Not just another Summer - 7. Casting bread on the waters

Wednesday, I decided that I would continue my spreading bread on the waters, local fashion. I found a chain copy shop in town where I had some business cards printed; only instant things, naff-looking but functional. Then I went in search of bookshops.

There was only one; clearly the good people of Coningham either did not read or bought their books off the internet. There was nothing particularly local about the bookshop, this was a chain; there was at least a talks programme, but the speakers were fixed by head office. I went through my rigmarole but didn’t hold out much hope. The young woman I spoke to did take my card, but there was no suggestion the manager might have any leeway in selecting authors for their events.

Coningham was undoubtedly historic, witness the Castle. But the centre, the high street, lacked the cutesy historic architecture of some places, it was a commercial town, trade, the river and the sea played an important role. Add to that the tendency for older buildings to be refaced, and the way the Victorian city fathers wanted to rebuild and rework. The result was varied and attractive, in a homely way, without the picturesque corners of a place like Norwich. Even though I had not lived here for ages, it felt if not like home, then at least familiar and comfortable.

I had a bit more of a roam around, but the shops were virtually all chains or charity stores. There was nowhere for a local poet to get any purchase, and nowhere that was specifically local. I remembered Matt talking about the gift shop at the Castle. His Mum worked there; would it be treading on toes to go in?

Bugger it. It was my career.

The Castle dated back to early Norman times and, proud but somewhat battered, it still remained. The Victorians had got rid of the moat, filling it in alas, and more recent zealots had removed nearly all of the ancillary buildings, leaving the keep in stark splendour on the Castle Green. The gift shop was in what, in Victorian times, had been the guard house. It was attractive but definitely 19th century with Gothic style decoration. Inside it stocked mainly the usual gift-shop tat, but they did have a display of local books. Good.

The woman behind the counter was around 50, with shiny blond hair and a very multi-coloured smock. When I approached, she gave me a beaming smile. I introduced myself and she said that I must be Matt’s friend. She introduced herself as Sandra, his Mother, evidently. I noticed that she was sitting down and there was a stick leaning nearby.

I talked about my poetry and enquired whether there was a possibility of doing a reading at the shop. She immediately brightened, saying that she’d mentioned me to Simon and that he’d love to meet me. He was in his office, just a tick. Then she got up and, using her stick, rather laboriously made her way across to the rear of the store. Partway, she rested and apologised, saying that the doctors said if she didn’t make an effort, she’d lose it. I didn’t enquire too much but tried to make sympathetic noises.

When he emerged from his office, Simon proved to be a rather eager, over-weight 30-something bloke with a dodgy comb-over hair do. He introduced himself as the shop manager, and he was most enthusiastic about my doing a poetry reading. He had some concrete ideas about what, when and where. So, all being well, next month I was going to be doing a reading one evening in the shop. Then he went a bit quiet. My spidey sense told me something else was coming.

“Sandra mentioned that you were writing poetry at the reserve.”

I gave a half-smile, “Trying to.”

“Well. I’d had an idea.”

He walked over to the display of greetings cards; there were a few that were local photographs, a smattering of the usual museum-arty cards and quite a bit of kitsch. He picked up one of the latter. It was, frankly, hideous. The front of the card was shorter than the back, so the top two lines of the verse inside the card were showing when the card was closed, then you opened it up to read the full poem, though I use that term loosely.

“Sorry, it looks naff and the poetry’s worse. But it’s the idea. If we had a poem, a real poem, about the Castle. Anything really, to go with a nice photo on the front.”

He looked at me anxiously. I twigged, “Produce cards with one of my poems, about the Castle, laid out like this?”

“We’d consult you about the look. But the printers can give us a quick turnaround. We often have a special card at Christmas.”

“Nice idea.”

“If, well, I don’t know how this works but if we could use your verse exclusively for a bit…” He shrugged, “I could justify a decent fee.”

“There’s no reason you shouldn’t have use for a year or so. I’ve no poetry collection in the works. I’ll be frank. I don’t write well to order, but I will have a go.”

“Thank you.”

“If I say two weeks, and if I’ve got something by then, we can talk about it.”

