Betjeman and the Bear Necessities of Life

Today, 19th May, is the anniversary of John Betjeman's death in 1984. I found it so hard to fully fathom and 'package' this chap. I have a friend who knows his poem: Death in Leamington' by heart. I love 'In a Bath Teashop', but not a great deal else, but there's something about him. 

                   

His childhood bear, Archibald Ormsby-Gore, came with him to Oxford's Magdalen College; becoming the model for Sebastian Flyte's, Aloysius, in Evelyn Waugh's, Brideshead Revisited. (C.S. Lewis, his tutor, thought him an 'idle prig'). The bear came off better than Betjeman who failed to graduate; he also had a poem dedicated to him, and a book based on his exploits, written for his children: 'Archibald and the Strict Baptists' (?! Hilarious title),who, as an amateur archaeologist, was convinced molehills were the graves of baby Druids. 

Betjeman had being suffered bullied; the bear was his one constant in life. Touching to read:

Safe were those evenings of the pre-war world

When firelight shone on green linoleum;
I heard the church bells hollowing out the sky,
Deep beyond deep, like never ending stars,
And turned to Archibald, my safe old bear,
Whose woollen eyes looked sad or glad at me,
Whose ample forehead I could wet with tears,
Whose half-moon ears received my confidence,
Who made me laugh, who never let me down,
I used to wait for hours to see him move,
Convinced that he could breathe. One dreadful day
They hid him from me as a punishment:
Sometimes the desolation of that loss
Comes back to me and I must go upstairs
To see him in the sawdust, so to speak,
Safe and returned to his idolator.

From Summoned by Bells.

                 

      

Betjeman had many abiding passions; he loved Cornwall. I was also surprised to learn he had saved St. Pancras Station from demolition, being such an ardent fan of Victorian Architecture. 

For all the little facts I gleaned about his life he remained an enigma; there seemed to be so many facets of his character. So many of the photographs I came across captured  him in mid-guffaw, or grinning broadly, yet, at one time the I.R.A. had a hit on him, but one of their own, an elder chap, fell for his writing, and the order was called off. 

 

Of one thing there was never any doubt; faithful to his beloved bear, and other favoured toy, Jumbo, clutching both as he died.

I found it hard to do him justice; not so much liking his poetry, except the autobiographical verses, as the man himself. I had dug around last night trying to gather material, and woke this morning feeling a little perplexed, with a slight ache in my heart; for him, and Archie, of course.