‘I love the NRMA man,’ she said quietly, pulling out from the kerb.
Glory in the Flower
Bill swayed and clutched the dashboard as the festival director abruptly turned the Toyota Echo – could a more basic car be possible? – into the gravel driveway.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Nearly missed the turn-off.’
It was an old farmhouse and looked it. A corpse of a vehicle of indeterminate make surrounded by long grass sat by the front fence. Other rusted items dotted the long front yard – it could not be called a lawn – where someone had recently mown between rocky garden beds and red-brown clumps of junk that looked like nineteenth-century plumbing or agricultural parts. Or perhaps they were sculptures? The place was meant to be some sort of cultural facility.
Bill unpacked his legs from the front seat. They were already stiff from the flight and did not come willingly. Eventually he hauled himself out of the preposterous vehicle and stood still for a few moments, discreetly flexing them back into life. He didn’t want his first real experience of Australian soil to be undignified. He slowly walked up the driveway as Cameron opened the boot and heaved out bags. How long had it been? Forty, fifty hours since he’d left home? He didn’t want to add them up. It felt like an eternity. Two connecting flights. The flight from Heathrow had been delayed by bad weather. Then the long wait in Singapore because of engine trouble. They were meant to have been sent to a local hotel but instead stayed in the terminal where he tried to sleep and not think of the opening night reading he would now not be giving. Meeting him at the Riverside airport, which proved to be a tin shed in a vast brown field, Cameron had been almost surly, as if it were his fault. Bill was beyond fatigue. He felt numb, disembodied. His head was elsewhere, nowhere, floating off into the sere air. He wished it were back home with Dot, resting against the antimacassar as she stroked his temples. His body was twitching like a ventriloquist’s doll. He felt stiff in joints he didn’t realise he had. Even his elbows ached, and he’d never once considered his elbows, ever. They were the least interesting parts of him. They were not poetic, elbows. No one would ever be inspired to write about the elbow.
Bill had been surprised when they’d passed through the town and Cameron had pointed out the new municipal library where the festival was taking place. Nearby was a decent-looking hotel, and Cameron was boasting about the bars and cafes that had been opening up recently. But he kept driving, through the town’s outskirts, past an industrial estate, then a racecourse, until there was nothing but road and fields, mostly brown.
‘Where are we going, exactly?’ Bill had said, his head turning back involuntarily where the town disappeared along with all suggestion of hot baths, strong drinks and soft beds, which by then he craved in any order.
‘It was in your notes. Used to be a farmhouse but it’s a cultural centre now. It’s used for all sorts of things, workshops, meetings. Perfect for the masterclass. Lucky you made it in time for that.’
It was intended, Bill thought, to be a criticism. Cameron dumped the suitcases on the verandah and felt about in his pocket. Bill shivered. The difference in the temperature now and when he had landed at the tin-shed airport, a good hour or so before, was discernible. The light was fading. It was not yet six pm and already the place was in shadow. Cameron found the key and was now trying the lock, turning the key one way then the other with no result. Bill stamped his feet and looked around. On the verandah was a barrel-shaped tin with a toilet seat on the top. Inside it was a spiky potted plant. He concluded this was intended as amusing, perhaps ironic. Next to it was an old sofa, grey with mould. He breathed in deeply of the clean country air, which brought a sharp stab to his chest. It was even colder now!
Cameron thumped the door with his boot and it finally opened. The house was dark and he groped around for a light switch in the hall. What seemed to be a twenty-five watt bulb dangled glumly from the ceiling. There was no lampshade. There was a strange smell, of stale cold dinners, long past.
‘In here.’ Cameron led him down to a sitting room, switching on more lights as he went, lights that half-heartedly flickered into being. The house seemed to be in two parts, separated by a wide T-shaped hall: bedrooms off to one side and another sitting or living room past the central sitting room which merged into a kitchen, with an island bench of orange laminate.
‘Sunroom over there,’ Cameron said.
Sun? There were presumably windows behind the thick drapes and blinds drawn low.
‘And out the back’s the workshop shed.’ He gestured to the back door. ‘For tomorrow.’
