Friday
This is impossible. I’m trying to complete an ‘exercise’ I should have completed last night but couldn’t because of ‘chef duties’. Now I’m trying to concentrate but Jim’s chattering in the kitchen.
“Now go on Patch, (the farm cat, colourful tawny, black and white patchwork coat but he’s lost half his face in a fight) get on your bike. Arthur, where are you, you old scallywag? Your egg’s ready!”
It’s been really odd. Eight of us here plus tutor and yet there are even more people, eerie, ghost-like creatures, new ones appearing every day from Toni. (“The pink-clad, square-shaped little lady with a helmet of white hair.” Marie’s description of Toni, her room mate, in an exercise yesterday. The room mate did not smile on hearing it.)
One minute Toni’s flapping on about Spain, “Does anyone know Barcelona? Is there a Conservatoire there? You see this classical flamenco guitarist has just arrived there.” Then last night she was pondering on the choice of a word, “Do you think ‘plangent’ captures the mood? The plangent sound of the plane flying down.” ‘Plangent’, not part of my very-few-novels-read vocabulary.
Toni’s novel is scribbled between formal writing sessions and at the crack of dawn. Early one morning I got up to go to the bathroom and was dimly aware of a little figure hunched up and scribbling in the grey light filtering in between half drawn curtains.
The other one constantly at work on her novel (Oops, sorry, Trilogy) is Marie. She is at the research stage, busy making notes about a small Cornish settlement in the 1940’s from a book obtained from the British Library. She’s collecting material from which to create a background for her heroine. Sexual harassment is going to be a powerful theme running throughout.
Personal Doubts
I had doubts the other day after Fraser passed positive comments on my work so I again quizzed him on the validity of what I was writing. Again, I think I heard,”You’re ready to write a book, and, if you do, I think it will be a splendid one.” If only I could persuade myself to believe him and just get on with it.
Evening Conversations
At mealtimes the conversation tends to begin with an all-embracing discussion but then it gradually splits into groups or pairs where the conversation becomes more intimate.
One night I ended up with Kathy (her post -Fraser morale boosted by a wonderfully moving piece of writing. Apparently he told her that she needed therapy not writing!) She suddenly started pouring out her current problem. Her ex-husband has announced he’s going to come and snatch their only son away from her one of these days.
Then last night it was Jim. A gentle man, his aggressive wife took their two kids to Cornwall and now rips up any solicitor’s demands that he be allowed access to them, a sad tale. (Fraser told him that he needed therapy too! Left him dreadfully upset.) I tell you, the declarations that have been coming out over the last few days are probably rarely shared beyond one’s nearest and dearest (or with a therapist) on a regular basis.
Marie cracked last night. She, the seemingly most composed of the group, the most ‘aware’ of life with her two husbands (now dead) and her seven children, is really just putting up a front to conceal an internal mess. (Hilary had confided in me earlier that she thought Marie was the weakest member of the group. Very perceptive.)
And me, Penny Lumley, Manic Depressive? Well, Fraser of course had read something of my experiences, and I’d mentioned my ‘label’ to one or two whose lives had also been difficult but, oddly enough, this fragment of my autobiography came out rather differently this morning.
Saturday
Over breakfast Kathy, confidence regained in her ability to write, was talking of the possibility of going to university. She was egged on by Toni who, between giving us ‘novel’ extracts, has been serialising her life as a student at the University of East Anglia. Hilary, a university lecturer, was advising a pre-degree course because the pressure of launching straight into study after a long time away from books could be very difficult.
At which point I decided to launch in and tell them of my own return to university experience which had ended in breakdown leading to the diagnosis of manic depression, and was faced with open mouths.
“But you look the most calm and fearless person here,” gasps Toni. “I don’t believe it,” said Kathy. I’d already told Hilary, who is also having therapy but hasn’t yet let on why. I tried to explain in more detail but Toni had already picked up the thread, “Of course we all have our problems. I remember when….”
(THANK GOD for the Manic Depression Fellowship Group, they’re the only people who REALLY LISTEN to the life problems of other manic depressives. On the other hand , I’m getting messages from a new group of people that I appear quite normal! I suppose that has its uses.)
The Second Tutor
Our hostess and tutor Sally Warboyes arrived before Fraser left, apparently brought back at speed from the BBC by a frantic phone call from her son. He’d been in the pub with Kathy and Jim and witnessed their fury following the ‘writing as therapy’ comments! She breezed in straight off the Timotei Shampoo advert, shoulder length blonde hair flying, fresh country air-kissed complexion, tall but gangliness concealed in trendy beige stretch trousers, black tunic and black granny laced boots.
She immediately came over as a very warm person, not at all as a hard business woman though she’s obviously extremely competent in both her writing (spent eight years at the Riverside Studios in Hammersmith) and in getting Fen Farm Writing Courses off the ground. Our comfortable surroundings plus the family home in Bury St Edmunds which, according to Fraser, is beautiful, are all her creation. And she’s skilful at handling people. Fraser stayed longer than he’d originally intended and left the group more at peace with him.
