Monday 21.10.1991
Dear All,
Enjoyed the journey out of London. Familiar rail route to Cambridge station where you need something of an academic brain to find your way from platforms running south to those climbing north. Great confusion about trains bifurcing to King’s Lynn and Thetford.
Finally headed towards the latter through untidy fields of burning stubble, alongside quiet rivers, snatching a glimpse of bulky Ely cathedral (lacking the elegant spire of Salisbury cathedral), finally plunging into the forest of Thetford, planted by human hands, the largest in the land, sheltering the small town of Thetford itself.
Descended into the fresh air of the Fenlands and, as the train pulled out cutting the link with London, heard myself being hailed from across the tracks by an attractive man about my own age, Peter Warboyes. Was soon comfortably installed in a large deep blue Mercedes and, as we drove through the small town, discovered that Peter’s wife Sally actually runs the writing courses with the help of their son Duncan, whilst he himself has other interests in their home in Bury St Edmunds.
Detoured down a quiet lane in Thetford to pick up another course member, Toni. A Miss Marple-like character, well wrapped up in a cosy taupe coat with a soft pink scarf holding a worried face beneath a furry hat. She remained in a state of anxiety for the greater part of the journey. She had entrusted her first novel to Virago some months earlier yet still had no word from them.
Next Day – Tuesday pm
The geese which saved Rome are alive and hissing at Fen Farm. No question of anyone creeping in here after hours unnoticed.
The farmhouse is strawberry pink, two white windows up, two down on either side of a porch-protected door, all covered in well-maintained thatch, rather like an architectural version of Toni. Extending around the house are trimmed lawns verging on arable land whilst infront of it is the cleanest, odourless farmyard, no nostril titillation here. One small barn has been converted into a ‘studio’ with desks, typewriters and word processors, whilst another houses a sauna (go and sweat it out if you’re struck with writer’s block.)
Across the yard stands a tall, dark brown barn, our ‘home’. Tastefully converted, it houses a living room with black wood and white plastered walls, a beamed ceiling and a huge table for twelve plus comfortable chairs. There’s a small well-equipped kitchen where course members take it in turns to cook daily (menus and ingredients provided), two modern bathrooms and a bedroom for four on the ground floor. Upstairs is another bedroom for four, other people can be accommodated in the main house. Everything looks so fresh and new because the courses have only been running since April.
The farmhouse living room is similarly cosy. More beams and plaster walls around an open fireplace with a large log- burning fire, very autumnal to sit around it in comfortable armchairs for seminars.
The Group – The Women
Oh for a tape recorder! A narcissistic group (obviously, we’re autobiographers), each with a voice to be heard, what glorious confusion!
I’m sharing a room with ‘Miss Marple’, white hair neatly clipped into pudding basin style, fond of bright pink and turquoise jump suits, early nights, cold bedrooms, often speaking fondly of her recent experience of English Literature at the University of East Anglia where, forgetting that she was no longer matron in a boys’ boarding school, she frequently marched into her amorous neighbour’s room telling boyfriend to “Get out!” Her current preoccupation is still the fact that Virago hasn’t returned her novel, the first of a trilogy.
Marie is our other room- mate. In her fifties, with I think some sort of academic background, she has lost two husbands from cancer, her favourite brother from schizophrenia and her parents, who died young from the exhaustion of caring for her brother. She suffers from depression and has about five different writing projects on the go which she shares at her regular writers’ group meetings. She’s just ricked her back and so far has spent most of her time here at floor level. “I love this community living!” Of course, her every need is catered for.
Kathy, a raucous –voiced Scot, fortyish, has lived out of Scotland for years but you’d never guess that from her accent. She lives in a village down the road, loves the country life and is hoping to move to a more remote spot soon. She has problems with her dreams. Sounds as though there’s some problem beneath the loud surface.
Belinda, an attractive, vibrant thirty year old (who keeps getting phone calls from a distant partner), was an actress for some time but tired of the insecurity, not clear what she’s involved in now.
