Yes, it’s true, he rarely spoke of the tatty neglege’e , still in the old suitcase, stowed behind my turquoise chair to this day. Peruvian Clementine saw inside Godfrey’s heart, sad that others saw this jolly girl as “something of a tart”…There was whimsy in the flimsy’s Clementine wore so well, made his heart swell, set his Celtic Blood astir. Sent him racing for the bedroom, rummage deep in his new suitcase, rummage for his only cookbook,(the one with sticky pages). So that he could stay up late, bake for her bread and cake. No one understood Godfrey as did The Fish Lady”s Daughter, silken as rising dough, bubbly as yeast in the frilly smalls he bought her. She shielded him from beets with all her love. For her he sawed a hole in the roof of their Casa, in Innapropriate Manor they laughed, over lunch beneath the stars above. She out weighed Godfrey by 150lbs, she rolled him in a carpet and swung her love around, she hid his kilt and made him find it in the dark, when it snowed they ran naked in the park. He cherished this poem of Clementine’s- In the chill of the fish aisle, in my rubber apron snug, I see you lurking near the biscuits, ambush you, knock over a shelf in fishy hug. Ah, my shaggy little poet, one day we will run, where no beets come between us and I know it. My name it is written on the bus stop Loo wall, and in the Ingeldew Store Gents, it may still be etched on the second stall. And on someone rude it is reportedly tattoed, “Clementine Tillapia was here”. ..but he did not believe it my Godfrey dear.Oh my daring Clementine he poet-ed back, when the time is right I know, you and I will be together where beets do not grow, I will make you salad and stuffing, devilled eggs and angel food cake. My passion for you alone,will sweeten every thing I do and bake. She was his daring Clementine, fish lady’s daughter, BE BOLD MY GIRL- the fish lady taught her, and she was. NO PASARAN BEETS- read the sign above the door of the pink stucco Casa they shared over the years in Lima when Clementine completed her P.H.D. in literature. Godfrey kept house, and involved himself re- building bicycles and small engines for the needy in the city. He restored an ancient motor cycle, in his own creative way, and they named the contraption ‘Betsy-Sue’. With his old guitar, and their matching plaid suitcases strapped along side , the odd looking pair set off North for their big, long journey to Texas, where Clementine was to fly home to Wales. Godfrey, still refusing to board a plane would follow behind after visiting Worzel in Saskatchewan…as always, his life’s cow-path zigged with a zag in the middle. Here is one of the poems found, found written on a brown paper bakery bag, at an old Woolworth’s Lunch Counter. Butter Tart- bye Godfrey- No nasty rancid nuts their bitterness to impose, on pastries as delicate as my Clementine. Warm as sweet syrup, plump as raisins softly boiled, barefoot in flour to the tattoo on strong arms she toiled. Waft of cinnamon and nutmeg scented her hair. I bring the ice-cream for us alone to share. As I sit and dream she is there..she is far away and these packed butter tarts, sit cold and dusty store shelf neglected bare. Nasty nuts their bitterness shall not impose, in your spiritless, untidy rows, stale too the Tim-Tams. Clementine was a Pisces, was all he would tell me of her secret Tattoo when I asked. They certainly proved, as their legend grew , that miles or beets would ever come between them.