Not just another Summer - 11. Sharing music & making plans

Tuesday, I reverted to the bike but spent most of breakfast telling Matt about the places I had visited the previous day.

“I’d like to see some of those.”

“Well, some are easy enough.”

“But it’d be nice to do it with you as you wandered around there when you were younger.”

“I will warn you, everything is very different now, ten years or so later. But I was thinking of exploring what the landscape was like now. How about this, when Vince is back let’s work out if there’s a day you can do and see if he’ll let me borrow his car.”

“Won’t he need it?”

“He doesn’t always and besides he could use Dad’s old Daimler; he has hung onto that.”

“Is it, like, old?”

“25 years old, at least, I would say, but it is bigger than I would want to drive and certainly not a car for careering around Essex lanes.”

“Mum says I ought to get a proper bike instead of that old thing.”

“Well, it is something of an antique.”

“I know but…”

“You could keep it for special occasions.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Do you have a full licence?”

“Yeah, motorcycle one.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I know people who bend the rules.”

“Mum insisted I do it proper. I had Dad’s old bike, but that gave up the ghost later. If I did get a new bike, would you come on it with me, then?”

“Of course.”

“We could go off exploring.”

“Precisely.”

---

I was not sure how the evening with Simon was going to go, so I decided to walk into town. I didn’t want the embarrassment of having to wobble home on the bike pissed, and the walk would do me good. Well, that’s what I told myself.

Cork Street was a survivor. There were a few modern offices, but most of the streetscape was a higgledy-piggledy mix, and some houses were reputedly ancient, their polite frontages added in later centuries.

The Shining Bottle was in what looked like an ordinary shop, but inside there was nothing ancient about it. A spick and span modern interior stretched back and back, to a garden area at the very rear. It was designer-y but they had created spaces where people could and would congregate, cosy corners, even spaces for families. Nice. Well thought out.

Simon was sitting towards the back, at a table by the window, which was slid right back so that he was adjacent to the outdoor terrace. As soon as he spied me, he waved, stood up, greeted me enthusiastically and said he hoped the table was all right.

I laughed, “Apart from a local Indian on Friday and a visit to the chippy, this is the first proper meal out I have had in an age. So, it is great.”

“Don’t you and your brother…”

“Vince. He and I are, how shall we say, still working on getting our relationship to something like normal.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t worry. Food with Vince tends to be simply practical, a take-away or something from M&S at best. We’ve lived apart for ten years, and Dad didn’t really do cosy domestic.”

“I did read the article.”

I rolled my eyes, “It was supposed to be about my poetry and my return to the landscape of my youth.”

“Instead, it was all about how your Dad hated it.” He was surprisingly sympathetic.

“Dead on.”

He swallowed, “I know someone who works for Essex Country Living.”

“What?”

“It’s a glossy magazine. Free to high-end residential areas, full of adverts.”

“And lifestyle stories.”

He smiled, “And impossibly stylish houses.”

“And local poets?”

“I think they might go for it. The article might get a bit lifestyle-y, but definitely not about Mr Philpott, senior.”

“Fair enough. Ask your friend. They could do some photographs at The Grange, if they wanted.”

“Fantastic. It’s bi-monthly.”

“With a long lead time, I know. But worth the try, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Do you fancy a nibble. I thought we could eat later, but something whilst we do business?”

“Fine by me.”

Smoked almonds and olives, very nice, very high end. I hoped Simon was getting mates’ rates.

“Well, to business, here’s four new poems, see what you think.”

“Four. That’s fantastic.”

“Well, I had lots of ideas, amazingly. I sketched out three and a friend read them through on Friday, and after we chatted about them, I ended up with a fourth.”

“Thanks.”

I couldn’t bear to sit there as he read them, so I went for a piss.

When I got back, Simon had the four poems laid on the table, side by side, each with a piece of paper covering all but the top. At first, I thought he had gone barmy, but luckily before I said anything I remembered. The design of the cards. You saw the top two lines of the poem first.

Simon looked up at me and smiled, “I’m no expert on poetry, but these two work for what we want. Amazing.”

“You want any changes?”

“Fine detail I leave to you, but the images they conjure, we’ve got some photos that will work. This one”, he tapped a third poem, “is quite visual enough, but it’s about the young bloke observing rather than the Castle itself. “

“Fair enough.”

“And this one”, he smiled again as he tapped the fourth poem, “is great, it just wouldn’t work on one of the cards, you need to see more than the first two lines.”

“So, two cards. Great. You’ll need to let me know deadlines and that.”

Simon shook his head, “And send you a letter of intent.”

“Of course. You can tell I’m rubbish at business.”

We talked about his ideas for the cards, the images he had in mind and clearly Simon was an enthusiast. But there was nothing I wanted to object to.

He then tapped the fourth poem again, “I do, however, have an idea for this one.”

He showed me images on his phone, slightly kitsch watercolours of the Castle by a local artist. They were evidently popular, and the shop sold reproductions and used some as cards. Why they sold well, I could not imagine. Then he showed me another completely kitsch piece of calligraphy.

