Page 6 of A Summer of Castles

‘Ashby-de-la-Zouch. A portrait of seasons. The tower is the time traveller.’

Given his pouting lips, the premise was too basic. I would have to come up with more reasons for the sequence of pictures. He waited, his gaze flitting from my face to the photographs. His narrow face was handsome, and he was married, according to the ring. Middle-aged, he possibly had children that were my generation. Elegant in a dapper kind way, he was dressed smartly but casually, no tie, tweed trousers, pointy shoes. I was struggling to place him in a profession that matched his jumbled appearance.

The need to fiddle with something mounted so I hooked my forefinger around my watchstrap. If I wanted to engage with these people, a touch of exuberant arrogance was required on my part; an emotion that didn’t come naturally for a customer service type. I cleared my throat.

‘I hoped to demonstrate how time… the day, the year, all can bring a difference. Some days, walls trap you; other times, they protect. Light in a window offers hope of escape.’ I blushed. ‘I’m rambling.’

‘Youhopedto demonstrate? Have you?’

Balanced on my tiptoes, I was bursting to speak about the details. Shyness, though, wasn’t my natural state. Yvette had suggested holding back until I was sure. Was I though?

I finally unleashed my hands and gestured. ‘I have I think… here…’

What followed was detailed. His eyes glazed over a few times when I mentioned lenses or shutter speeds. So not a photographer. Using a tone that reminded me of an inquisitorial teacher, his questions focused on composition.

‘It’s about atmosphere,’ I said, remembering what Yvette had suggested when we explored my collection for options. ‘These pictures give the castle character, a sense of longevity and purpose. I’m hoping the viewer will see what I… feel.’ My mouth had gone horribly parched.

‘You must have gone there—’

‘Many times.’ I laughed; a ticklish, dry giggle. ‘A few years of them.’ I washed the smile away. ‘I refuse to be embarrassed by my obsession.’ The word escaped before I had a chance to think.

‘Obsession?’

‘My need to revisit.’

‘Never satisfied?’ Of course, he would know that photographers had the advantage over painters. A quick snapshot, again and again; no waiting for the paint to dry on the canvas before touching up.

‘I’m not a perfectionist,’ I said, firmly.

He nodded as if in agreement. ‘Finishing projects is important, though. But you’re seeking something?’

I shuffled back onto my heels. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘It’s the way with most artists. And you’re right. Revisiting a subject isn’t a sign of failure. I’m sure da Vinci didn’t think so with his sketches.’

‘Then these are my sketches.’ I added a sweep of my hand, which felt overly melodramatic, so I dropped my arm. The intense heat of my flushed cheeks spread to my neck.

It was a tipping point for the conversation. He retreated a few steps, and catching a spotlight, the dusting of silver hairs around his temples sparkled. He discarded the empty champagne glass on a nearby table. I opened my mouth to thank him – my interested viewer – and his question collided with my gratitude.

‘Why castles?’ he asked.

My lips trembled. Yvette had suggested I shouldn’t mention the motivation that kept me returning to Ashby, and other places. When we had set up the stand, she had reminded me the purpose of the exhibit was to demonstrate I was an artist and not a castle enthusiast – the subject, she had said, would tell its own story. It was my story, too. Should I bend to it and not the critics?

Who was this somewhat pensive guy, who stared at me with an inscrutable expression, and why did his appearance hover ambiguously between businessman and something more down to earth? He had to be an academic, probably on the institute’s staff. What he might have initiated, letting me feel welcomed, now following his awkward questions, was something different.

My coarse throat ached to speak and frankly, what had I to lose if I simply stated the truth?

‘I want to visit every castle in the country.’ I didn’t know where to look. Not at his face, which was bound to show that amused expression of incredulity.

However, when I glanced up, he remained expressionless, as he had done since he arrived at the stand. If I spotted anything reactive, it was a slight widening of his granite eyes.

‘And photograph them?’

‘That part isn’t essential. It helps, when explaining to people, to give a reason. So yes, if you like, I will photograph them.’ Now I had blown my credentials – I was an utter idiot.

He stepped forward. ‘My name is David Carmichael. I’m professor of Art History at Charnwood University.’

Charnwood University was where Yvette had studied art history, and the nugget of information explained why she had exchanged words – she must have known him and suggested he visited my corner.