Not just another Summer - 46. An Evening with Graham Philpott

“Once, for a joke at University, I entered a poetry competition where the challenge was to create a sequence of rhyming couplets on a particular theme. If I add that the theme was related to a certain type of chocolate nut spread that was rather popular amongst students, you will understand the calibre of the work required. Even by those hardly exacting standards my contribution was terrible. I have never understood metre and rhyme.”

“Or more exactly, I can understand them but my Muse, who is contrary at the best of times, goes into a positive snit when faced with a metrical scheme with rhyme, something that in English I tend to associate with comic verse. And even when verse is not strictly comic, to me, metre and rhyme seem rather rum-ti-tum, to add an element of levity. I want to read you something, it is in French, but we will display it in both languages.”

“Enfin j'ouvre les yeux, et je me fais justice:

C'est faire à vos beautés un triste sacrifice

Que de vous présenter, madame, avec ma foi,

Tout l'âge et le malheur que je traîne avec moi.

Jusqu'ici la fortune et la victoire mêmes

Cachaient mes cheveux blancs sous trente diadèmes.

Mais ce temps-là n'est plus: je régnais; et je fuis:

Mes ans se sont accrus; mes honneurs sont detruits.”

“That is from Racine’s Mithridate, it is in a metrical scheme, the Alexandrine, and it rhymes, yet there is nothing at all funny or rum-ti-tum about it. I have no idea how to achieve anything remotely resembling that degree of perfection in English whilst still sticking to the rules.”

“I started writing as a teenager, rather flowery descriptive passages about my favourite places. These were the bleak, evocative spaces where Estuary and land merge, where the horizon is unclear, the wildlife hardy and the sounds make you shiver.”

“But the poetry that I admired at the time was by poets who wrote spare, intense verse. I was a teenager, after all. I suppose that I could have written bleak, confessional verse, embarrassing stuff. But landscape trumped introspection. Instead, I deflowered my writings, in the sense that I made them less flowery, I hasten to add.”

“The results were the start of my mature style. I cannot tell you how the poetry happens, where the words come from. I do not plan my writing and do not have complete control. My Muse, who is male by the way, is a contrary young man. Yet when he is in the mood, things flow. “

“I was recently approached to write some poems about the Castle. Something of an experiment for me, I started because I was asked rather than simply letting the words come. I agreed to try and see what happened. Sitting in Castle Field, my Muse responded in a way that has not happened much recently. Prior to returning to Coningham, I spent the best part of two years living in North Norfolk. And wrote virtually nothing whilst there.”

“People, admirers, come up to me saying I don’t know how you write such ‘insert suitable adjective’ verse. My answer is always ‘neither do I’. It has earned me a not undeserved reputation for being contrary but is, to some extent, a perfectly genuine response.”

---

There was more. I explained the background to each of the books, how the poems came about, reusing a little of the material from my earlier talk. I couldn’t really think of anything else to say, otherwise it would all get a bit repetitive. If Peter wanted more, then we would have to pad things out with me reading additional poems.

Tuesday evening, I did a run through for Vince. Just the two of us sitting in the hall and me describing the slides.

“Sorry, that was a bit conceptual, but what do you think? I was worried about…”

“Let me stop you there. I’d say it was just right. Candid enough, not too esoteric and if they want longer, then you can add more poems. Right?”

“Thanks. I thought I had more material but when I put it all together, it simply repeated itself.”

Vince smiled. “40 different ways of saying I don’t know!”

“Thats about it.”

“Will you be answering questions?”

“I think there will be a few, then after that, Lord help us, people get to actually talk to me.”

---

I wasn’t long back in my sitting room after going through the talk with Vince, when my phone rang. I answered assuming that it was Matt, perhaps he could not make the run through at the Centre the next day. Then having picked up, I realised it was from an unknown number.

>Is that Gray Philpott in Coningham?

It was a bright, girlish voice, and I noticed that ‘Gray’ was pronounced rather carefully.

“Speaking.”

>My name is Aimée, my dad is a friend of Neil, whose uncle is Arnold Liverman.

“Dawn’s husband.”

She gave a light laugh.

>You got it, sorry it’s a bit round about. Dad said that you needed someone to do your website. I’ve just started working freelance and I’m trying to build a portfolio. I can send you samples of what I’ve done already.

“That would be great thanks.”

>Um. Do you do video?

“I can do.”

>Would you mind? It’s easier.

She looked about six. No, honestly. Her hair was in bunches and was blond but with luminous blue and green streaks in it. The look wasn’t helped by a very girly blouse. She was going to do my website?

“We need a website as there is an exhibition in December linked to a project to produce a new book”.

>Of your poems? I am the biggest fan.

Then she came to a halt with an “Oh”.

>Sorry. You do not want to know that. So... Website, gallery exhibition, book project.

