John Barton Harvey and myself buried the hatchet
the following morning at breakfast, although if the truth be told I could have
buried it between his shoulder blades.
We accepted that we had a difference of opinion and that we should move
on, but he was still right. With
breakfast finished we all gathered in the dining room to begin our writing exercises. One of the most common complaints, or
problems, you will hear writers speak about is ‘writers block.’ This is where the writer actually blanks out
and cannot think of anything to write. This
type of situation can then be backed up with quotes from people like Gene
Fowler, who I mentioned before, who said that “Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of
paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”
Many writers like to quote stuff like that, to
them it shows just how hard writing is. But
it isn’t, writing is an adventure, it is satisfying and fulfilling. Yes, the apprenticeship is difficult but the actual
job is marvellous. I have never suffered
from writers block and I never will for I follow people like William Faulkner. Faulkner is regarded as one of the most
important writers in American Literature and also a Pulitzer prize winning Nobel
Laureate. Faulkner said, or at least is attributed
to have said, “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes at nine every morning.” For me claiming to have writers block was an
excuse. I think many people wish to view
writing as a creative, almost whimsical pursuit, whereas it is a serious professional
business.
We messed about with various techniques one
which was called ‘page ninety seven.’ The
theory was that if you suffered writers block you would open any book to page
ninety seven, write down the first line on that page and then continue
writing. We completed a few exercises and
in my opinion were only messing about.
Next we were all asked to write a name on a piece of paper. Any name, for any reason and all the names
were placed in a hat, well; a saucepan actually. Carol Anne Duffy then explained that she
would give each of us a name, we had to make sure that it was not the one we
had written, and we would go to one of the writing huts and spend fifteen
minutes writing about the name we had been given.
Lumb Bank has twenty acres of ground throughout
which are dotted small gardening huts, small sheds with a desk, a chair and a
window. The girls were not impressed as
the huts tended to be populated with spiders so big they could have given some
guard dogs a run for their money. I
locked myself inside a nearby hut and sat down.
I looked out through the window and saw a hill before me. I noticed the way the stone walls seemed to
resemble a net, and I imagined that the net was actually holding the hill down
to the earth. It reminded me of rural Ireland,
but more than that, for initially I could picture people clearing the fields,
bringing the rocks and stones to the edges and building the walls. But now the people were gone, the fields were
empty, only memories remained and the people who might have worked the land now
were in London, as Christy Moore said, ’Digging, digging, digging,” in his song
‘Don’t forget your shovel.’
And then another Christy Moore song came into
my mind called, ‘Missing You.’ “All ye
young people now take my advice, Before crossing the ocean you'd better think
twice, Cause you can't live without love, without love alone, The proof is
round London in the nobody zone. Where
the summer is fine, but the winter's a fridge, Wrapped up in old cardboard
under Charing Cross Bridge, And I'll never go home now because of the shame, Of
misfit's reflection in a shop window pane.”
It reminded me of the loneliness and pain most Irish people would be
feeling when they were separated from their homeland. And so I started to write. The name I had been given was Kate. There was no plan, no formalised structure to
the story; I just allowed the words to spill out of me. As I wrote the last word I could hear them
calling for us to come back in.
We sat around and took it in turns to read what
we had written. Some people had written
two or three lines of poetry, some had made plans of what they would write
about the name they had been given and then they came to me. I had written a short story. It was a complete short story, three hundred
and eighty words. Some people accused me
of writing it before I had arrived and simply putting Kate as the heading and in
the story. I wasn’t interested in what
they said; for I knew that ten minutes before hand I had actually sat myself down
and written the story Kate. Most people
were impressed and I shall add the story Kate to the end of this blog so that you
can make up your own minds.
Shields, Paul and myself had to peel off early
as we had to prepare the evening meal, the main dish was leek curry, I think
Paul did that while Shields prepared rhubarb and custard, I made the starter
which was devilled eggs with anchovies. Stop
it, they were gorgeous. The meal went
down very well, which was probably something to do with the wine. The three of us cleared away and washed and
put the dishes away as the others retired to one of the comfortable rooms, lit
the candles, poured more wine and began to read to each other. We had been asked to think of our favourite
piece of literature or poetry and read it to the group that evening, I decided
, without much thought, that I would read ‘An Irish airman foresees his death,’
by W B Yeats.