Bill had not factored in a shed. Something book- and Turkish rug-lined was more in his mind. When the whole masterclass thing was proposed he naturally imagined it would be in an antipodean version of his own study – okay, without the pipe, he could cope with that – with a real fire and low tables stacked with books and writing materials. Maybe a tray of glasses and something in a decanter. At least a bottle of decent red.
He would address the shed situation tomorrow. Meanwhile the thought of red wine prompted him to poke around in the kitchen. The fridge contained a plastic litre bottle of two per cent milk, orange juice, bacon, eggs, cheese. Cheese was promising. He examined the packet. Sliced Lo-Fat Tasty. He put it back. He opened the cupboard above the kettle. Teabags, instant coffee, sugar and Equal. Another cupboard yielded sweet biscuits and breakfast cereal. There was a sliced loaf in a plastic bag on the bench and a set of instructions for operating the gas heater in the sitting room. By the time Cameron came back from putting his bags in his bedroom, Bill had looked into every possible corner of the kitchen and even the sitting room sideboard, which contained several board games and a stack of National Geographics which he knew without looking would be twenty years old. They always were. Not a single drop of alcohol.
The house was freezing.
‘They told me the weather would be mild this time of the year.’
‘Oh,’ Cameron said, ‘the days have been perfect. Just brilliant. But as soon as the sun goes . . .’
If he’d known, Bill would have brought his greatcoat, the one he wore out walking, which even in the English winters sufficed. He would have packed his woollen hat, and a pair of gloves. And a proper scarf, not the white silk one he’d optimistically brought, thinking it suitable for elegant literary dinners.
Speaking of which, Cameron was talking about dinner, at a Lebanese restaurant. ‘I’m sure there’ll be someone who can drive you back here,’ he said, sounding vague.
Bill was so bone-stiff, so weary, so cold, the thought of eating and having to play the part of the distinguished British poet was almost nauseating. He told Cameron he would pass on the dinner, that he’d make do with something from the fridge, though he doubted he would even bother cooking the bacon and eggs. Maybe some toast and jam. A cup of tea. It would not be as nice as Dot’s teas. She had a way of producing hot scones, pikelets, little ham and mustard sandwiches, as if it were as easy as opening a packet of Digestives.
‘Look, I have to go.’ Cameron glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got the keynote speaker waiting for me.’
Bill gaped. The keynote speaker? Then what did that make him? Had these people even read his CV? Did they not know about the awards, the honours, the rumour he was a shoe-in for Poet Laureate? Which he’d probably decline due to his republican views. He wished desperately for a drink. Brandy would have been perfect.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Here’s your festival kit. And the others will be along later.’
Cameron rushed out and Bill heard the thud of the front door, then the Echo crunching down the driveway. He sat in the gloom of the sitting room and looked through the calico bag. It was stamped with a purple logo featuring what appeared to be a river that flowed from the nib of a quill pen. Riverside Literary Festival, it said. He had not noticed a single stretch of water since he had landed. It was going to be a very dry few days.
And what was that about the others? Or had he misheard Cameron i
n his fatigue?
Dot had come into his study with the letter.
‘They’re offering twelve hundred dollars if you stay on and do a masterclass.’
‘What’s that in real money?’
‘About six hundred pounds, give or take.’ It seemed decent, for an extra day or two. ‘They say it will be informal, no more than half a dozen people.’
‘I don’t think so.’ It was a concession, he felt, to actually fly all the way out there just to give one of his readings.
‘Bill, we could do with the extra cash. Plus, it’d be good for you. You need to get away. And you love travelling.’
‘I love walking tours. Not flying. Don’t they have any famous poets of their own?’
Dot just stood there, folding the letter. She was wearing her pink checked apron. Poking out of its pocket was a pair of cotton gloves, grey from use. Bill felt a flush of shame. She’d probably been cleaning the downstairs fireplace grate when the post arrived. And here he was spending the entire morning trying to nail down a visionary gleam, or at least a glimmer.
‘So long as I don’t have to read any of their work.’
