Not just another Summer - 49. Castle poems, Insta feed, Crowdfunder rewards

Simon had mentioned to me, ages back, that the Castle had a couple of rooms which were used for contemporary art exhibitions. Sometimes a single, local artist, or group, and sometimes a mixed selling show. It was this latter for the months running up to Christmas.

Come January, the rooms would be closed for redecoration, then for their reopening they were having paintings by the woman whose print was being used for my poem. She was very graciously letting the Castle have a substantial fee for each picture sold, so the show benefitted them. Simon had persuaded the Curator to have my poems up as well, so with heavy heart but knowledge that it felt right, I made my way to see Simon.

He knew I was coming.

Sandra was on duty and managed to say how much she had enjoyed her and Matt’s visit on Saturday: seeing The Grange and getting to meet my family. Perhaps fortuitously, she then had to turn her attention to customers, so I escape further grilling.

Simon was effusive in his greeting. “There’s no problem is there? You said you wanted to talk about the new poems for the exhibition.”

“I had an idea. And I just know I am going to regret it.”

“But …?”

“After my recent talk at the Horniman Centre, folk were talking about my next poetry reading.”

“Blimey! You’ve got another planned?”

I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Actually yes. I am doing one in connection with an exhibition in Southwold in December.”

“For the art weekend?”

“Yes. Alongside images by the photographer, Sacha Nixon.”

“Terrific, we usually try to go.” He grinned. “More of an excuse, this time.”

“I’ve found the idea of doing further talks less uncomfortable than I thought. So, with the exhibition at the Castle next year, I wondered if you’d like a reading. I could include the four Castle poems along with some others along similar lines that I have been writing.”

“That’s amazing. I don’t have final say. But I can’t see Nora, the Curator, objecting after all we’re going to have your poems on the wall.”

“Having written those four for you, it occurred to me to try writing more. I bought a couple of books about the Castle’s history.”

“Jean Arncliffe’s history of the Castle?”

“I think so. But there’s also an illustrated children’s book.”

“Jessie Ventura’s book. She does a lot of those for historic sites, and we were lucky she agreed.”

“Well, it probably says a lot for my shit taste, but I found the kids’ book inspirational.”

Simon chuckled. “The images are terrific, aren’t they.”

“May well be. But there are now more poems.”

“Castle poems?”

I gave an embarrassed cough. “Yes, sort of. So, if you need a hook for the talk, then you can say that I will be reading some new poems. Make me get my arse into gear and finish them.”

“Fantastic. Shall I see if Nora’s around?”

“Now!”

“She often is. Monday is her regular day for being on site, doing face to face stuff around the Museum.”

“Fair enough. But I’ll warn you, I don’t have anything prepared.”

“Hell, Gray! You’re you. That’s fine.” I am not sure whether that was complimentary or not, but I took it as such.

I went out into the shop and left Simon to phone Nora. She was relatively new, so presumably had no history with Dad. Hurrah.

Sandra was busy serving, so I mooched around the local history books (a rather dim lot, frankly). Then Simon reappeared; Nora could be free in 20 minutes and would be delighted, etc, etc. He led me through the ‘secret door’ into the Castle’s main courtyard and said he would come out to join me shortly. The courtyard had evidently been a hub of activity in the Medieval period and later. But in the 1950s it had been stripped back to reveal the surviving Norman castle, just leaving the later infill as foundations in the manicured grass. There were display boards, explaining what had been where in the past, illustrated with some of Jessie Ventura’s images. And, OMG, one of the new poems almost fitted the context.

But that brought another worry. I was going to have to tell Matt about the new poems as he was in them, too. The ‘boy’ observing the Castle and its history was Matt. Well, he was tall, slim, and curly haired with freckles.

I was sitting on a bench, wool-gathering, when Simon appeared with a sturdy blond-haired woman in a profoundly unflattering but probably highly practical trouser suit. Nora, presumably. She was younger than I had expected; probably around my age but then Coningham Castle was probably a mere stepping-stone in her career.

“Gray, it is a delight to meet you. Simon was just telling me about your most generous offer.”

“I thought the new poems might fit the bill. I have three or four in addition to the ones that Simon has seen.”

“About the Castle? That would be super.”

I gave a nervous cough. “Including one related to the image on that display board over there.”

“One of Jessie Ventura’s drawings? That is wonderful.”

“It wasn’t planned. I told Simon. I bought a couple of books about the Castle’s history and…” I gave an embarrassed shrug. Thankfully she didn’t pursue it.

“Your generosity is most welcome.”

Ah, shit. Not only had I managed to clam up embarrassingly. Again. So much for the Elevator Pitch. But she also thought I was doing it for free. I could hardly back-track, could I? I wasn’t getting paid. Again. Could do better, Graham.

“Thanks.”

She stood up. “And we will be in contact about dates.” Brisk and to the point. A busy woman.

