Not just another Summer - 40. Journeying Boy: Poetic Inspirations

“Good morning this is ‘Morning Music’ on Estuary Radio, with Sean.”

“And Katie.”

“Most teenagers prefer to escape their parents, though normally it involves lurking in their room, listening to loud music, or playing video games.”

“And what did you do, Sean?”

“I was a sporty, I’m afraid. Out on the football pitch all hours.”

“I might have known. Well, Graham Philpott used to get on his bike and cycle out to the countryside.”

“Of course, you might recognise his name. Philpotts are known for building many of the houses in Coningham.”

“You might live in one they’ve built. But Graham didn’t just escape, he wrote about his escapes.”

“And is now a well-known poet, who is back living at home.”

“Tomorrow evening, there’s a chance to hear about his adventures, as he will be talking about the places that have inspired him.”

“And reading his poetry, of course.”

“Sounds quite an evening. It’s at the Horniman Centre, and there’ll be a chance to get signed copies of Graham’s books too.”

---

“Aren’t you supposed to be at lectures, or something?”

Matt laughed.

>Well, I could ask you whether you were supposed to be working.”

“Fair enough. So, what brings this delightful interruption?”

>You were on the radio.

“Me?”

>Well, they were talking about your thing tomorrow. On Estuary Radio, their morning programme. It’s a bit rubbish but the guys at college listen.

“And what did they say?”

>That you used to escape your parents by cycling off into the countryside and writing about it. You’re now a famous poet, and folk can come and hear you talking about it.

“Great. So, they’ll be expecting all the salacious detail.”

>Is there any, then?

I could tell he was smiling.

“Not a bit.”

>It’ll get you an audience, sell books too.

“I know, I ought to be enthusiastic, but”, I sighed, “I would just rather write quietly.”

>And do a talk to an empty room.

“You’re supposed to be sympathetic.”

He made an amused sound.

>Only trying to make sure you have people to listen to your talk.

“Thanks. I think.

>And…

“What? Something else?”

>Well, yesterday Tolly asked me how I’d liked the band.

“And what did you say, in the end?”

>I sort of chickened out a bit. You don’t mind?

“It’s what you are comfortable with. So? What did you say?”

>That I were rubbish at dancing but that the mate I was with dragged me onto the dance floor and we had had a bit of fun.

“That’s fair enough, leaves things open.”

>But I was curious, like, so I asked him if he knew that it was a gay band?

“And?”

>Turns out his brother’s gay, and I suspect that the brother’s mate is too.

“What about Tolly?

Matt laughed.

>He’s straight but cool and a bit embarrassed. Turns out he didn’t realise that the band had a gay following; at least he didn’t expect there to be guys dancing together at the gig. Then he grinned at me and said that next time, he’d organise an outing for all the guys and girls.

“Would you enjoy that?”

>You know, reckon I would.

“Good.”

---

Tuesday evening, I went over to the Centre to have a run through of my talk, making sure I was comfortable with the picture show. Malcolm was there, though he took a relative back seat as it was Peter who went through all the logistics with me. I decided that I might as well do a full dummy run, and Vince slipped in just as I was about to start. He had been at court all day and I was slightly surprised, and gratified, to see him. There was something a bit odd about doing a talk to just three people, but it didn’t half focus the mind.

Afterwards Vince came up to me, smiling. “Now, why can’t you be like that when chatting to people about your work?”

“Because…”

“Yes?” He had a broad smile now, putting me on the spot.

I had to think about the answer. Usually, I would have simply been flippant, but I didn’t think it fair to Vince. He was doing his best to be supportive so deserved a half-decent answer at least.

“I like to think about what I’m saying and plan it out. Everything at the talk might seem off the cuff, but it’s not. And I can only go so far. The truth is, I don’t know why I write what I write, it’s not planned and can’t be done to order. And, if I get exposed to real people…” I shrugged.

He smiled, “They ask stupid questions, such is why you wrote such and such, or why your poetry is the way it is and where do your ideas come from.”

“That’s about it.”

Peter had finished tidying up, “You know, Americans talk about your ‘Elevator Pitch’.”

“When trying to put something over?”