I was the last one to leave the kitchen and hurriedly
joined the group who were slurping away at the wine while individuals read
their piece, by candlelight. When it
came to my turn I opened the poetry book I had and turned to the appropriate
page. I began to read out loud. I read the first line, “I know that I shall
meet my fate, somewhere among the clouds above.” As I began reading the second line, “Those
that I fight I do not hate, those
that I guard I do not love,” It was like having an out of body experience for I
could see myself sitting there with tears streaming down my face. Most of the group were stunned, so was I. It was like understanding the poem for the
very first time and knowing how relevant it was to my life. People asked if I would like to stop, but I
carried on. When I finished it was
agreed that we should have a break, the centre directors had told us that in
the local village of Heptonstall that evening all the artists, sculptors, painters,
writers and musicians would meet up for a social evening. The one time in the week that the artistic community
got together.
Shields was concerned about me, but I explained
to him that you should embrace your emotions, not hide them away, it’s what makes
you strong. I felt an enormous amount of
emotion while reading the poem, now I would have some quiet reflection on why
it happened and what it meant to me, when I was ready. However we had more important things to
concentrate on, we were going to the pub.
I couldn’t wait to meet some of these artists for many are truly eccentric
and wonderfully interesting. My
favourite eccentric writer would have been
the Frenchman, Gerard de Nerval, who used to take his pet lobster, Thibault,
for walks, on the end of a blue silk ribbon, in the Palais Royal gardens in
Paris. When asked why he walked a
lobster he replied, “Because they are peaceful serious creatures, they know the
secrets of the sea, and they don’t bark.”
The local pub, The White Lion, Heptonstall, was
a large and comfortable establishment, what you would expect from an English
country pub, exposed beams, a roaring open fire and a warm welcome. It filled up quite quickly and sure enough
the place was full of artists and sculptors and writers, painters and musicians. The musicians knew each other and quickly clubbed
together and began to play music. I,
along with Shields and Paul began some serious beer tasting. Red wine and vegetarian food is fine for most
people, but beer and a bacon sandwich does the soul a power of good. Satisfied and winded we relaxed and joined in
with the atmosphere. The musicians were
asking for someone to take a turn, give us a song. Well; you know me, you only have to ask once,
and sometimes not at all.
I took to my feet, the feet at the end of the loveliest
legs in Ireland, and began to sing my heart out. Just like giving an after dinner speech I
worked the room singing ‘Whiskey on a Sunday,’ encouraging everyone to join in
with the chorus. From the look on Shields
face I could tell that I was in fine voice and as a representative of my own little
island I did my countrymen proud. Of
course they asked for more and as is my nature I followed up with the frivolous
‘Weela, Weela, Wallia.’ The crowd loved
it and despite the calls for ‘more’ I followed the old adage of leaving them
wanting more. It was a grand night out
and the three of us staggered back to Lumb Bank at the end of a wonderful day. I had impressed almost everyone on the course
with my writing, I had even impressed the locals with my singing, all I had to
do now was work on impressing John Barton Harvey.
Kate
I looked at my hands. They were rough, they
were dry, but that’s what happens after years of moving stones, mixing cement
and digging in all weathers. When she
touched my hands I could not feel her softness. It wasn’t often that I got to
touch her. Once a year, in the foul season,
I would always return home, but not forever. The taxi drivers normally refused
to take me to the door; instead they would drop me where the path and the road
met. The path was overgrown, but not hidden.
Two parallel ruts snaked away, dipping and
turning. Somehow my memories slipped.
The cottage always changed. It remained static as in foundation but the roof
sagged. Some years the weeds and
brambles attacked and like a fierce squall I arrived to rip and slash and kill.
The water butt was gone, although some pieces remained; yet in my mind it was
complete.
The stone walls, guy ropes for the cottage,
crumbled and a sea of weeds washed around me. Inside it would take time, time
to adjust. With the fire set and its
powerful glow pushing against the walls I could hear her in the scullery. The
clink of wet china, the soft humming of happiness and the music of aroma.
Like a pack of wild dogs the elements would
gather together and attack. A bluster of
wind would gush down the chimney. A
salvo of raindrops would pepper the windows and door. We were safe, nothing could
hurt us. My mind would wander away to
Kilburn and Guinness and building sites. It seemed to be warm there. Perhaps I
was warning myself that I had to go back, back to routine, loneliness and
constant pain.
Often I would cry. I would sob myself into a headache that would
be so heavy only prayer could lift it, or an angel. An angel like Kate, who had been taken from me
all those years ago. I cried because I
hadn’t the strength to join her. I
suppose my pain gave me hope. Hope that she would appear. I would go to the
scullery, hope suffocating my heart and the dust bitter on my tongue. I could
sense her, but I couldn’t join her. Dear Kate, my life, my death, my all.
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