(Toni’s just come in, “This is just like an encounter group! They always bring out the worst in me! I know I’ve been reading too much Swift!” I don’t know what she’s carrying on about, obviously, I haven’t been reading any Swift! She’s now muttering about being a ‘fruit junkie’.)
Belinda also has troubled dreams. Get the feeling that many people here are trying to write themselves out of some kind of distress.
The Men
Jim is mid-fortyish. I can imagine him with a blonde bristle moustache, short back and sides, in a dark suit in an undertaker’s office, but, with shoulder length wispy blonde hair, jogging outfit and a chirpy smile he’s more suited to the world of advertising. He’s been involved with Time Out and, in the sixties, with various fringe publishing companies which he now wants to write about. He also travelled a lot in his youth. At one time a friend persuaded him to show his travel letters to a ghost writer but he was horrified with the ‘voice’ which emerged from the professional’s page, definitely not his, so he decided he could do better himself.
And Arthur, probably mid- seventies, my immediate impression was ‘Jewish’ but he was avidly tucking into bacon this morning so I’ll have to think again. He’s as deaf as a post in his left ear and only hears well in his right if conversation is directed at him so he was having huge problems yesterday when conversation in the group really got going. Also, since he doesn’t hear well he seems to think that others can’t hear him. For example, when I introduced him to Toni, he looked rather lecherously into my eyes and replied, ”Oh, I’m not bothered about her, I’d rather speak to you.” She was LIVID!
Last arrival, late, was Hilary from Hornsey, lives quite close to me! Fortyish, she looks like a fellow teacher but since she worked yesterday before coming she presumably isn’t, although she did mention something about academic publications.
The First Tutor
Fraser Hines, the writer of autobiography detailed in the publicity blurb, drifted into the barn on the first evening virtually unnoticed amidst the cackle of group chatter, could hardly call it discussion since everyone was intent on establishing their own viewpoints. He’s fiftyish, looks like a fairly typical academic wearing navy cords with matching sweater and check shirt, brown brogues and the aura of a country parson in ‘Midsomer Murders’. Silence established, he outlined briefly what his contribution to the Course would be ie. Mostly reading our files of earlier writing whilst we complete his assignments….(RIP OFF?)
The main focus of Monday night was the meal (cooked by John, the neighbour, tomorrow we’ll be self-catering), steak pie with new potatoes, peas and broccoli followed by raspberries and strawberries in honeyed yogurt. I had Arthur sitting next to me, getting increasingly frustrated by the impossibility of trying to follow simultaneous conversations. His situation reminded me of myself in France trying to get a word in edgeways between my three voluble travelling companions on that journey to Finland.
After the meal some people drifted out in search of the nearest pub. I stayed cosily at home with the others and chatted. Discovered that one could in fact go to bed and still participate, albeit in rather a one-sided fashion, in the neighbouring living room conversation where people were sharing their life histories. The walls are as thin as paper. Some talked late.
Tuesday
Others arose early, making it difficult for those wanting to sleep at length. However, space in the kitchen was guaranteed for those helping themselves to breakfast, a good selection of cereals, orange juice, bacon and egg, toast, coffee or tea.
Thence to the farmhouse lounge at ten o’clock and a morning with Fraser. He spoke firstly of publishing a book from the publisher’s angle and then from the writer’s point of view. Basically, the depression has hit the publishing world and without ‘contacts’ there is little chance of being published.
The morning was punctuated by one-liners from Arthur. He seems to have come with a bag full of questions to ask, so throws them in at any point in the discussion whether the moment is pertinent or not. We’re having difficulty keeping straight faces at times.
Fraser then spoke of the publication of his own volumes of autobiography, a case of being in the right place at the right time, he actually worked for a publishing company when he left university. He now works on commissions (ghost writing?) but has had nothing published this year. He’s soon off to the States to spend six months lecturing and writing. There’s no doubt about it, for most professionals writing is a precarious lifestyle.