“Yes. It strikes me, Gray, that you need to work on yours. A few phrases about why your poetry is like it is, and why you won’t be saying more.”

Vince grinned, “Choice, informative and polite.”

I rolled my eyes but agreed. Another thing to do, work out the answers and write them on a card, commit them to memory. In the early days of talking to rooms full of people, my notes, at the very top, would say things like ‘introduce yourself and smile’. Now, perhaps my Elevator Pitch needed to start with smile and be polite. I knew some people who could be completely charming yet say really pointed things. Another skill I would love to learn.

On the way home, Vince confirmed that he was hosting a small dinner after the talk, and he hoped that was OK. Before I could say something, he hastily added that he would welcome people and tell them that they were not to talk to me about poetry. I managed to laugh.

---

“Well, that’s the last of your adoring public.” Vince grinned at me as Peter locked the Centre’s outer doors.

“Thank goodness, I’m done in.”

The event at the Centre had gone remarkably well. It had, amazingly, been a near capacity house; evidently, we had received a few mentions on the local radio stations, not just the one Matt told me about. I was pleased with my talk, there were tweaks to be done, but overall if felt that it worked well. I had finished with one of the newest poems, part of the group written for Simon, though this one he wasn’t using. It was about Matt, really, but I wasn’t letting on. He stands as history passes had gone down well; it seemed.

There had been no questions. Peter had been firm on this issue. If people wanted to speak to me they could bloody stump up for the Friends event later in the month or buy a book and get me to sign it. Plenty had done so; my right hand was aching, and I was rather fed up being nice to people who said how they loved my poetry. But Vince had been a brick, standing at my elbow, taking over conversations, helping move people on.

One sweet old lady had wanted to tell me exactly what she loved about each of my poems. When another asked where my inspiration came from, why did I write what I did, Vince had smiled and told her that I had no idea. That was the magic.

Charles Murray was there, sans Venetia; he greeted Vince cordially, said hello to Peter and commented on the terrific work Peter did at the Centre. No word of his wife’s gossip. Interesting. He even bought a book, got me to sign it, for his secretary as he knew she’d love my poetry. Secretary or mistress? Vince raised an eyebrow. I could tell he thought the same I.

Matt appeared at the end of the book-signing queue, looking a bit sheepish. He had a pile of six books, would I mind? His Mum was giving them as Christmas presents. I chuckled and dutifully signed them all with a flourish.

Jacob was there, with a friend who was a local DJ. As Vince wryly commented, it hadn’t taking Jacob long. Jacob was joining us for the meal, but the DJ had had to dash off. I was slightly surprised to see Rowena at the talk, though I don’t know why I should have been. She had a friend with her, and both professed to have enjoyed the mix of words and images. Vince asked her to stay to eat but she had to rush off to collect her sons who had been parked at a school friend’s house, though she did stay long enough after the talk itself to have a proper chat to Vince and Peter.

“Were you pleased with the talk?” Vince looked at me with slight trepidation.

I gave a smile, however. “Yes. There are tweaks, but I was pleased.”

Matt nodded, “Certainly everyone like it, especially when you read poems about the places in the pictures.”

“It did give me heart to try to get somewhere with my radio talks idea.”

Vince looked at me sharply, “Radio talks?”

“I thought I’d told you, pick a place, describe it and its history, read a poem.”

“It does ring a bell, sort of poetic thought for the day. I remember, Dawn said that Arnold knew someone at the local radio.”

“Maxi, my DJ friend knows people at the local radio stations too, and he enjoyed the poems.” Jacob smiled, “Shall I ask him if he has any contacts?”

“Please do. The more contacts the better.”

Malcolm and a couple of other volunteers had been busy stacking chairs and putting more tables out! There was suddenly the strong aroma of Indian food, and two Indian men entered from the rear of the building carrying trays, and Peter dashed over to arrange things.

I looked at Vince and he shrugged and smiled, “I thought it would be pleasanter and more relaxed to have a buffet, and The Estuary Raj is close. Peter recommended it.”

“I think Matt and I ate there once.” I looked up at Matt who flushed at the remembrance, but he grinned too, and I leaned over and squeezed his hand. Jacob, who was leaning against the wall, noticed and winked at me.

