From the sublime to the ridiculous - in about 6 hours

Can you imagine a day that switches from cucumber sandwiches to strippers? Can you take the cultural shift from powdered ladies to drunken knights? It’s easy – if you are a folk musician!

Let me set the scene for you: It’s a sunny day in June, the English sun has fought through the early morning cloud to quickly evaporate the scant puddles left from a brief rain shower. The English countryside is enjoying a warm spell, with droughts and floods all in the same week. A fairly typical summer, I suppose.

My husband and I are both musicians, and though we play together sometimes, we are both in different bands. In fact, we play with all sorts configurations of the same and different musicians. For example, today I was deputising for Bryan and playing with Penni as he had another gig that had been moved and he couldn’t change. So at the crack of dawn this same, June summer day, he headed off to Newcastle and a music festival with his band, whilst I was set to drive to London with Penni. Penni and I were playing at an afternoon garden party, for the ‘Friends of The Red House’. No, not some obscure religious sect, but those dedicated supporters of the residence of one William Morris, designer, architect and artist – the man many feel responsible for the launch of the arts and crafts movement.

A long drive down the M11, under the now blistering sun, and into London. Well, the suburbs of Kent that may as well be London these days as the city continues its urban sprawl. We came into the small town of Bexley Heath, and down one of the quiet residential streets off the main broadway, we drove through two large white gates and into the grounds of the Red House. Early, we had plenty of time to set up, and I was given a quick tour of the house. It was – of course – red brick. Inside were many ‘Morrisy’ things – examples of his fabric, some extraordinary furniture he and his cohorts had made, and some wall paintings that reminded me of the kind of decoration seen on 16th century church walls. In the main bedroom was a window seat, and behind the door of a cupboard, upon the old plaster wall, a faded picture painted, reputedly by Lizzie Siddel. Now by coincidence I knew of this woman – the artist Rosetti’s wife and the first model to have been described as a ‘stunner’. She, as our first ‘supermodel’, was also the first to self-destruct through abuse and eventual overdose of laudanum. In that brief moment of standing in that room, I saw her at the window, looking out as if posed. An image my mind constructed, but one that even now I can recall. Of course, whilst I was enjoying the tour, Penni was unloading the car with all our gear.

We stet up in the porch, a lovely brick archway (well, it’s all brick, but there were nice tiles on the floor too and a great oak door) with a view onto the small but neat garden. Around us the ‘Friends’ were setting up small gazebos for the food, for selling plants and books, for the general comfort of the forthcoming visitors. Our immediate view was of a large well, with covered roof and wrought iron, and a bench surround. The main door was closed so that visitors would not try and stumble through us, sitting in the porch (it was barely big enough for us and our guitars). We were ready, the guests began to arrive, and a most convivial afternoon commenced.

Penni and I played a wide range of very laid, back, easy listening folk songs like ‘Molly Malone’, lots of Penni’s songs (and my own song about Lizzie Siddel), but as the average age of the audience was probably around 70, we tried a few old 40’s songs too. We only knew choruses mostly, but ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and ‘Show me the Way to go Home’ were certainly appreciated. No clapping, no cheering, but the audience enjoyed the music because it was non-invasive, pleasant and – I have to say – appropriate to the setting. During our break we enjoyed ham, beef and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, some nice fruit punch, and strawberries and cream. The property is National Trust owned and one of the volunteer guides came over and told us how he used to sing with Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger (great names of socialist folk from the 60’s). But later I heard him say ‘Kirsty McColl, she was lead singer with the Pogues’. That shattered his folk credibility completely.

We played, we finished, the afternoon was a wonderful success. A quick drive (hour and a quarter) back up the M11 and it was time to go off to the next gig. We had time for a cup of tea at my house before reloading all the gear into Penni’s car (including my stand up bass which doesn’t fit in my car) and then off to Twinwood Medieval Fair.

We have a whole series of Medieval Fair gigs, Penni and I. We did have a band to do them once, but it split, so now Penni and I do them with whatever musicians we can find. Sometimes it’s my husband, but tonight it was Fran, a fiddle player that we play with in yet another band. Oh yes, and Baz – whom I adore deeply. Only because he’s a wonderful drummer, of course. So tonight’s band was a four piece; Penni on guitar and singing, Fran on fiddle and singing, me on bass and guitar and singing, and Baz on drums and – yes even Baz too – sometimes singing. Bob (Penni’s husband) was there to operate the PA – we were allowed to make a loud noise and were going to take full advantage.

