I heard, a couple of days ago, of the death of an old friend, Jenni Tucker.
Back in the ’90s, she initiated and organised the Cambridge town poetry reading series CB1, which is still going strong, although rather obviously in different hands. It was there that I, and many others, first read poetry to a public audience. It was there that I first met those many poets, some of whom became lifelong friends. She created a living poetry community.
Jenni had a difficult childhood in a variety of foster homes, so it’s unsurprising that, as an adult, she felt it was important to help those less fortunate. She raised funds for, and supported, a group in Madagascar, whom she visited more than once. When I met her in Cambridge, she sometimes darted off to talk to a beggar she didn’t recognise: she wanted to ensure that anyone who was forced to beg should be immediately put in contact with the appropriate charities and support services. If need be, she’d arrange this herself.
Jenni was a committed Christian, which, as the above makes clear, underpinned her approach to life. I regret that I never discussed it with her. Having said that, I fear I might have wound her up.
I know she was once an art buyer, although I don’t know the detail, and I didn’t meet her before she’d left the profession. All the same, her knowledge and background meant I valued her commentary on my photography as well as my poetry. Ironically, despite this, despite being a keen photographer, I never took a photo of her. I found Nick Keen’s 1974 portrait, seen here, on her faceboot profile.
There is something of a belief that when two Brits know each other well, they constantly insult each other. Jenni was one of the few people with whom I did that. Every time we had a conversation, every few months or so, the happy flow and insults would fly. Indeed, if the pixie botherers are right after all and she’s reading this despite being dead, I want to assure her that, no matter what we said to each other many times, I will not dance on her grave—no one will tell me where it is.
She loved to travel, and told some glorious stories of misadventures—I particularly remember a hairy tale of an overamorous Italian. The last time we spoke, a few weeks ago, she mentioned again her desire to visit us in Luxembourg. Regretfully, she never got here.
She suffered from ill health in her old age, but took that in her stride. Although, unsurprisingly, she could be rather grumpy when in pain, most of the time she was her usual joyous self. I hope, if I reach that stage of life, I will be as happy and good company as she was.