“We’re having the exhibition videoed, to go on the website. We need somewhere for people to sign up for interest in the book project, and maybe a crowdfunder for the book.”

Aimée proved to be a bit of a whirlwind and by the end of our chat, I was pretty convinced that she knew what she was doing. I had done the usual thing and as soon as the word web-designer came up, I immediately thought of a nerdy bloke. In fact, she was refreshingly easy to deal with, even though she did take everything at a madcap pace.

“Look, I’ll send you what I have but the next couple of days are a bit crazy.”

>No, that’s great. I can make a start, and I will draft up a spec and send it over with an idea of costs. Some of it depends on where we host the website, so there will be options.

“In laymen’s language, please.”

She smiled.

>Of course.

“Thanks. I have an event to prepare for in the next few days, then I will have more time.”

>In Coningham?

“Yes. It’s…”

>Oh. Found it. At the Horniman Centre on Thursday evening. That is so cool.

“It’s a talk.”

>An Evening with Graham Philpott. Really cool.

I sent all the information I could think of to her, there and then. Goodness knows what she would come up with. She sent me a list of websites she had developed; they were great looking, though I feared we might end up with something that looked cool and trendy. But what the hell!

---

The run through at the Centre was on Wednesday morning; an odd time, but it was their choice. Matt played hooky from his first lecture, so I had him, Peter and Malcolm sitting at the café tables. Tuesday night’s run through with Vince had gone some way towards reassuring me, and certainly he had given me a sanity check. But it was only when all three at the Centre responded with smiles, and Peter came up to me, clapped me on the back and said it was just right, that I relaxed. A bit.

It was proving to be a funny old week, trying to fit in work around the talk on Thursday evening as well as keeping track of plans for Southwold. Matt and I had hoped to get together on Wednesday evening, but he got tied up at the Nature Reserve and I had a quiet evening in. Probably wise. Though we did manage a mad and slightly saucy exchange of messages late on.

---

“How’s Gray coping, it’s his talk at the centre tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Vince shrugged and rolled his eyes, a gesture that was remarkably eloquent. “Search me. Anything like this usually puts him in a tailspin, but he seems to be coping. If it was anyone but Gray, I would suggest that he might be getting used to the idea of talking to the public.”

Dawn chuckled. “But this is Gray you are talking about.”

“Precisely. Still, the talk’s rather interesting, he even brings in how he doesn’t understand metre and rhyme, including some Racine.”

“Racine!” Dawn’s eyebrows shot up. “In French?”

“Yes.” Vince sniggered. “I don’t think his French accent is much to write home about, but he does get his point across.”

“You’ve had a preview of the talk?”

“Mmm, on Tuesday. There wasn’t much I could add. He is rather good, just needs confidence. Interestingly, he’s started talking about his Muse.”

“As in the young lady that inspires him.”

“Please, this is my brother we’re talking about. His Muse is a young man, a contrary young man.”

Dawn’s laughter pealed around the restaurant. “Why am I not surprised.”

“But it’s interesting, it gives him a way of talking about where the words come from…”

“Without actually talking about himself. Yes. Clever. Deliberate?”

“Not certain. He’s not talked about it specifically, just brought the idea up in the talk and I don’t like to…”

“Quite.”

They paused to address their meals.

“And how is Jacob getting on?”

“He arrived at The Grange on Saturday, no problem, with Maxi in tow.”

“Maxi’s his DJ friend.”

“Yes. Bloke came in his van and brought all of Jacob’s things. Lots of it. He’s very self-contained.”

“Jacob? I could imagine that. Reluctant to commit too much in case he gets burned.”

“All friendly, glittery surface, but you never get close.”

“Is that bad?”

“Realistically, no. As long as he’s happy up there. Gets us all used the idea, without too much fuss.”

Dawn smirked. “This week’s thrilling instalment from Coningham’s gay commune.”

“Don’t! All we need is for Gray to get Matt to move in.”

“Is that likely?”

“Not a bit. They are definitely coupled but in no way joined at the hip. I think that would be too much for Gray. From what I’ve been able to gather, this new relationship is already way different and way more stable than anything he’s done before.”

“Not going to rush into intimate couple-dom?”

“Not a bit. And it gives Matt space. He’s still at college, don’t forget, and it’s his first real relationship. To give Gray his due, he is trying not to push and letting Matt set the pace.”

“Let them each have their own space.”

“So, separate establishments.”

“For the moment.”

---

It was funny doing a talk at the Centre again. This time there would be fewer people but sitting at tables, café style with drinks. Apart from Vince and Peter, plus Malcolm, there were fewer faces I recognised, though Matt had arranged a ticket with Peter, so I suspected had benefitted from mates’ rate, or something. I had attempted to get involved and give Matt a freebie, but Matt had insisted that he wanted to support the Centre. It came back to our talk about people letting him make his own decisions, didn’t it?