This is where the whole thing became a little surreal. We set up in a small open fronted marquee (familiar to us now from other medieval fairs) and below us the view was a patchwork of tents – some striped, but most plain – those of the reenactors and the stall holders. The occupants and proprietors were to be entertained by us now that they had completed their entertainment of the Public. We were next to the bar (a good place to be) with tables and chairs placed here and there, in a random and casual manner. Many of these chairs were filled with said reenactors, dressed still in their medieval garb. No armour, but plenty of coarse linen and wool, funny hats and the occasional fancily embroidered surcoat (well, just Duke Henry’s, which I get the feeling he probably wears around the house too).

We played a few lively tunes, sang a couple of songs, the sun gently set on the warm day and the audience got louder as the mead, beer and cider flowed. Oh, it was lovely cider, I wasn’t driving, so I know. Fran had never played with this line up but was doing fine – it’s a highly improvised set always so you never know what’s coming. But what came next was a little out of the ordinary, even for us. About nine men appeared dressed in drag. Not medieval drag, but dresses, hats and tights sort of drag. We carried on playing, but during a short break I had to ask – why? It turned out that one of the girls was having a hen night, and the boys had dressed up so that they could crash the hen party. Imaginative! Well, it got more raucous, and we played more tunes and songs (including me singing a soppy romantic one which they danced to, and another romantic one which Penni sang that the bride to be danced with some chap who was not her intended).

But the real anachronism was when the Gestapo turned up. Now, I’ve seen WWII planes flying over a medieval battle scene, but this is the first time that the soldiers turned up too!

It just so happens that Twinwood was the airfield that Glen Miller was based at for a while, and Glen Miller 40’s weekends are a regular occurrence. I’m not sure whether they were rehearsing or having another event nearby, but the Gestapo and British Tommy uniformed soldiers were just reenactors, like the medievalists. The music got louder (I got just a little drunker, but not so that I couldn’t play – just enough to be rather naughty verbally with my fellow band-mates), and we were asked to play something that the 40s fans could jive to. OK, we were ostensibly a folk band, but we obliged. Penni sang “I Saw Stars…” and the dancers jittered on the grass in normal clothes, uniforms and ancient costumes. The whole atmosphere was getting very lively and somehow we ended up playing “The minute you walked in the joint…” Penni sang, I played the bass, and the German soldiers and the drag queen started to strip. For the German, down to his rather large and ungainly looking underpants. The drag man down to his suspenders and bra. We ended the night playing rock and roll – Blue Suede Shoes and stuff like that. Again we didn’t know all the words, but what the hell – it was loud and mad and they loved it. We had great fun – but it does have to rate as one of the most peculiar gigs I have played in a very long time.

Home at about 1 am and Bryan is there to greet me. “How did your gig go?”.
“It was illegal. They lost their licence the day before and the Police were on TV telling everyone not to come, but they let it happen anyway.” So whilst I was playing to the Kent gentry, Bryan was playing to a very few brave souls who had ventured to this benighted festival near Newcastle. And whilst I was playing rock and roll for knights, soldiers and wannabe transvestites, Bryan was back home, drinking tea and waiting for me to come home.

I wonder what the next gig will be like? It’s a hell of a life, playing folk music.

Greenham Common

For those who are too young to remember, or not based in the US, Greenham Common was a US military airbase in the UK full of cruise missiles. A peace camp shut it down. More info http://www.greenham-common.org.uk/ixbin/hixclient.exe?a=file&p=greenham&f=greenham.htmBut here's the impression it made on me, visiting for the first time, aware of the history.

Gone from GreenhamT
he tents, the city built on belief.
Gone from Greenham
The silos, the harbingers of destruction.
Gone from Greenham
The song and the spirit - the hope and the glory.
Now a strong summer wind
Whips the young trees
Around new silos.
Square, imposing, cold grey silos.
The harbingers of industry.
No gods of death rule here,
The gods of money hold sway.
And on the common the lark shouts
On the common the coltsfoot clambers
The footprint forgotten
The snick of metal on metal replaced
By the creak of heather in the wind.
And the only flag flying isThe shock of yellow gorse.
All around is peace.

Throwing stones in glass houses

When I first set up my blog and wandered through others, I was appalled at those who set up their first post and then seemingly abandoned their blog... first post being last post. But here I am - having spent the first few days filling my blog with my meanderings and then I go and commit the same crime - that of neglect.

But why? Ahhh.. it is because I have been wooed by the appeal of a writers circle website. I spend ages on there now, helping others edit work, getting feedback from my own, chatting to anarchist punk rockers or Texas housewives, Candian Air Traffic controllers and a lovely writer from Ireland.

I need to put more on here - because I am safe here. No one reads this so no one comments on my grammar, or my spelling (I know I've spelt appalling wrong).

