I have to admit, and as you would probably have
expected, I was quite pleased with myself, not in a cocky way, but I had managed
to achieve my goal. I was speaking to
one of the poets on the course, Jean who lived quite close to me in Ainsdale,
Jean assured me that the fact that Carol Anne Duffy was now supporting my writing
career was no surprise to anyone on the course.
I might have been wandering around singing the praises of Carol Anne Duffy
but I was unaware that she too had been energetically applauding my work. Like an actor at an awards ceremony I acknowledged
that it was a combination of all the people involved that had got me to where I
was. People like poor old John Clancey
who had spent a fortnight with Irene and myself as he attended a course in
preparation for him leaving the armed forces.
John would come back to our house in the
evening and probably want no more than a cold beer and perhaps to relax with
some soccerball on the television whereas the poor fellow had to put up with me
reading out what I had written during the day and asking for feedback. Even my sister Carol over there in Italy was
getting sent work from me for her to comment on. At the time she was being sent around Europe
interviewing writers like Umberto Eco for her university, so although mostly hostile,
I did appreciate her feedback. Feedback
was not in short supply at Lumb Bank and we continued with writing exercises
and the like during the day while after the evening meal we would read to each
other, fuelling our vocal chords with copious amounts of red wine. My only regret was that there was no
telephone at Lumb Bank so I couldn’t tell Irene about my success because her
support had been a big part of it. In
fact there was nothing very modern at Lumb Bank, no television or radio, it was
lovely.
On the final evening we settled down for our last
meal together and then launched in to the after party. We were having quite a giggle when I stood
and read out my ditty. I managed to write
one verse for everyone present, which was received quite well, when I finished
I was surprised that Shields stood and asked for the applause to stop. He had managed to glance over my notes in the
library and worked out what I was up to, so he and the girl he was working with
made up a verse about me. I can’t
remember the exact words he used but I do remember that it focused on a rather
unsteady Irishman trying to find his bed at some ridiculous hour in the morning.
One by one people peeled away from the party
and I found myself alone in the dining room.
I was full of life and had one of my mad ideas so went off to the performance
area. Next to the main house was an old
barn that had been converted into a sort of theatre where performance works
could be presented and analysed. I remembered
having seen a large roll of paper, about a meter wide in the theatre. I held a torch in my teeth while I unwound what
I hoped would be about thirty meters of paper.
I do remember hoping that a ghost would show up as to have met some historical
literary giant would have been the perfect end to my week, but I think all the
ghosts, like us, had been seriously affected by the spirit world.
Back in the dining room with my booty I cleared
the long dining table and began to mark out the paper. I had no pens or paints so was using lumps of
charcoal from the fire. It was a very
simple idea; I was making a banner that would say ‘Carol Anne Duffy is grate.’ Yes I know it is spelled incorrectly, but that
was the joke. I was immersed in my own
little world when a bird made me notice it was dawn. This wasn’t a little bird sitting outside on
a branch chirping its heart out. This was
a bird tip toeing down the stairs from the small flat where the two facilitators
stayed. She saw me and burst in to
tears, why? I have no idea, perhaps because
she had been rumbled, but who had she slept with? Carol or John? I didn’t ask.
She made her excuses and I promised I wouldn’t
mention what I was now aware of, to anyone.
And I never did. I finished my
poster and went upstairs and woke Paul.
I can remember shaking him and asking, “Are you a poet?” I then demanded that he accompany me on a mission
of great poetic importance. Paul got out
of bed and followed me to the dining room where I explained that I wanted to
hang the poster outside on the railings that surrounded the raised garden at
the house. Armed with staples and sellotaope
we went outside into the fresh morning air and hung the poster. Once satisfied I went to bed and slept for an
hour or two. The noise of everyone
getting up and getting ready to leave woke me and I dragged myself out of bed.
As a bloke it took me about five seconds to
pack my belongings and head down for some breakfast. Everyone was outside admiring the poster so I
joined them and got one of ‘those’ looks from Carol Anne Duffy, but she wasn’t
upset or angry. In fact she posed under
the poster with me so a couple of people with cameras took our photograph. And if any of you reading this have a photograph
of Carol Anne and myself under that poster please contact me as I would love to
see it as would I suppose most of the Illuminati. Cars and taxis began to arrive and people
left. It was sad to say farewell to
people especially Shields who had formed a real friendship with me during our stay. Tony arrived and I managed to spend a few final
minutes in the library trying to breathe in as much of the atmosphere as I
could. I didn’t want to leave the place.
It most certainly was one of the best weeks of
my life and I shall never forget it. I
was full of excitement as we drove back towards Skelmersdale telling Tony all about
my literary adventure and how Carol Anne Duffy was recommending me to her
agent. Tony was pleased for me, but like
a lot of people I don’t think he really understood the significance of what had
happened to me. In a way it was
understandable, for Tony was more interested in the following week and meeting
Grahame. He had planned our day trip
down to the last second and he couldn’t wait to tell me what time we should leave
at and prompt me that perhaps I should telephone Graham and remind him what
time we expected to arrive. I was back
in the real world and wasn’t very happy about it, but there was nothing I could
do.
I had spent a considerable amount of time
building up and now maintaining my daily word production and could quite comfortably
plough out my seven hundred and fifty words.
I found that the letter I was writing to Carol Anne’s agent was one of
the most difficult pieces I had ever had to write. It had to be as short as possible but at the same
time be as professional as possible. It
was certainly written more than once.
When normally writing to literary agents or publishers I would include
newspaper clippings about myself but I wasn’t sure if I should this time or
not. I ended up with quite a short
letter and leaving out the newspaper clippings sent it off, wishing, as we all
tend to do, that I had written something different. It was a week or ten days later that I got my
reply. The company logo stamped boldly
on the envelope. My heart was in my
mouth as I opened it wondering if I would be invited to visit, or call, or
would they come to me. As I read the
letter, which like mine, was short and to the point my heart sank all the way through
my body and probably would have continued on down through the floor if it could
have. It was the standard reply from
literary agents. They were very sorry
but they were far too busy to even look at my work.
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