But it was nice to have him there.

“I’m looking forward to this.” He beamed down at me.

“It’s all material you’ve heard before.”

“But I like hearing you reciting your poems.”

“So, I know what to make you for Christmas, an audio book.”

“You planning…”

“It was a sort of joke.”

“Sorry.” He grinned. Perhaps I needed a little card to hold up whenever I made a joke.

“But I can easily do you your own recording.”

“Oh, Wow.”

“And I like having you here.”

“I thought…”

“I was simply worried about the cost, that’s all. But I’ve realised you’re a big boy. And I decided I like having you here. It helps a lot, a few friendly faces.”

“Hi, Gray? It’s Aimée, this is so cool, to meet you in person. Oh, and this is Iolo.”

Somehow it didn’t surprise me at all that website Aimée, in all her enthusiasm, had managed to make it to the talk. She was wearing another frilly dress, and her hair was again in bunches, still alarming in colour. Her companion Iolo was hugely tall and looked a bit gormless, frankly. He said hello in a strong Welsh accent.

“This is really cool.” She smiled. “Working on your website and now hearing your talk. We dropped everything and Iolo drove me down from London when we heard about the talk. Graham Philpott. I…”

Iolo put his hand on her shoulder. “Piglet, I think that we’d better let Gray prepare, we can talk later.”

He gave me a dazzling smile, which made him look far less gormless. So, that was Iolo’s role, to act as a governor to the whirlwind that was Aimée. But Piglet? I introduced Aimée and Iolo to Matt and left them chatting about the book project, Southwold and things.

Vince appeared and announced he would be welded to my side for the duration. I was about to retort that that would hardly be necessary, when a middle-aged couple came up to me announcing that they were looking forward to the talk, then looking at me expectantly. What did they imagine I was going to say, for God’s sake? No, I wasn’t looking forward to it and really wanted to be somewhere else? Vince took over effortlessly.

Gray 0, Minder 1. Oh well!

Peter did the introductions, charming and funny whilst managing to do a money beg at the same time. People had submitted written questions, and we had selected a few for me to answer, at the end of the formal talk, and there had been requests too, for poems to be recited. No sponsored dedications thank God. Vince had suggested this in a fit of devilment and I had visions of having to announce that the following reading of The Dawn Birds is for Tracey with love from Vernon. Thank goodness for small mercies.

It went.

I got applause and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. Books were sold and signed, money was made for the Centre and several people said that they looked forward to hearing me reading again. Oh, yes? Did they know something I did not?

After the formal speaking and the pre-set questions, I sat at a table with Vince, Peter and Matt and people came over to chat, get books signed and such. I had had visions of me and Vince making our stately way around the tables, but evidently Peter and Vince had had a discussion (aka argument, I suspect) and agreed to something lower key, i.e. less stressful for me.

And afterwards?

I hadn’t thought about it. But of course, we all ended up back at The Grange - me, Matt, Peter and Vince - to find that Jacob and Maxi had been helping Freddie sort out food for our supper. It was all bought in stuff, but there was a slightly more exotic feel to the selections, and I thought I detected Jacob’s hand. But Freddie, Jacob and Maxi, that was certainly an intriguing mix.

Freddie wanted a rundown of the whole talk, but Vince shut him down, gently and with humour, saying that we needed to give Gray some space. Then Peter piped up that Freddie would be able to hear the recording.

Recording?

I have to admit that I vaguely recalled Peter mentioning that they had the capability to record talks. But I had managed to wipe the idea from my brain. Everyone wanted a copy. Just as long as I didn’t hear the bloody thing.

Matt stayed. When I asked him whether he fancied it, he admitted he’d brought an overnight bag, just in case. I had grinned and said that he didn’t fancy doing without knickers again and he’d reddened but admitted that he’d disliked the lack of support.

Which, of course, got me wondering about sexy knickers. If he was going to wear underwear, then perhaps something special was called for rather than bog-standard, M&S issue grey.

What, though? Research needed.

It proved a nice unwinding session. And I was relaxed enough to think that I would be OK with doing further talks.

---

Bas

Third talk down. And this one was ‘An Evening with Graham Philpott’, and you even got to talk to him. Vince was welded to my elbow and bless him, managed to intercept some faulty passes, and correct faux pas.

I managed to talk about my inspiration. Only a bit. But it happened. More than before.

And you know. It was OK.

Which, as you know, is a miracle.

Exotic Jacob has moved in. He’s keeping well to himself, but his equally exotic (well, Essex-Indian if such a thing exists), friend Maxi is often around. I think it might be ‘friend’ in the old usage.

Haven’t the band-width at the moment for much more than a gentle giggle and leave them to get on with it.

I didn’t expect you to come to bloody Southwold. Ridiculous trek. You can watch the video!

G