So goodnight sweet blog, and I promise not to neglect you so in weeks to come.

The Resident - short story

Brief intro - this is true. As far as it goes. Obviously I have had to imagine what the ghost is feeling. He doesn't speak to us that much....


I stand here, and they don’t see me. I move and they do not look up. I know I am here, I don’t know why. I walk across the floor towards one of them – nothing, no response. They turn and pass straight through me. I am gutted – empty and hollow. I mean nothing, I am nothing. It is cruel.

I know time has passed. The light in the room is different. She comes in and she stops dead – looks across to where I am. Does she see me? She’s looking right at me. She speaks. She knows I am here – she senses it, but she cannot see me.

She talks to me! I hear sound, I know it is me she is speaking to. But the words are like the language of whales – their meaning lost upon me. I am saddened. Time passes again.

Now it is dark, and I am here again. I know this place and yet it is not the same. It is not as I knew it; it feels familiar and strange, comfortable and discomfiting. I see him standing. I go to him and stand next to him. He turns and is startled. His face is pale and he leaves the room, glancing back at me. Straight at me. He is gone.

I move. I am a shadow and a memory. I am here and they know me – but the light that passes through me hides me from their eyes. Their cat looks up at me. Disdaining even to hiss, it walks around me – leaving the room.

The Family

“Jeezuz!” Bryan came up to the bedroom, having finally cleared up the kitchen after our party.
“What’s up?” I said. He looked white as a sheet.
“I saw Maurice again. Standing right next to me, at the sink.” There’s not much I can say – we both know about Maurice, as we call him – he’s here and we know he’s here, but we don’t often see him. I never see him, I just kind of know when he’s around. The room is just – well, just different.
“I nearly leapt out of my skin,” says Bryan. “he was standing right next to me. He’s this tall..” he holds his hand up just above his own head height.
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Not really, he was just there.”
Nothing more to say really, this is just one more episode. Maurice is harmless enough – benign. We don’t know why he’s here, we don’t know that he’s actually Maurice, but it’s our best guess, and probably not a bad one.
Bryan is highly sceptical of things ‘unexplained’ – yet he is the one who has seen Maurice most often. He is the one whose perception of the presence is far more acute than anyone else. Other people have seen shadows, I’ve seen a passing presence from the corner of my eye. But Bryan has seen Maurice – in full.

“MUMMY!” Two girls waiting at the door for me to come home – my daughter and her friend. Tearful and distraught! Why? The plates have come crashing down in the kitchen. No reason. They just came down. Precariously balanced perhaps.

“What’s that hand by the door? My god, that’s freaky!” says my son’s friend.
“Oh, it’s just Maurice” is the casual reply. Nonchalant, accepting. Unbothered.

“Damn,” I shout, as the glass herb jar crashes to the floor. Why? Sitting on its shelf, content as a herb should be – safe and dry in its glass world. I clean up the glass. Still picking bits of plate up from the other day too. Everything smashes on this tile kitchen floor.

“I reckon its steam from the dishwasher,” says Bob, open to believing but always looking for a rational explanation. I agree, highly likely. But the dishwasher has been broken for weeks, and there is that vague distortion of the air again – that change in the fabric of perception that is so slight, yet so distinct. He likes blowing up kettles too – I’m sure of it. We’ve been through at least three.

Residual

Can I move things, if I try? Can I change the balance in the world just enough? There, if I forget I am not here and think what I would do – what I could do – then I can almost touch. Ahhh …

Time passes. I know it must. I don’t know what lies ahead or behind, or why or how. They come in and look at me, but they do not see me. I am underwater – I am deafened by space and time that wraps me like a thick fleece.

I move again. Sometimes the energy is like a voice I can hear. I can touch it – I can move it. Why am I here? Where should I be?

Conclusion

Before we bought our house, it had been empty for a while. The previous occupant had died and not been found for two weeks. I don’t know where, but I have a pretty good idea. I think its Maurice that’s still here somehow. Whether a memory or a spirit, a playback or projection – something of him, of someone anyway, is still in this house. It does not harm us, it does not un-nerve us. Sometimes it is not discreet. Sometimes I want to blame it for things that happen. Sometimes I don’t believe, sometimes I wish I did. Poor Maurice, I wonder what the truth really is? None of us will ever know.

The Cat

Cat looks up at the figure. “If only you could open tins. Bird! Hear bird – outside. Kill. ” Cat is gone. Shadows play, spirits dance, the light bends around the air like a wave around a stone.



(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard. No part of this work may be reprinted, quoted or otherwise published without the express permission of the author.