Lunch was self- service, cold meats, cheese, salad, fruit, a bit like a midnight feast, eating as much as one likes from a stranger’s fridge.
The afternoon assignment was to write a letter to one of our parents. The idea left me feeling ill at ease, where to begin? So, I went for a walk down the nearby lane. I still don’t know what a ‘fen’ is. It could mean ‘a goose farm’, seen three so far and a windmill. Such an empty countryside, such well-kept little gardens, houses appearing at intervals down the lane, definitely an environment for the solitary-minded. Wonderful fresh air but not very inspirational, hence your letter.
Later
Belinda has just returned to the barn following her interview with Fraser. She looks despondent…a lot of work to be done on the story she showed him….
SUSPENSE, maybe I’ll get a similar response in which case HALT. I haven’t got time to rework, revise, retype anything, I’m too busy keeping up with journaling the present!
In the background Toni is talking about the blood and gore the boys used to bring back from rugby matches…..her daughter in Holland….her own attempts at learning Dutch. She claims that she is a ‘solitary junkie’ but she’s loving telling everyone what she’s done in her long life, she’s seventy-five years old.
Kathy’s just commented that Belinda’s ‘piece of elastic’ hasn’t called yet.
Toni wants to get on with her novel.”…if only I could get a book on Spain, I’ve got them bogged down in Madrid, my son would help but he’s gone to Moscow….” (I wish she’d go and talk to the geese, I haven’t started the parental letter yet!)…..”Oh, isn’t Fraser a brick, he’s going to talk to all of us!”
Jim arrives for tea. He’s not been inspired to write anything either, “....but Sally’s coming and apparently she’s a real TASK MASTER.” He reiterates this information loudly for Arthur’s benefit. It’s not clear whether Arthur has yet put pen to paper.
“He’s so good, so lucid, I think he’s wonderful, the best tutor I’ve ever had!” Marie’s voice drifts in from the kitchen as she arrives to cook the evening meal following her tutorial. ”But I don’t think I’m prepared to put in the effort he considers necessary.”
Later, following my tutorial
Fraser thinks I’m a triumph!! He says there’s no doubt I can write!!
(Bloody Toni! I’ve retreated from the mass to the comparative privacy of the bedroom in order to write and tell you this momentous piece of news while I still remember it. And Bloody Toni won’t let me put pen to paper! She’s prattling on about her work not having a market in the New Yorker….and how tired she’s feeling….Why doesn’t she just shut up! Why am I so bloody polite!)
I’ve suggested she take a rest before supper…. Peace regained!
From my Writing File, Fraser was mostly impressed by my German Hospital letter. He felt I’d told a harrowing tale yet had managed to retain a humorous detachment, a vital skill as a writer yet a skill which many writers don’t have. He didn’t think the travel letters had the same potency as this one. He felt I had a story to tell and, therefore, he strongly encouraged me to get on with it! *
I tell you, sitting in the dimming light of sunset, the flames of a glowing fire reflected in the tawny glow of his whisky glass, it was a snapshot experience of some intensity. No, I’ve not been Ripped Off, the investment was worth it just to hear is words!
He also showed a lot of interest in how I got ill, the ‘twin element’ and was intrigued and very moved by my ‘bird’ painting. All in all, he very much enjoyed reading my whole file which he thought was excellently presented. Indeed, he said I should consider it a good asset to have such an orderly mind yet with such imagination too.
Really, I’m still bowled over. Can’t remember when anyone was so appreciative of my writing.!
Wednesday am
Fraser has just read an extract from his autobiography detailing his first infatuation the memory of which rushed back into his mind on hearing a favourite old pop tune. It’s to be the inspiration for our second exercise, a memory brought back on hearing a piece of music.
Arthur picked up his newspaper and prepared to leave the house. “What are you going to write about Arthur?” someone asked. “Nothing! I don’t want anyone knowing about my private business. I’ve come here to observe,” came the irritated retort.
