A short walk through the town and school of Rugby; so many literary associations.
My travels did not take me very far. Just a short walk to school, a dive back of a hundred years or more. Two hundred yards from home took me to my first remembered pain: the War Memorial, standing proud for fourscore years and ten, now accuses my neglect of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen whose words have seared my soul.
I hurried on; that insignificant Edwardian house I passed now bears a bright blue plaque: I wish it were a happier memory. How brief, how rich in poetry was the life of Rupert Brooke. Another sensitive, senseless victim of a horrid war. Did he, I wonder, realise how futile his death was? We were robbed of much delight. My treasured volume of his collected poems endured moves between continents.
Then, turning a corner, I passed by The Close. The hallowed grass of Rugby School trodden upon by many authors, not least Thomas Hughes of Tom Brown’s Schooldays fame. Matthew Arnold, whose poems I have always loved; Arthur Ransome, whose nephew was a great friend of my father’s:I treasure his books still; Salman Rushdie; D Watkins-Pitchford – ‘BB’- who enchanted me with stories of the miniature Little Grey Men and their adventures on the tiny stream I fished for minnows; Anthony Horowitz, teacher’s friend – who else excites young boys as much as Alex Rider Secret Agent?
Rushdie I did not know; Horowitz was my age; yet the others were as much a part of my growing up in Rugby as my own family. As I grew older, the walk to school became a walk to the hospital; a dog walk; a short cut to town: yet, whatever my purpose or my destination, the words still whispered to me from the buildings I passed. I remember them still.