Sally’s approach to tutoring is very much more structured than Fraser’s. Perhaps it would have been better to work with her first. However, it took a long while to get into her structure yesterday. Arthur finally decided he’d had enough of wandering the nearby lanes whilst the rest of us were working and announced that he wanted to go to Norwich to visit the town.
Confusion, how to get him there, how to bring him back? Most of those with cars were flapping around except for Marie. “I’ve known men like him since I was two. He’s VERY typical of his kind. He’s been around the world, he can look after himself. Why should we give up our writing time? Let him get a taxi!” And so he did.
I felt apprehensive about Sally’s task,’ to create a character and write a scene’. Lacking any inspiration I left the warmth of the barn and walked in a fine drizzle down another lane, more geese cackling away, more pretty houses, still no people, and racked my brain.
Came to the conclusion that I’m incapable of writing fiction and, what’s more, I have no desire to write fiction and so I wrote fact.
“You said you couldn’t do it,” said Sally, “that was really good.” “But it was fact,” said I. “But it was fiction to us,” said she. So that’s how you do it, you just write fact and let people read it as fiction.
A Departure
Was about to abandon this private letter scribbling in the empty bedroom to go in search of the others but have just heard Arthur depart the (Non) Writing Course. Maybe Sally has got through to him that he should not be here as an observer! A difficult situation since she is the best friend of his journalist daughter who will be expecting Sally to put pen into father’s hand and pin him to paper.
Now hear Belinda sniffing away! Muttering something about boyfriend troubles to Marie. Maybe the joke about her ‘piece of elastic’ each time her phone rings is actually rather hurtful. Talk about a ‘therapeutic community’ down on the farm, it could grow to rival ‘The Archers’.
Last night we had an unusual after dinner entertainment. Draped around the log fire, glinting in the darkness, we listened to one of Sally’s radio plays, a drama about an old couple who kept their son at home for their own benefit yet, when dying, left him bereft and without support. Very clever quick dialogue. I wonder how it feels to listen to one’s own words issuing forth from a loud speaker?
Hilary says I should start writing for other people, sharing my work. She reckons I capture the rhythm of speech and thought far more effectively than those who are trying to emulate more literary styles.
She’s just had her tutorial with Sally and found her most helpful though they actually spent more time talking about child abuse. Kathy came in on the conversation implying that she had had problems with abuse too.
It seems that Sally has enjoyed this group a great deal despite the general lack of seriousness towards writing by many and the large proportion of time spent talking.
Friday
Arthur left this morning but still took up an inordinate amount of our discussion time as people began to reminisce on their ‘Arthur Memories’.
Jim recounted how Arthur had conned the taxi driver who brought him back from Diss yesterday. Arthur knew the fare was £15.00 but showed the bloke his O.A.P. rail ticket to Norwich, about one hour’s journey, and said, “D’you know how much this cost me? £1.30. How much are you going to charge me to Fen Farm, it’s only down the road isn’t it?” So the taxi driver only quoted him £5.00. Then he proceeded to get hopelessly lost in the lanes incurring a lot of extra mileage and, very apologetically, charged him £7.50.
“Did you give him a tip?” asked Jim. “Course not,” said Arthur. “He asked for £7.50 and that’s what I gave him.”
Obviously a wheeler dealer business man, fate has not always been so kind to Arthur. By a strange coincidence Hilary discovered that she’d been at the same health farm as Arthur’s wife.
“But I was there too!”gesticulated Arthur. “But she didn’t mention you,” said Hilary. “Oh,” said Arthur with a groan, “let me tell you what happened.”
It seemed that the last thing that he wanted to do was to go to a health farm, he’s as thin as a rake and definitely not in need of a diet but his rather portly wife persuaded him that he could come as a ‘guest’ and so eat normally.
Well, he obviously didn’t get on with the food provided as on the first night he ended up with dreadful stomach pains and couldn’t stop vomiting. The doctor concluded that his body couldn’t take the food and his stomach had flipped into reject mode.
He was bed-bound for the rest of the week and ended up going home having lost more weight than his wife, £700.00 lighter and minus his false teeth which, in a sick stupor, he had inadvertently flushed away.
“Don’t talk to me about his false teeth,” said Jim, “frightened the life out of me going into the bathroom the first morning here and seeing those chompers grinning at me from a glass!”
Marie also left this morning after a lengthy tutorial from Sally on her latest novel. Apparently a pressing need to see a grandchild in hospital.
Suddenly odd to be part of a reduced ‘family’ but, no time for reflection, on to the final exercise.
First we had to create a character within a given framework. On completion, these characters were given to Sally who redistributed them between us. The second part of the exercise involved thinking of a difficult time in one’s own life into which our newly acquired character would appear and have a dramatic effect on the situation.
