DAVID DUMOURIEZ wouldn’t be tempted to blow his own trumpet even if (a) he had a trumpet or (b) he knew how to play one
R. Anthony Browne
He loves to walk, thinks it
‘concentrates the mind’
but never moves the same way twice>
You see, he can’t decide. Longer steps
transport the body quicker, no debate.
But sometimes – OK, often – straining’s
the occasion of a slip. The shorter pace
provides a sense of height (a boon
at five feet eight, it should be said!)
yet, performed with some neglect, could see
itself interpreted as ‘mincing’ or as ‘camp’.
And so, you see, at forty-three, he’s never
found his stride. He will, though, he believes.
Such matters can’t be rushed or forced.
As he tells himself repeatedly:
‘elegance is key’.
Where some are something in the City,
he is half. The lesser half of something,
or the greater half of nothing, isn’t clear.
He has a desk and cubicle, and youngsters
to assist him if they’re in. His bosses know
his work but struggle with his name.
Except at Christmas, which is strange.
By their good auspices, he hopes to have an
office of his own. He doesn’t for a moment
pause to think that he’s already jammed
his crampon in its highest peak.
But the office is much more. A theatre.
A space in which to see, and to be seen.
A place not just for romance, but for love.
Yes, for love. That’s right.
He’s not beyond that notion yet, or ever.
Could narrate a few amazing tales, could he.
But wouldn’t, for the sake of those in question.
Their modesty and such. And, well, those
delightful moments now were done. The midnight
aches they brought, and shakes of great
anticipation (the more denied, the more intense).
Those girls were gone. Married and had kids.
He recalled them still and wished them well,
even now that everything was over.
In any case, he’d finally found ‘the one’.
Tracey Whitworth (how many months his youth?),
lips never less than crimson, with a curling tongue.
He’d never talked to her of anything
but paper clips and staplers. But he would.
He would. He would …
Yes, it’s elegance defines him, he believes.
Within the office, or without, he aims
to be the one who sets ‘the moment’.
Well, you wouldn’t understand. It’s the pure
articulation of those elements you’ve seen
and hardly noted but which, combined,
create a perfect whole. Let two words suffice:
Cary. Grant. OK, two more: Jude. Law.
For the old world charm, the former.
The latter for a modern urban take.∗
To this end, he suits it up in style.
Has a little silk and cashmere number,
made for him – of course, bespoke –
by an evasive little cutter on the coast,
with a knowing nod to Dolce & Gabbana.
Defying good advice, he went one-button.
And, when weeks of stitching turned to months,
the piece had almost lost its link to fashion.
Fitted well enough. Except perhaps the sleeves.
On the journey up from Thornton Heath,
he felt a right Marcello in that cloth.
For a while, at least. But those Burton-covered
fools had never noticed. Miss Whitworth
must have done. Yes, Miss Whitworth would.
Walking’s been integral to his carless life.
Well, you didn’t need one in the city.
It’s all our duties, he would say,
to do a little something for the planet.
If a prince among the plebs was what
his destiny was meant to be, then who
was he to argue or complain? That every
person had his place was plain to see.
It fell to him to occupy the role
of an exemplar. And if he were to rise
to greater heights and leave the drunkards
and the hooligans behind – if, that is,
some honour or some recognition were
to come his way – well, let’s just say …
And so you’ll see him at the weekends
on his travels. Most probably he’ll be alone,
but that’s from choice. It’s not that he’s without
close friends – far from it – just they slow him down.
There used to be a fellow, lived near Sutton,
who hoarded Eurovision souvenirs.
They might do Charing Cross together,
Leicester Square. Or Croydon High Street
on a less inspired day. But that was rare.
He found the chap annoying, to be fair,
and saw him less and less, till less was never.
Better company would doubtless come his way.
The climate of the island is his joy.
The coldest days will see him wrestling
with an outsize Crombie from an Oxfam shop
in Coulsdon that’s no longer there.
A little cooler brings a beige check blazer
that he bought from Hackett in a sale.
You should see his orange pocket square!
He likes to think he’d hand it to a lady
if the need for such a case arose.
But such is the dilemma of a dandy:
to aid or to refuse a human nose?
Cooler still brings linen. Bought in Marks
and Spencer off the rack. Perhaps he’ll
team it with a hat. And if he feels
particularly daring, a sockless pair
or espadrilles will go with that.
And always in his pocket is his card,
printed privately, apart from work:
R. Anthony Browne
(he agonised about ‘esquire’)
with his address and contact number,
ready to be handed in an arc if there
were any takers with the requisite desire.
R. Anthony Browne.
The ‘h’ to be distinctly sounded,
thank you very much.
R. Anthony Browne.
To have his trouser bottoms up or down?
To wear a tie-clip? To risk a t-shirt
with a scooped-out neck?
R. Anthony Browne.
These are his seasons and days.
‘We live in hope’
his favourite phrase.
he sees himself as Jude.
And, discount the paunch, it’s true.
Just not the Dickie Greenleaf Jude
but the Phil Collins version
of a later, sadder hue.)
DAVID DUMOURIEZ wouldn’t be tempted to blow his own trumpet even if (a) he had a trumpet or (b) he knew how to play one