---

“I’m doing another poetry reading at the Castle.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

Matt and I were pretending the weather was kinder and having breakfast outside at the Reserve. Both of us all bundled up.

“In a way. But I stupidly didn’t make things clear, and the Curator assumed that I was being generous.”

“Wow. You won’t get paid, then?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Seems a bit churlish to say there’s been a misunderstanding and that I was anticipating a fee, doesn’t it.”

“It does really. But what are you reading?”

“Implying I’ve already read everything!” But I gave him a smile.

“Well, I…”

“It’s all right. You’re correct, the list isn’t endless; but I have written those new poems for Simon and have added a few more since then.”

“More poems about the Castle? That’s terrific.”

“Yes, and um… I wanted to talk to you about them.”

“Me! Why?”

“My poems usually have a person in them, an observer. It’s not always deliberate. My first book had my teenage self as my avatar. And he returned somewhat older and more jaundiced in my later book.”

“And the new poems?”

“Do too. Have someone. It wasn’t deliberate. After agreeing to try writing some poems about the Castle, I went out onto Castle Field, watched and scribbled. The words came out well enough. There’s an observer watching the Castle.”

“What’s the problem, then. Is it the older you?”

“No problem, really. Just, it wasn’t deliberate. But he’s tall, slim, with curly hair and a few freckles.”

“That’s not you, that’s um…” He went bright red.

“Sorry. As I say, I hadn’t planned it and realistically, you have no link to the Castle. But there you are, watching it through history.”

“Oh, wow! And will you tell people?”

“When did I ever explain a poem?” I gave him a wry smile.

“Oh, right. Yes.”

“But if it bothers you, even a bit, then I can change things.”

He stared at me. “You mean change the poems? For me!”

“Well, if I’m reading the poems and you are in the audience, then it’s going to be fairly obvious. Especially to those people that know us, and know you and I are seeing each other.”

“I suppose.” He considered. “I am tall.”

“You don’t have to decide now.”

“No. I…” He gulped. “I like your poems and I’m proud to be in them.”

“Thanks.”

---

Simon emailed me later that day, apologising if there had been any confusion. He had pointed out to Nora that I hadn’t actually offered to do the reading for free and that I was a poet. Despite the Philpott name I didn’t have the backing of any family money. He hoped that was OK and that he hadn’t gone too far. I emailed back that I was touched, and that I was grateful for the support from the Castle.

I wondered how the conversation had gone down. I checked with Vince to see what he thought, but his view was that if Simon had gone to the trouble of sticking his neck out, then I should not knock the gesture. Fair enough.

“You got a moment, Uncle Gray?”

It was early evening, and Freddie had caught me thinking about my stomach. “Certainly. Problem?”

“Just some stuff about your Instagram feed. I wanted to check with you.”

“Fair enough. But aren’t you with your mates this evening?”

“Nah.” Then he gave a rueful grin. “They’ve all got stuff happening, family and that.”

“Understandable. And your Dad?”

“Messaged. He’s got held up.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

He frowned. “Some. He tries, if there’s something special. Parents’ evenings and that. Sometimes he goes back to the office after.”

“Bloody hell.”

“But if he’s at court, he can’t just duck out for sports day and that.”

“Not fun.”

He smiled. “Good job I’m crap at sports.”

“So, what are you doing for your dinner?”

He shrugged. “Rooting around in the freezer? There’s always something.”

“Fancy a Chinese?”

“From the place in town?”

“Where else?”

“Will they deliver out here?”

It was my turn to grin. “If we give them a good enough order.”

“Right!”

---

“So, what do you want to talk about my Instagram feed?”

We were waiting for the food to arrive. Thirty minutes they said, which meant forty-five minutes minimum.

“I wanted to show you some ideas.”

He pulled out his phone. He had done an enormous amount of work - he had located the accounts for the gallery, both my publishers and more, along with a selection of images. The way his fingers dashed over the keyboard, he knew his way around.

I blinked at him. “It all sounds amazing and yes. Go ahead. You might want to mention the Castle as I am talking there in the New Year, and the Centre.”

He looked annoyed. “Shit. I forgot.”

I wanted to laugh; he looked so like his dad.

“What?” He glared at me.

“Sorry, it’s just you looked so like your dad.”

He glared again. “Thanks!” And of course, the glare was one of Vince’s.

I got up and rooted about and found my address book. It is not a nice orderly thing, but simply a place I jot down useful contacts.

He stared. “What’s that?”

“Believe it or not, my bible when it comes to contacts.”

“How do you find anything?”

“Magic?”

I looked through and gave him a few more names - contacts that might be worth linking to, and places where I had work next year. By the time the food arrived, Freddie was feeling all tooled up. My Insta feed was gearing up to go. As if.

---

Bas

Matt and his Mum? Well, it went. Painless, I think, though everyone was on their best behaviour. Not something regular I hope, please God!

