Page 1 of A Summer of Castles

Prologue

An extract from the Memoirs of Professor David Carmichael, Emeritus Professor of Art History, Charnwood University.

Winter is a tedious time of year when days shrink into mere interludes in the night. January of 2003 was no exception. It was in the midst of this relentless gloom that I received an unexpected telephone call.

‘I need photographs.’

The abruptness was typical. There was no expectation that either of us would be able to fulfil the request. I’m a terrible photographer. The significant details were relayed in staccato bullet points. The urgency was somewhat alarming, although sadly expected. The nature of the request was certainly bizarre. However, I confess I was intrigued.

The improbable project was worthy of a dismissive head shake and I nearly backed out. However, occasional eccentric challenges were welcomed, especially in colder months when my students lost all enthusiasm and slept late into the mornings. So regardless of my mounting reservations and the insistence that I was under no obligation, I accepted my fate. The repayment of my debt was overdue.

I anticipated problems in abundance, mostly practical, for who would want to traipse from one remote place to another in the rain and wind, armed with a camera. England wasn’t a sun-drenched country at any time of the year.

‘Have faith,’ came the wishful reply.

I recall we both chuckled at that comeback. That wonderful, deep-throated laugh is something I keep safely locked in my memories as it always brings back recollections of that distant summer I recounted in the earlier chapters of this loosely constructed memoir. Memories that are both delightful and painful.

And the voice rattled on, breathlessly, like an old wheeze box.

I had to interject. ‘And this other matter—’

I shan’t forget the cutting response, the secrecy. ‘Leave that to me. I can handle that myself. This is harder. Somewhat unlikely, too.’

The brash smile wasn’t visible, but I felt it all the same as if my friend was there in the room. When we talked or wrote to each other, I imagined an occupied armchair by the bookshelves, the reluctant opining, the quiet musing. The closed eyes and nodding head.

I did as asked, and continued to do so until I was no longer needed. And to this day I kept my role a secret from friends and colleagues; only my wife knows my involvement. Now, as I write it down, the events that unfolded seem unimaginable, almost surreal.

The specific requirements were sent separately in an email, and I dogmatically worked my way through the list. I needed a young and energetic candidate prepared to work unpaid and left to their own devices for extended periods, which might be haphazard. It should have been an ideal project for an eager student, but I wasn’t permitted to engage one of mine, and certainly nobody professionally trained who might go off on a tangent. The list was sacrosanct - that word was actually used during a subsequent phone call. I was to find somebody specific to a favoured location, as if this unidentified photographer might present themselves on my doormat like an old-fashioned postcard.

‘Visit the Curzon.’

‘Why there?’ I asked.

‘It’s well known in the area.’

‘And it has to be a woman, a young woman who is local?’ I couldn’t repeat the details in the email, I had reached the point of exasperation. ‘Why?’

There was a lengthy pause and a rasping sigh. ‘I’ll tell you why the next time you visit. I have a good reason.’

The stubbornness was also familiar and insurmountable.

And then there was the final issue. Who would work for somebody they were never going to meet, or, for that matter, know by their real name? Direct contact was by necessity limited to emails, which had led me to an interesting question, one that I still believe was the key to the deliberate mystery surrounding the project.

‘What name will you use in your correspondence?’ I asked, and jokingly suggested a familiar one that again brought back fond memories of older conversations.

‘Why not? Good idea.’

I offered my reservations, but eventually caved in. I knew full well the name had been appropriated long before it was needed and had been chosen for its credibility.

As for whom I found to take the photographs, well, that is a remarkable story. Over the years, and to the best of my ability, I’ve made numerous attempts at writing this particular chapter and failed. I owe it to those involved to present it without judgement.

PART ONE

‘What I have dreamed in an hour is worth more than what you have done in four.’

Lorenzo de’ Medici

One