Simon beamed at me. On the way out, Sandra thanked me and said how much Matt enjoyed our meetings. I came away with the novel feeling of being appreciated. Mostly, it was hard work to get people to take notice.

I walked into Castle Field and sat and watched the Castle, trying to scribble a few ideas. My two published collections, and other poems about the area, all had a figure in them, whether the young boy alone in the countryside or the older young man’s journey of rediscovery. Both were my avatars.

The strange thing about the sketches that I had after my session in Castle Field was that the figure in them was tall and lanky, thin even, with curly brown hair and nice eyes. I was intrigued; Matt had even managed to worm his way into my psyche.

I wanted coffee and cake. My wanderings earlier had taken me past the old Baptist Church in Horniman Street, now converted into the Horniman Centre. The place Vince devoted his time to. An A-board outside proclaimed that the café was open to all.

The building was one of those red-brick gothic churches so common amongst non-conformist denominations in England. Here, the nave had been left open whilst the aisles were divided off into separate offices or meeting rooms, and the altar glassed in to create some sort of public meeting space.

There was a rack at the door with the inevitable leaflets. Out of habit, I stopped to look and alongside a leaflet about the centre’s work there was one detailing its events programme and another about the Friends of the Horniman Centre with the promise of a ‘lively programme of events’. Interesting.

To one side was the counter with an adequate selection of cakes, a notice proclaiming them to be from a local bakery. Good for them. The rear of the room seemed to have a small colony of people at tables, mainly men who might have been homeless, but the front area had a smattering of middle-aged and elderly couples, some clearly with shopping. I idly wondered how the place actually worked, but that wasn’t really what I was interested in, was it?

A bright, middle-aged woman served me, and I enquired whether the manager was available. She indicated a red-haired bloke cleaning one of the tables. I put my tray down at a table, but the bloke had been nabbed by an older gentleman. I sat down and waited. Finally, the red-haired man walked away, depositing a tray of used crockery at the hatch. The woman serving had a word with him and he looked over at me.

He introduced himself as Peter. Presumably the Peter that Vince mentioned. Not ideal. But bugger it. He had a light sprinkling of freckles and plenty of laugh lines around his eyes, though in repose his face was careful and watchful.

“I’m Graham Philpott, a poet. I was born round here, and my poetry is inspired by the wider landscape.”

A careful nod, “I’m familiar with your work.”

I smiled, “Good. That makes life easier. My brother Vince”, another nod, “has mentioned his work here. I thought that I would be nosey and grab a cake, but I saw your leaflets.” I tapped them where they were lying on the table.

“We have a lively events programme, or we try to”, here he gave a half smile which did indeed reach his eyes. An attractive smile. “Our volunteer, Malcolm runs the Friends.”

“Well, I don’t know whether you’ve any use for poets. I’m rubbish at talking coherently about my work, but I am happy to do readings and talk about the places that inspired me. A sort of evening with Graham Philpott, if that appeals. I wouldn’t charge.”

“That is indeed generous.” A smile of interest, now.

“Rubbish. If Vince can do all that work for you, then it is the least that I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Someone shouted his name.

“Sorry. Work calls. But I will give your details to Malcolm and our committee, and we will be in touch.”

“Thanks”.

I retired to my coffee and cake. When he relaxed, Peter was a real charmer. A nice bloke and I suspected, a good guy to have as a friend. I’d have to say something about our chat to Vince though, wouldn’t I?

There was no sign of him at the house that evening, but late on the lights were on and his car was in the drive. He was sitting nursing a glass of something and watching some sort of documentary.

“Sorry. Hell of a day. I’ve not been home long.”

“I was in town today, trying to drum up some interest.”

He looked puzzled, “In…”

I gave what I hoped was a meaningful stare, “Graham Philpott, the local poet.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.”

“Well, I might have a poetry reading at the Castle gift shop.”

“Good?”

“Ish. And I offered my services at the Horniman Centre, met your mate Peter, I think.”

“Why didn’t you bloody say, I could have…”

“Because I didn’t think. Right? I popped in for a coffee and a nose, but I picked up leaflets about an events programme and a Friends group.”

“Yes. They are trying to make it more than just a place where folk beg for money.”