(He’s now telling Belinda it looks as though she’s got a goitre which will affect her fertility. She looks politely horrified! I don’t think she’s acting.)
Last night, some in a haze of happiness, we clustered around our dining table for the first group-cooked meal, lamb goulash, baked potatoes with courgette and tomato bake, delicious. This was followed by a magnificent open fruit tart, glistening kiwi fruits, strawberries and oranges, topped with fresh cream which had mysteriously appeared in the fridge during the day, much to the relief of the chefs.
After the meal, as a great concession, we were allowed to regain contact with the world beyond the fen. We entered the inner recesses of the farmhouse to watch the Booker prize on TV. (Appropriate viewing for a literary group, don’t you think?) As the camera panned around the audience it rested briefly on the back of a woman dressed in a beautiful red, gold and green garment. “That’s my first wife,” announced Fraser. Silence, curious interest diverted the attention of all present….Finally, I liked the theme of the winning novel, ‘The Famished Road’ by Ben Okri, it seemed to fit my current Jungian dream thread of thought.
That Night
Dreamed – ‘I was walking down the steps of a huge lecture theatre with the American husband of a Welsh friend. Stopped behind my brother John (in his younger days) and began to sing a well-known hymn but the song sheet was in Greek’.
Could it be that everything happening at the moment in Fen Farm is all Greek to me?
Thursday
At lunchtime, the two men arrived later than the rest of us. It seems they’d been knocking back the whisky in their room after which Arthur announced that he was cold and wanted some hot soup from Duncan (the ethereal blonde boy of the house who keeps popping in to make sure that all our needs are being adequately met.) “We don’t have any,” said Duncan. “I want tomato,” said Arthur, ostensibly not having heard the reply. “I’m cold.” He got mulligatawny. He was later seen tucking into a pork pie. “Eh Arthur,” said cockney Jim, “ain’t that a bit out of religious order?” “I like it,” said Arthur munching on.
He really is a laugh. A very amiable atmosphere has developed around him although he’s determinedly not doing any writing.
I took time out for a walk this morning, up and down another neighbouring lane also lined with cackling geese. It’ll be silent soon, Christmas is coming.
Have discovered that a ‘fen’ is low-lying marshy ground fringed with fronds of weeds. Many around here have been drained and the resultant sandy soil is perfect for growing vegetables. Suppose that’s what people around here do, grow things and grow older. No sign of life in any of the houses other than barking dogs.
Back at the Barn
A lot of people are finding it difficult to settle to writing. There seem to be two groups of writers. There are those who have written for years both for work and pleasure and who are now churning out their autobiographies. Suppose I fit loosely into this group. These have enjoyed Fraser’s ‘Cambridge style’ tutorials and found his comments helpful. The others are beginner writers. Some feel they’ve been ripped apart by him. (I thought Kathy was strangely silent last night after her encounter). They would have preferred a more instructive course. (I think I could do with one of those too.)
This afternoon stretched more easily into personal writing. I stayed snug and warm in the barn within reach of coffee and biscuits. In the kitchen Arthur, still determinedly not writing, was carrying on a loud conversation with someone else equally reluctant to write.
It seems that Arthur is a Lithuanian Jew. “No, I can’t speak Russian, feel more Cockney really. Lived off Oxford Street most of my life, been in the fashion business. I’ve travelled a lot.”
He’s obviously had an interesting life but no, he’s not going to write about it.
Impossible to concentrate as the conversation continued so left the barn and walked over towards the pink farmhouse, across the odourless yard, along the flintstone path, around the house to a bright green lawn where bare-branched trees fronted open brown fields. Too cold to sit on the garden bench so stepped into the ‘quiet’ room, a small conservatory where Jim, looking strangely serious was scribbling away.
Oh dear, the problem of writing to order, but managed to finish the task.
Next Week - Fen Farm Autobiographies - Part 2
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