It wouldn’t have been fair to her, apart from anything else. And she was right: they needed the money. Since grants were rare these days he had to take what he could. He wasn’t much use at anything else. Other people in his position had something to fall back on. Sam had his allowance from the Wedgwoods. Robert, it seemed, could write anything for money: essays, reviews, biographies, knocking them off with enviable ease. His own legacy from Raisley was fast going – he couldn’t believe the cost of the basics these days, like fuel and bread and pork chops – and he doubted he should have put so much of it into his superannuation, as he’d been advised. Wouldn’t be able to get his hands on that for years now. He was not the most brilliant proofreader but managed to get some work here and there – corporate stuff, usually, nothing literary – not that the pay was anything like it should be, for such work. Wore his eyes out. And he could only do that sort of thing in the best light, which always curtailed walking excursions or cloud-watching, all the activities he liked to reserve for when the weather was at its kindest.
He was eating Just Right with the two per cent milk when he heard the door. Fumbling and talking, more fumbling, then thumping. He pushed the blanket aside – he had not managed to follow the gas-heater lighting instructions – and made his way down the hallway back to the front door. Yanking it open, he was hit with a fistful of fresh cold air, making him gasp. Two women stood on the porch, dressed in padded jackets and knitted beanies.
‘Come in. Quick. Before the cold.’ He whipped behind them and slammed the door shut. The hallway still smelled stale and dusty.
They were Sharon Someone and Louise Something. When they appeared in the sitting room he realised they were both carrying backpacks.
‘Are you all settled?’ Sharon or Louise said. ‘We’ll choose our bedrooms then.’
What did that mean? He might have been cold and miserable but at least he was cold and miserable on his own. And there were other bedrooms? He’d gone into his own room, where Cameron had left his bags, but had quickly withdrawn when he’d seen how cheerless it was. The entire house looked like it had been furnished by a charity store. Nothing matched, and everything was threadbare, or just plain bare. His bed sported a pink chenille bedspread – something he had never known existed until now – and the bathroom’s only product was a minuscule cake of soap, previously used. Expecting the usual bath gel, conditioner, complimentary razor, provided for distinguished authors at hotels, he had not packed products. He especially liked the little sachets containing a sponge and shoe cleaner. And he always took the soaps home for Dot.
The lavatory was unspeakable. He was not that fastidious, having made do with an outside one for most of his life, but this was disgusting. He had tried to scrub it with the brush behind the bowl, but the porcelain remained dark brown. And the littlest room in the house was the coldest. A small louvre window remained stubbornly fixed in the open position.
Sharon and Louise bustled back from locating their rooms. They did not seem bothered by the cold. They flicked the kettle on and clanged about with cups and spoons. He didn’t suppose they’d thought to bring a bottle of something.
‘Cup of tea, Bill?’
‘No. Wait, yes, I will. Please.’ He tried to keep the chill out of his voice but it was really all too much. What were these people doing here?
Almost on cue, Louise or Sharon said, ‘I don’t think the others will be here until tomorrow. They’re local. But how wonderful the masterclass was residential. It’s such a good idea, isn’t it? Us getting so much of your attention, all weekend.’
He grunted. So that was the idea. But if any of them thought he’d be polishing their imagery or tweaking their metres before breakfast, they were mistaken. He wondered how much of all this Dot had known, and not passed on.
They’d sent some notes on the workshop participants. He gathered they’d all been vetted by the festival director or some committee. He knew none of the names of course. Seven women, one man. He imagined they were all old, or middle-aged, young writers rarely being able to afford this sort of thing. He’d stuffed the folder in his bag to read on the flight out and had almost forgotten about them. Flicking through the submissions, he pretty much confirmed there were no mute inglorious Miltons amongst them. The notes had come with samples of their work and despite himself he read a poem, then another, his heart descending into the pit of his stomach. By then, according to the blue worm on the screen in front of him, they were over the Tanami Desert. Too late to turn back.