“So, on impulse, I asked for the manager and Peter appeared. He seemed interested and said he’d pass my details on. Charming bloke, too.”

“You. Doing a poetry reading?”

“Well, I wouldn’t charge, so they could make what they could of it.” I glared at him, “Believe it or not, some folk actually like listening to me reading. And I’m not sitting here and moping. Think of it as me casting my bread upon the waters.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“ ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days’. It’s from the Bible, Ecclesiastes, I think. It means making the most of every single opportunity, no matter how small.” I grinned, “And that includes doing poetry readings at the Castle gift shop, and the Horniman Centre. And anywhere else I can think of, working the local poet angle.”

“It didn’t work with the newspaper, did it?”

“Hey, that’s something you can’t control, right. Sometimes shit happens, usually nothing happens and sometimes…” I shrugged, “So, I’ll do the readings, try to work the local angle.”

“But that’s hardly going to bring in an income.”

“Careful, you might start to sound like Dad. Besides, I’ve applied for a couple of residencies and have managed to get a couple of decent commissions for articles.”

Vince frowned, “It all seems so hit and miss, why don’t you…”

I glared at him, “Don’t you dare say it. You were going to, weren’t you?”

“I can’t see the problem, you could write…”

I was furious now; I didn’t let him finish. “Why do you work in law, eh? Because the law makes your heart sing.”

He looked puzzled, “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I suppose…”

“You might not enjoy every moment, but it’s what you want to do. Well,” I tried not to glare at him, “allow me to want something similar. Writing does that for me, poetry particularly. Forgive me for simply trying to make a living doing it.”

He sighed, “But… Look, how do others do it?”

“Some writers make a living doing just that. The lucky ones. But I’m not Pam Ayres or Roald Dahl. Others write, teach, have residencies.”

“What you’re trying to do.”

“Precisely. If you can’t write creatively, then work in an adjacent area.” I shrugged. “Some can compartmentalise, but I can’t. I’ve tried it. Working a regular job. I’m only ever creative when I have time and space.”

“Sitting at the reserve, ‘doing nothing’”. To give Vince his due, he put the last two words in air quotes.

“You know, Rowan Williams managed to write poetry and be Archbishop of Canterbury. But I’m just not like that.”

He grinned, “Well, thank God for that! But what are you going to do?”

“I know it doesn’t look like it to you, but I’m going to work bloody hard. Writing articles, looking for work and giving myself time to write the real stuff.”

He eyed me oddly, “And can I ask how that is going?”

“You can ask.” I stifled a snort. “I am writing, which is good. I’ll let you know about the quality later.”

“Good, I think.” He shook his head. “It’s so far from what I do.”

“Getting paid by the hour. But you need to make time to learn new things as well. And then there’s the pro bono.”

He had the grace to laugh, “Touché. I should always remember that I shouldn’t argue with you.”

He got up and went to a bookcase and came back with my two books.

“Would you read something?”

I just stared at him a bit gobsmacked.

“Please?”

So, I opened my first collection and started at the first poem and read three. They make a nice balanced group.

“Thank you. They sound very different when you do them.”

“Is that good or bad?”

He thought about it, “Good.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Perhaps we ought to do the audio version.”

“Perhaps we ought.”

---

Thursday morning, I met Matt as usual but the conversation with Vince preyed on my mind somewhat. Was I really just drifting around, doing fuck all?

“You OK, mate? You seem a bit down.”

“My brother was on at me to get a job.”

Matt blinked, “I thought that’s what the writing was.”

“Well, I try.”

“If you can afford to, go for it. I would.”

Breakfast was actually rather comforting; a sort of reassuring habit and I liked Matt’s mixture of reticence and directness. We agreed to meet for a drink again on Friday, and then I went for a long walk through the reserve, enjoying the silence, the bleakness and the landscape’s presence. I didn’t actually write much, but it was productive in the way that it set my brain working.

Finally, I sat down and swigged the last of the coffee in the flask, perhaps I should bring more! I went over my notebook, corrected, adjusted, then wrote some more, and some more. Matt’s ‘go for it’ had heartened me and helped quell the mistrust Vince had sowed.