That was the idea, evidently. My poem, in calligraphy, plus one of the images combined as a print. I stared at him; my instinct was to say no way. But I couldn’t afford to be picky could I, really? I completely hated the look of the watercolour, but if it fitted the poetry there was nothing concrete that I could object to, without coming over as a diva. I couldn’t really afford to be a diva, could I? Not only would the fee be useful, but it might lead to more. Was that selling out? Perhaps, but I remembered my conversation with Vince; there had to be ways to make money, and this was one that was at least involving my poetry.

Simon blinked at me, “It might not be quite your style, I realise that. But this sort of thing is popular, and I’d hope you would welcome opening up your poetry to a wider audience.”

That’s what was it, wasn’t it? “You’re right, the images are not to my taste at all, but I understand. You have to stock what sells. Can the calligraphy be a bit plainer, less of the curlicues.”

Simon gave a small laugh, a bit relieved perhaps, “We can certainly manage that.”

We confirmed a few details verbally and then he said he would email me confirmation of everything.

Our business did not take that long. Simon could easily have bought another drink and then wound things up. Instead, he asked for menus then, rather nicely, made it clear that the meal was his treat. That for a long time he had wanted to work on something like this that was specific to the Castle and that was their own project, rather than simply picking up ideas produced by other people.

I wondered whether I could spin the project out, come up with texts inspired by more of the Castle’s history? More research needed.

Simon smiled enquiringly, “You look as if you’ve had an idea.”

“Well, if I am going to live around here, I need to push the envelope a bit. I cannot just write about desolate estuaries and lone birds.”

“Have you other ideas?”

“Ideas, yes. But my muse is a bit cussed. I never wrote anything of note about Norwich or North Norfolk, despite some similarities.”

“How long were you in Norwich?”

“Two years. I had a part-time residency then got a teaching post at UEA, creative writing. I had high hopes of the post being made permanent.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”

“Officially? Budget cuts and restructuring. In reality, I worry that I am not really cut out for that kind of academic role and that the restructuring was simply a creative way to ease me out, that my face did not fit.”

“In teaching?”

“Not just the teaching itself, but all the other stuff that it entails, admin, pastoral care of students. Even with teaching creative writing. And it is fucking hard work. Gave me much less thinking time for my own writing.”

“So, now you are back here.”

“The advantage is that I am not paying any rent, thanks to Dad.” I shrugged, “I will see if I can make a go of it, more poetry, more reviews, more articles, that type of thing.”

“And can I ask how it’s going?”

“Well, I have sketched a lot of ideas and am pleased with them. But there is only so far you can go with getting poetry into magazines and journals.”

“Another book?”

I rolled my eyes, “I wish. Poetry doesn’t sell big time, unless you are someone like Pam Ayres, and I just don’t have the money to invest in a new book, which is what you have to do.”

“You mean pay for it yourself?”

“Something like that. Most publishers require a contribution to production costs, and they do all the marketing and such, or your agreement is that you get no royalties until a certain sales figure has been reached, so they can offset costs.” I shrugged, “It’s understandable, but requires investment. But the non-poetic writing is going not bad.” I gave what I hoped was an ironic grin, “So, watch this space.”

Food arrived and we concentrated on that.

“How are you finding Coningham after Norwich?”

“Bloody provincial. There seems to be naff all going on.”

Simon gave a nervous laugh, “It’s busier than you think, but you have to look around. My wife plays in the local symphony orchestra and is always moaning about the lack of decent concerts.”

“So, where do you go?”

Simon shrugged, “Travel, the university does stuff and Saffron Hall in Saffron Walden has a great programme and is only an hour’s drive away. Or smaller one-off events and little festivals; there are a couple of local organisations that manage to put together annual weekends of music at the Arts Centre and in local churches.”

“Well, that’s something at least, when are they?”

“I can send you details. Also, Eva, my wife, plays a lot of chamber music in people’s homes, sometimes with a few friends as audience. That sort of thing.”

“Not something you’d read about and buy a ticket for.”

“Precisely. What sort of music do you like?”

“Well, on the radio I am an omnivore, but if I go out then I listen to classical music mainly.”

“I see”, he smiled, “then we will definitely have to share information.”

“A friend is coming to visit for a few days, and I was hoping that there might be something we could go to.”

“Sorry. Summer’s a dead loss, by and large, unless you fancy the band stand.” He laughed at my eyes widening.

“It would be easier if I had my piano.”

“Where is it?”

“Sorry, long story. I used to have one at home, but”, I shrugged, “no longer. I had access to pianos at UEA and now my fingers are itching. I am going to have to find an affordable small piano.”

We discussed pianos, and where to get them affordably and he had some ideas which I would have to follow through. Then we started sharing music we enjoyed. It was a pleasant evening and Simon said that he would be in touch about the work. When he said that he wanted me to meet his wife, the prospect wasn’t as off-putting as I thought it might be. I was wary, the idea that she and I might like each other simply because we both liked classical music lurked there in the background, but I had found Simon surprisingly easy to get on with which boded well.