I felt like curling up in disgust when I received my character from Hilary, an unattractive newly appointed Head Teacher. No great inspiration so finally took my current work situation and, oh that it were true, ended up handing my resignation in to Haringey Education Authority.
I felt sorry for Toni who had received my creation. Unable to devise a character I ended up with a brainstorming exercise. A black woman, Tranquil Angel emerged, who worked in a hotel with her friend Hibiscus, also from Grenada, their main pastime being Bible reading.
Well, credit to the experienced novel writer, she managed to lodge them with herself in a hotel in the French Alps from which they emerged triumphant as an acclaimed singing trio. It really turned out to be a fun exercise.
The most memorable piece of writing in the week for me came from Hilary. Her graphic account, based on fact, told of an encounter between an English anthropologist and her neighbour in Dacca in which the latter decided to investigate the truth (gleaned from women’s magazines) of sexual relations between women. The problem of the anthropologist , with very limited Bengali and mindful of local etiquette, in extricating herself from the situation was, quite literally, gripping.
Since it was our last evening we’d decided to ‘read out’ infront of that glowing living room fire, to abandon self catering (much to the relief of Toni. She’d been washing up for most of the week in an effort to accumulate ‘Brownie points’. She didn’t want to cook, even more so since Arthur, her co-chef, had departed.) So Jim and Kathy drove to the local ‘chippie’ and came back laden with fish, chips and hysterical with laughter. They’d bought giant wallies and onions to embarrass Belinda and had succeeded in embarrassing most of the shop, particularly the owner’s wife who couldn’t get rid of them fast enough!
It was a calm final evening. Sally took off to finish some reading whilst Jim, Kathy, Belinda and I sat and talked over the week, falling about with laughter as each one remembered particular Arthur stories. He may not have left much of a mark on paper but he certainly etched himself into our memories.
Saturday
Sally flew in with my folder of writing just as we were finishing breakfast. “I loved your poems,” she said. “Do you know these?” She produced two volumes of poetry entitled ‘Slow Dancer’. Needless to say, thanks to my general lack of literacy, I’m a writer not a reader, I didn’t. “Look,” she said, “I’ve written you a note to send to the editor, I know him.” Minus reading glasses I couldn’t understand her writing so she read it to me.
” Dear John, After a busy ‘reading time’ this week (Autobiography), on the very last day the eighth student to show me her work was Penny. I read from 8.00am until 9.30 when I had to stop because the cleaner was ringing loudly on my door, ‘Turn Out Day’. All I can say is I wanted to keep her album of poems to read at my leisure, I really enjoyed them. It was the highlight of a busy week. I’ve asked Penny to send some to you, John, just in case they are right and her work should be shared. Maybe a poem in ‘Slow Dancer’? Be in touch. Sally.”
Well, I was absolutely ASTOUNDED and remained in a state of shock as she continued. “You’re a writer. Forget the ‘Manic Depressive’ bit, you’re a poet.” And then, lowering her voice so that it wouldn’t be heard by those left in the kitchen, “Come on a Novel Writing Course with Fay Weldon,” she laughed, “you never know, you might even come back as a tutor one day!”
Just minutes later, in a world apart, I left for the station with her husband and Toni, vaguely aware of Toni telling Peter the on- going saga of Virago not returning her novel. As we parted company at the station she fondly announced to Peter that she would share a room with me any day. “She’s so quiet you hardly know she’s there!” She had never registered my obsessive scribbling.
Ten minutes later, a lengthy delay of the train having been announced, I sat in Thetford Station Ladies Waiting Room attempting to pull my ecstatically happy head back to earth by reading Jung’s ‘Memoir’ when suddenly there was a flurry, a flump and a whisk of pink. Roused from my reverie I discovered Toni sitting next to me, puffing and blowing and waving a piece of paper.
“They’ve written! It was on the doorstep! The postman must have thought it was a catalogue! My novel, Virago, they’ve rejected it but,” puff, pant, “the letter’s as good as a tutorial! I knew you’d be interested so I ran all the way here hoping you wouldn’t have gone!”
Well, what a wonderful ending to a Writers Retreat, a tutorial direct from Virago. I guess if anyone asked me who I’d like to share a room with I know who I’d choose for novel value!
Love Pen
2018 ‘Mania Explored – In Search of Silence’ by P.A.P.Lumley, Westminster Publishing.
Published as a gift book, over a hundred and fifty copies sent to all those professionals, family and friends who, over very many years, helped me to regain my self confidence, to realise that I’m a writer, a poet, an artist and a photographer beyond being a professional teacher!
· Some years earlier – A Selection of Poems – published in Volumes of Amateur Poets Writing.
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Next Week - La Decouverte d'Amsterdam / The Discovery of Amsterdam
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Sorry about the delay in publication but, unexpectedly, went to stay with my sister. On hearing, details of anticipated heatwave I postponed my return to a small attic flat in London.
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