We were a funny mix, again. Vince and Peter, Matt and his Mum, Freddie (not Arvid who had a family engagement though privately we wondered whether it was real or fictive), Vince’s friend Dawn and her husband Arnold, Jacob and Malcolm from the centre. A couple of volunteers had stayed to help clear up, so they were invited too. Simon and Eva had a musical commitment, alas.

Whilst the food was being laid out, Vince clapped for silence, welcomed everyone then told them not to talk to me about poetry, on pain of death. Then he told them about the rather flowery lady who had asked where my ideas came from and that my crisp response had been ‘I’ve no idea’. Everyone laughed, but it gave them the right idea.

Matt fussed over his Mother at first, making sure she was comfortably seated with a selection of food. She wryly commented to me, with a walking stick and bad legs, she was a disaster waiting to happen with a tray of food.

Once settled, Sandra seemed to have the amazing ability to attract people like a magnet, chatting away to all and sundry. I didn’t escape and was informed how much Matt had enjoyed the weekend. When she said ‘I hope he behaved himself’ with a gleam in her eye, I was pretty sure she had a clear idea what we’d got up to.

Vince assured me that I had met his friend Dawn before, though neither of them could give me chapter and verse. I suspected it must have been at one of Dad’s do’s when I was less than enamoured of the event or the guests.

In person, now, she was tall, strapping and buxom, wearing an old-fashioned looking suit that was probably practical and robust, yet not without style. I knew that she and Vince met for lunch regularly, and I wondered how much of the Summer’s goings on she knew about. From the gleam in her eye, more than enough.

“Gray, lovely to see you and to get to experience you in action. How are you?”

I shrugged, “As of this moment, knackered but overall finding life in Coningham isn’t so bad as I thought it might be.”

“And living with Vince is not such a disaster, I gather.”

“I think we’re good for stirring each other up.”

She looked over at Peter and gave me a questioning look.

“Don’t ask me. It was as much a surprise. Did you know?”

She gave a half shrug, “That he was fond of the guy, yes. That he’d actually go the whole nine yards?” Another expressive shrug. “Put it this way, when he told me he was seeing a guy, I wasn’t surprised who it was.”

“He seems to have, I don’t know, not settled but…”

“Come out of his shell.” She smiled.

“Yes, somehow.”

“You’re both rubbing the corners off each other.”

I gave a dry laugh, “Each discovering the other’s not quite like the image of him we had in our heads.”

“And living with him?” She gave a wry smile.

“Is fucking annoying at times, but… I don’t know. It’s growing on me.”

“I gather you’re being busy.”

“Trying. Ask me next year when I work out how much income I actually have.”

She gave a broad laugh, “The peril of freelance. Well, I’ll say this, the mix of poems and photos worked well tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“Shame you didn’t have images for all the poems.”

“Put that down to poor navigation skills.”

“Pardon?”

“I drove around in Vince’s car, and some places seemed to be just gone or were nothing like how I remembered them. A couple, I wasn’t sure whether I was even in the right place or not.”

“I think we can help you there.”

“How?”

“Well, we know nothing about poetry…” She turned and called to a tall, burly man, who moved over to us. “Gray, this is my husband, Arnold.”

We exchanged greetings.

“Love. Gray has been struggling to get photos of some of the places he visited when he was younger.”

Arnold laughed, a warm lively sound. “Not surprised. Some pretty obscure little corners. What do you have in mind, love?”

She peered at me intently, “Do you walk? I’ll warn you, we’re pretty hard core.”

“Well, walking has been my preferred exercise recently, and at least Essex is flat.”

“Bloody wet, too.” Arnold’s comment was said in a way that was both truculent and amusing.

“We could take you to some of the places, get photos.” She cocked an interrogatory eye at me.

“Could I bring Matt? He’s a keen bird watcher.”

Vince appeared, “And a keen Gray enthusiast.”

“Vince! He’s a friend.”

“And enjoys Gray’s poems. I think he’d love to join you.”

Dawn and Vince exchanged a look, they clearly knew each other well.