When I finally got back to the house, I put my notebook to one side for the moment. Instead, I did something I should have done ages ago and started to get my accounts in order, looking at how much income I was (or wasn’t) going to have. Vince had said that he’d cover the heating, electric and council tax for the first few months, which was a boon.

Mid-afternoon, Freddie appeared, whilst I was still mired in figures and very much needing a break. He looked a little nervous; though he was naked, it was as if his Father’s comments had made him aware that he was, like Adam and Eve after eating from the Tree of Knowledge.

“You OK? We can dress.”

He shrugged, “It’s OK. Dad says it is, just he was a bit weird about it.”

I nodded, “Well, he got naked with me.”

“You’re kidding. For real?”

I smiled, “Though he lost his temper too.”

“Figures. But it’s OK?”

“In here. If you are cool, then so am I. Right. Now, tea?”

Once we’d sat down again, I decided to bring up the obvious, “I see you’re still shaving. It was a success, then?”

An embarrassed nod, “Umm. Yeah.”

“No problems?”

“Not really. Getting the hang of it.”

“You going to continue, then?”

“Umm. Yeah.”

“So, they like it?”

“Who?”

“The person you’re doing it for?”

A furious glare that reminded me of his Father, “How d’you know?”

“I don’t. I guessed, because it’s what I’d do. Right.”

“Oh. Umm. Yeah. They’ve not seen yet.”

“Fair enough. Hope it appeals.”

There was a long, long, pregnant pause. Then Freddie mumbled into his mug, “The person. It’s a guy.”

“Fair enough. That’s OK. A guy guy, or someone your age?”

“My age. It’s a bit weird, you know, thinking of older blokes.”

Me included, I suspected. “I get that.”

“You won’t tell Dad?”

“Not a whisper. It’s your business. But if you need someone to talk to, then I can keep my mouth shut. Right?”

“Ta.”

There was a pause and then it was as if he became aware of his surroundings, my piles of paperwork.

“What you doing?” He nodded at the laptop and my receipts and invoices.

“Trying to get a grip on my accounts.”

“You want me…”

Then he leaned over and started tapping the keyboard.

“How did you learn this?”

He shrugged, “Dunno. Like figures. They make sense.” I sort of heard the implied extra to that, ‘and people don’t’.

It didn’t take him long. And when working on my spreadsheets, he was entirely unselfconscious, he might not have been naked at all.

We were just finishing when there was a tap on the door and Vince walked in, “Gray, have you seen Freddie at all?”

Vince came to a halt and stared at us. He was still in work shirt and suit trousers. “What are you doing?”

“Uncle Gray got a bit stuck with his accounts, so I was helping him.” Freddie grinned.

“And very welcome it is too. I’d managed to get into a bit of a pickle.”

“Dressed like that?”

“Well, Dad…”

“Freddie popped in for tea break. We got rather carried away, my fault.”

Vince sighed. “No. It’s. Well. I suppose, it’s no worse than having tea like that. Fair enough.”

“Freddie, as I was able to get off early, I wondered if you wanted to go and look at that bike you wanted.”

“Cool, Dad. I’ll just get ready.” Freddie dashed off with alacrity.

Vince smiled, “You realise that he now knows how much money you make.”

“Or don’t make!”

He shook his head, “He does all the household accounts. I don’t know where he gets it from. Anyway, I’d better dash.”

So, Freddie was getting a new bike. Was that something long planned or a sudden sweetener, I wondered.

---

Bas

Been casting my bread upon the waters. So far, I have a possible reading at the Castle gift shop, and a card (or range of cards) featuring my poetry for said gift shop (if I can manage to write the fucking stuff). About the Castle. And yes, I’ve been trying.

There’s a charity that looks after the homeless and those struggling. They are trying to fancy up their profile, events and a Friends group. Well, I went in and managed to snag the manager. They are interested. I’d donate my time, but it all helps. Have to believe that.

Vince doesn’t and keeps tipping into Dad mode – ‘Get a bloody job’.

Perhaps I should. Then Matt (the twitcher) comes out gung ho. I need to go for it (the writing).

So, here I am. Writing. Amazingly!

G