Now he grabbed his calico festival bag and his tea and retired to his room. His bones still ached but he wouldn’t risk the bath. It might have been cleaner than the lavatory bowl but he held no hopes of the hot water supply. There was no desk in the room, no chair. He unpacked his pyjamas and climbed into bed with his folders. The festival bag contained brochures for horseriding, canoeing and gold fossicking, along with vouchers for a pizza place, drycleaning, a local bookshop and a folk museum. The festival guide included his own photo and bio, along with a dozen or so others, none of whom he had ever heard of. There was a journalist, two filmmakers, some children’s authors, a literary blogger and several authors of something called speculative fiction. The keynote speaker appeared to have written one short novel that had been an international success on numerous electronic platforms via crowdfunding. He was turning it into an interactive app for locative media. Bill sighed and tossed the bag aside. The bedside light did not work. He got out of bed, switched off the overhead light, tripped on his suitcase strap in the sudden complete dark, and fell onto the bed. He crawled up and under the covers and shivered there for a few minutes, then got out, groped for his coat, spread it over the bed and pulled the sheets up over his head.
He was sitting up in bed with all the covers pulled up to his neck, reading over his notes for the session later that morning. Surprisingly, he had slept, not waking until morning, though having forgotten to adjust his watch he had no idea of the time. By the time he had hopped about on the freezing lavatory floor – he had not thought to pack slippers – the warmth he’d generated during the night had evaporated. Poking about in the wardrobe, he had discovered a small fan heater, which he’d perched on the end of the bed, its cord stretched as far as it could from the one power point on the other side of the room. The windows had curtains that looked like they’d been made of a child’s old bedsheets, but he’d pulled the miserable strips of pastel, clown-patterned cloth together anyway to create an illusion of cosiness. Underneath the blankets he was wearing two pairs of socks and his coat and he was still freezing.
There was a knock on the door and, without waiting for his reply, Sharon poked her head in. She was fully dressed and wearing dark red lipstick.
‘Bill. Can I have a word?’ She came in and shut the door behind her.
‘Of course, Sharon.’ Where would she sit?
‘Louise.’
‘Sorry, Louise.’ She looked grave. ‘What can I do for you?’ He had refreshed his mind with notes on his students – should he even call them that? – and now recalled that Louise was the one whose portfolio included three short poems all in rhyming couplets on the topics of washing up, pruning roses and a barbecue. She had rhymed ‘sausages’ with ‘partridges’. Somehow he knew that Louise was always going to be married to the imperfect rhyme. Indeed to the rhyme, which every poet of any worth had got out of his system by now.
‘I’ve had a bit of a rethink. I feel my work won’t be suited to this masterclass.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, and I have to tell you, Bill, I’ve already got someone interested in publishing me.’ (Perhaps in her parish newsletter?) ‘I had a look through your collection last night.’ (He’d left a copy of the Ballads in the sitting room.) ‘And I feel you and I have different styles.’
‘Different? I suppose so . . .’
‘Yes, completely, well, incompatible. So I phoned Cameron first thing, he’s giving me a refund.’
‘Right.’
‘So I’ll be off.’
‘Right,’ he said again. It seemed the only appropriate word to hand. He was not sure whether to be pleased or insulted.
By the time he faced the others it was clearly late in the morning, later than the masterclass was scheduled to start.
‘Aren’t we meant to be in the shed?’ one of them said.
They all trooped out the back door and found the shed. Its original purpose was clearly agricultural, but now it contained several trestle tables, an easel with butchers’ paper and half a dozen metal chairs. It was vast and arctic.
‘We’ll use the sitting room,’ he said. ‘Can someone light the heater?’
By lunchtime he had a headache from the unflued gas heater. Someone suggested they open a window, but behind the curtains, behind the holland blinds, the windows refused to open. After lunch, which he stretched out as long as possible, he opened all the doors to the sitting room and the back door to let in some fresh air. There was not a single cloud in the sky and the sun shone like crystal. He could not work it out. It got far colder than this at home, but he was always cosy inside. What did they make their houses from? The walls must have been thinner than plywood. When the class ended at five he decided to go for a walk. Now that he realised how fast the night fell here, he would have to be quick.
Letter to George Clooney Page 8