arrived at 11 Miranda Road. His final destination was a ground floor bedsitting room at 26 Freegrove Road. He was twenty-four and a half. This was interrupted by a journey with his girlfriend Janet to the East, arriving at Palei Village, Ahmedebad, on 5 December 1968. He was back at Freegrove Road on 11 March 1969.

The serendipity of it all did not pass me by. Long before I became acquainted with Robin I knew his landlord, a certain Peter Regis. He now owned more than one property stuffed with tenants, and a string of boutiques. When I knew him back in the Fifties, however, I was an infant. Some years older, he proved to be something of a bully, and someone best avoided. Indeed, everyone avoided him.

Robin referred to him as "Reggio," on account of his Mafia-like persona. When I was reacquainted with him as a young adult, Peter could not have been nicer and treated me with the utmost respect.

Following his journey to the East, Robin sometimes referred to me as "Magister" and himself as "Rah Bin-Bhai." He had left school at the age of nineteen with Geography and Geology 'A' levels, and English Language, English Literature, French, Latin, History, Geography, Geology and Maths 'O' levels. I knew of his existence during those school days, but we never spoke. He was less gregarious back then, and carried about his person a certain air of superiority that had all but vanished by the time he had become a gramophone librarian in the winter of 1963. This is when we became friends.

My photographic studio was a short walk away, and I would pop into the library from time to time.

Even so, he had spent three weeks cutting grass in Edmonton Cemetery during June-July 1966 before his journey to the East, and eventual return to being ensconced in the gramophone library. He resigned his post in June 1968, and that is when we embarked upon some of our own adventures, and I came to know Janet better, someone I vaguely knew already from years prior. I also became acquainted with Robin and Pamela May of Kentish Town through Robin. These people, like Robin and Janet, were into art, jazz, progressive music and the avant-garde. Indeed, Janet went on to teach art at Maidstone College. She was keen to see my work, to see what I was capable of with paint, but was somewhat nonplussed when she did, not quite knowing what to make of it. Robin, of course, loved it, and seemed to like her reaction to my art. He felt something existed between Janet and I. It did not.

In our latter time together, I asked Robin for the title he would like for any potential autobiography.

"45° ― The Story of a Vagrant Spirit: Shipwrecked but Optimistic as Ever,"  he came back with.

I also asked him for something he would like to have quoted either in a book or on a gravestone:

"I knew what I was doing all along, but just couldn't believe it, honest guv,"  is what he proffered.