Who knew? My nephew has taken over my Insta account! If you notice increased activity, it’s not me. It’s a fifteen-year-old’s idea of what his uncle the poet’s Insta feed should be.

If you feel like liking and sharing, please do.

I don’t want to be Jonny no mates!

G

---

>Iolo’s been thinking about your crowd-funder and you need to work out what rewards you’ll offer.

I blinked and recalibrated. It was Friday morning. Aimée and I were having a video call about the website as all sorts of bells and whistles were ready.

“Rewards, as in…?”

She stared at me as if I was dim.

>Someone pays money and get something special.

“Like signed copies of my book?”

She wrinkled her nose.

>Things it’s difficult to get and things people will pay lots for.

“Such as?”

>Special experiences.

“Look. Let me have a think and chat to people, right. I don’t have anything off the top of my head. But there must be something.”

>Cool.

---

“Arnold’s nephew seems to have turned up trumps. The young woman who is doing Gray’s website seems to be going great guns.”

“I’m relieved. Gray’s happy and is going to have lots of bells and whistles?” Dawn smiled.

“I’m not sure about that. I don’t think he really understands a lot of it. Neither do I, truth to tell. But she’s been taxing him about what people can and can’t do and seems to be able to fill in all the blanks.”

“I look forward to seeing the results, and I’ll pass the information on.” Then she looked up at Vince. “And how did Gray’s boyfriend’s mother’s visit go?”

“Oh, quite well, I think. Certainly, she enjoyed herself, Gray didn’t freak out and Matt seemed happy afterwards.”

“But you won’t be doing it again, soon?”

Vince shrugged. “That’s up to Gray. But she satisfied curiosity, especially as she did some waitressing for Dad.”

“At The Grange?”

“Couple of times. Mainly at big dos elsewhere. Thankfully none of her saucier stories were about him.”

Dawn gave a belly laugh. “That would have been priceless.”

“Yeah. Thing is…”

“What? Come on, I know that look.”

“Sandra knew Peter.”

“Well, that’s not surprising is it? His work at the Centre takes him all over.”

“Not recently, from before.”

Dawn’s eyes opened wide; this was an area they rarely talked about. “She knew Peter when he was young.”

“And dodging the law and getting up to all sorts.” He sighed. “He doesn’t like talking about it. And I’m not sure of the chronology but I think she was around when he got picked up by the police that time and…”

“Everything went to hell in a hand cart.”

“Yeah. She was a friend of his mum. So there was little love lost, I’d imagine.”

“And now?”

“Polite. Gray detected a frisson of something. But it hardly showed.”

“Is it going to be a problem?”

“I bloody hope not. He doesn’t like talking about it.”

“You’ll have to be sympathetic.”

“Yeah.” Another sigh.

“And what was that for?”

“His sister.”

“His sister? I thought she lived away.”

“True. But they don’t really get on. She still holds it against him. His mother dying whilst he was inside.”

“The stress killed her?”

“Don’t forget the shame. It’s all a fucking mess.”

“Well, all you can do is be sympathetic. Try to get him to talk, but don’t press too hard.”

“I know. I try. I think Gray was a bit shocked.”

“A side of Peter he’d not come across.”

“Sort of. Folk tend to see him now and assume everything was straightforward.”

“Bit like life really.”

---

Friday evening, I was free. Matt was going out with his college mates. He had offered to cry off, but I had told him certainly not. Besides we had an expedition on Saturday with Arnold and Dawn. So here we were, Vince and I having an early evening drink. I recounted to him my conversation with Aimée

He snorted with laughter. “And what sort of special experiences do you offer?”

I sniggered. “Blow jobs?”

Vince shook his head, trying not to laugh. “I doubt that offer is within the crowd-funding site’s guidelines.”

“Their loss.” I shrugged. “Ideas?”

“Signed things, of course, book, photos.”

“Not exactly rarities. Aimée said experiences.”

He smiled. “Legal ones. Right.”

“What on earth would someone pay a hundred quid for? Never mind a thousand.”

“How’s your handwriting?”

“When I try, not bad.”

“Handwritten copy of the poem of your choice. Dedicated.”

“Will people go for that?”

He shrugged. “It’s special. Offer one for each poem, no more.” Then he got that squirrelly look.

“What?”

“You aren’t going to like this.”

“Give!”

“Personal reading. Graham Philpott does poems for you and a few friends.” He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Got to be good for a grand at least, maybe more.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“No pain, no gain. And you need to spread the pain. Press Sacha to do something similar. He could do personalised workshops like those he’s doing in Southwold.”

The thought of turning up to the house of one of Venetia Murrays of this world and reading poetry!

This must have been playing across my face, because Vince topped up my glass and peered at me. “You have to think. How much do you want this book?”

“How far am I prepared to go? I know.”

“So, think about it?”