TT 6 - A Festival Afoot

It is a cold and overcast Sunday afternoon and the quay is empty. The Anchor Inn, conversely, is packed out. Almost hidden amongst the broil of ruddy jowelled, middle-aged ale drinkers at the bar is Eric Briding. His nose is in the air for confirmation of a rumour he’s heard recently that Glandice Morgan, the Village’s very own opera singer, is planning to start an arts festival in Tendringhoe. Having spent half a lifetime toiling in the sciences, Professor Briding is looking forward to relaxing into the arts when he retires. He’s always fancied having a bit of a daub with some paints, or scribbling down a few poems. As a result, the Biologist has found himself gravitating more and more towards Tendringhoe’s thriving local arts scene: fable-weaving evenings at The Fat Cat Vegetarian Cafe, local art exhibitions in The Old Boat Shed, and even a physical theatre workshop in the Reginald Spurgeon Hall. This last was, in fact, ‘humiliating’, which is all Eric will say about his experience under the tutelage of Meg Marrow, even to his wife. Still, his general enthusiasm remains high, and if his own village is about to become the location for a prestigious new cultural event he wants to be in on it.

It is the Rev.Carduggan who finally obliges. The adreneline still pumping from that morning's ‘gig’ in the pulpit, he’s on fine form. “Oh, it has to work, I think. It’s not as though Tendringhoe doesn’t have the personnel. We might not be ‘Hampstead-on-Sea’,” he makes a pair of air-quotes, ‘but we have a nationally recognised poet, an opera-singer, a sculptor of some note...’ he counts them off on his fingers, ‘who certainly wouldn’t look out of place in ‘the garden suburb’ .” More air-quotes.
“Well, if anyone can pull it off, Glandice can.” This is Gordon Green the local solicitor and pantomime dame.
“Well, she has the right connections, that’s the thing.’ Explains Carduggan.
“But it’s not just music, I gather.’ Eric fishes a little deeper .
“Classical music, poetry, theatre, dance…” Douglas drains his tankard and plops it down on the bar. "It's exactly what this country needs."
"Ah Glandice- she’s something though, isn’t she." Gordon rubs his thumbs along the sides of his index fingers. His warm, beery brain has filled with an image of La Morgan, all eyeliner and upper-arms in one of her tight, sleeveless dresses.
‘She certainly is’, agrees Eric, ‘She certainly is.’

Another round is ordered and each man thinks of how The Tendringhoe Festival might whip the bushel from his own, particular artistic light. Gordon certainly hopes the Tendringhoe Amateur Dramatic Society will have a part to play. Carduggan is more ambitious. He is thinking of his provocative modern-day mystery play. It will upset a few people round the village, sure, it’s bound to, but he’d certainly be prepared to premier it in the village if the event is likely to attract a more cosmopolitan crowd. Eric is already thinking of popping over to see his old friend, Geoffrey Lamb, a professor in the literature department and a published poet, to see if he'd be interested in co-organising a series of poetry readings and related literary events.

‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours?’ Gordon asks Douglas after they've drained off an inch or so of Adnams. ‘Haven’t seen her at TADS for a while.’
‘Sian? Oh, busy with A Levels, at the moment, Gordon. And ‘S’ level Maths. They're doing Macbeth at the school this year. She's taken the lead, of course.'
'Oh, wonderful.'
'Not sure she’s really got the teeth for it, mind you, but we'll see.”
‘Rabbit says she’s quite brilliant at the flute.’ Eric chips in.
‘Yes, not bad at all. Orchestral rather than soloist, I suspect, but she’s certainly the potential to go pro. I’m trying to persuade her to apply to the Northern but she’s got her heart set on Maths at Cambridge - Cambridge!" He draws down the corners of his mouth in mock horror. He's an Oxford man, himself. "Still, I suppose all offspring have to find a way to rebel against their parents.”