I waved at Matt who came over from where he was talking to his Mum. We explained the plan and he was most enthusiastic, and he ended up having a long conversation with Dawn and Arnold about different places I had and hadn’t talked about. Dawn organised me into agreeing to send a list of places associated with the poems and we’d start from there.

“How are you doing?”

“Me? OK. Mum’s settled.”

“So, you can relax.”

“A bit.” Matt looked down at me.

“OK. I need to relax too. If I put my arm around your waist, would you get stressed?”

He gave me a strange look, “I think… I think, yes please.”

“Most people here either know or at least suspect.”

“But Mum…”

“Was virtually telling me what a good time you had on Saturday. Nudge, nudge, wink wink.”

“No!” He looked shocked then gave an amused sigh and tentatively put his arm around me. Discreetly. But it was nice.

---

Next day, I felt somewhat as if I’d been run over by a bus, but I had nice emails from Peter and Malcolm saying how much positive feedback they had had, which was lovely.

Before I could chicken out, I set to and tried to list all the places in the poems. It was a bit vague; some were just images in my head. However, Dawn replied at lunchtime, and said they’d get on to it.

The surprise was getting an email from Jacob. He’d had a quick chat to his DJ friend, Maxi, and they both agreed that I had to do a demo, record a couple of samples so that I had something to actually send the radio stations. That would likely give me more chance of being listened to and with an unusual idea like mine, would give the producers a sample of what to expect. The bottom line, of course, being that people were useless at thinking outside the box. It made a great deal of sense, but like an idiot I asked Jacob if he’d help and suddenly, he was coming round to The Grange on Friday evening.

Aargh.

Nothing like panic to concentrate the mind.

>How are you after yesterday?

“Knackered. Tired but happy. Had nice emails from Malcolm at the centre, and Peter.”

>Good. It was ace.

“All I’ve got to do is sort out what I am saying in the next one.”

>Same thing.

“No, it needs to be a bit more personal. I’ve got stuff, I need to try it out. But…

>What’s the matter?

“Jacob just got back to me. He and his DJ friend, Maxi, think I’ve got to make a demo.”

>For the radio?

“That’s it. He’s coming over on Friday.

>Who. Jacob?

“Yes. He’ll record it on his phone and critique me.”

Matt sniggered.

>Sounds fun.

“Would you fancy coming to listen. As moral support.”

>You sure?

“Yes. We can eat after.”

>I can’t always be eating your food.

“Well, I like having you round. You could bring the food.”

>What?

“I leave it to your imagination.”

>Fuck.

“Well, we could afterwards.” Then I came to a halt, “Sorry, I’ve done it again.”

He sniggered.

>I sort of got the joke this time. And yes.

“Yes, what?”

It was said very quietly.

>I’d like to have sex again.

“Oh good. And can you face staying?”

>Will there be breakfast?

“Peter usually does something special on Saturday mornings. It even gets Freddie out of bed. Usually.”

>It’s just that I’ve got a college thing on Saturday.

“What type of thing?”

>We’re going on a field trip, visit places we’ve been talking about in lectures, and it starts real early, from college. We’re going by bus.

“Lucky you. Would it be a lot easier for you to sleep at home, closer to college?”

>Would you mind?

“Well, having you round would be nice but there’ll be other occasions and better for you to be comfortable. You enjoy the field trip.”

>Yeah.

And he proceeded to tell me about all the places they were going to. It was clear it was a big thing, and I was less worried. Well, I shouldn’t be worried at all, should I? We could take things slow and enjoy the journey.

---

Bas

Another talk down, An Evening with Graham Philpott no less. Kudos, not money, alas but I managed to be nice. Yeah, me! Vince made sure of it, which was sweet of him. Learning he has his uses.

The radio career is inching forward, we’re doing a sample programme tomorrow. Vince’s trainee’s DJ ‘friend’ (he’s a quick worker, sweetie) is recording it in the garden. Yes, you heard right. Well, think, I’m wittering about the landscape, so we’ll have a few tweetie sounds in the background.

I still think I sound like a chipmunk, but everyone else…

It’s all a bit too much like paying it forward, you know spending now for the future. Only, I’d like to have a fucking future. Perhaps I should try writing comic verse and become Essex’s answer to Pam Ayres.

G