‘You just missed Caleb,’ says Julia, buttering her toast. ‘He was actually quite chatty this morning.’
‘Where’s Desra?’ I say. ‘Isn’t she joining us for breakfast?’
‘From what I gather, Dr McKinley isn’t the mixing type,’ says Julia coolly. All eyes turn to her. ‘I’m told she was forced to take over the summer school from Maire Donaldson at short notice and wasn’t too happy about it.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘But I gather Lennoxton gives her a lot of leeway to do her poetry along with all her sports stuff, so when the headmaster insisted …’
‘How do you know all this?’ I say, my eyes wide.
‘I was chatting to one of the cleaners this morning.’
The table erupts in laughter.
‘Maybe you should consider writing detective fiction instead of poetry,’ Marie-Claire says, leaning over and giving her fiancée a peck on the cheek.
The morning begins with a feedback session on yesterday’s efforts, in which McKinley slates just about every effort by announcing it to be contrived, derivative or cliché. All I can think of is her horrendous poem about feeding the wolf that she displayed to us the day before. While I reluctantly agree with McKinley that Marvin and Roz’s contribution about their two cats is somewhat underwhelming, I am adamant that her criticism of Caleb’s stream of consciousness piece about growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness is completely off the mark.
‘How can you say that sounded contrived?’ I say, deciding to challenge the reverential silence that tends to follow each of McKinley’s diktats. ‘Of course it’s contrived. Everything we’re doing is contrived, but, as far as Caleb’s piece goes, I think it’s not only beautiful but completely authentic – because that’s exactly how people from those sorts of communities behave.’ I can feel myself getting increasingly angry with what I feel is the tutor’s readiness to criticise from a position of little understanding. ‘My childhood in a fundamentalist household was closed, isolated, suffocating; every move I made was overshadowed by acquiescence and fear.’ I am giving away more than I intend to. ‘Fear of sinning, fear of dishonouring our parents, fear of dishonouring our brethren. Fear that distorted and disabled you until you became nothing more than an outline – someone who walks in shadow.’ I look around to see the rest of the group watching me, and Caleb’s green eyes fixed intently on my face.
‘Bravo!’ cries McKinley, clapping her hands. ‘Kate here has just perfectly demonstrated how I wanted you to attack the first exercise. Her response was truthful, emotional, full of feeling, but not yet a poem. Kate’s even incorporated subtle imagery in her idea of an empty outline of a person, which points to the exploration of language I’ve been talking to you about.’ I feel McKinley squeeze my shoulder and for the first time that morning, hear her say the words, ‘well done!’ There is a splatter of applause from my fellow students, but I shake it away. I wasn’t trying to be clever, poetic or emotional. I just wanted to put Desra McKinley in her place.
‘The next stage is to start thinking about imagery, rhythm, meaning.’ McKinley glances at her watch and starts to pack up her things. ‘I gather you’ve got a sandwich lunch at the boathouse and then the canoers are to meet at two. Use this opportunity to explore landscape as meaning. Think of perspective: how the lake looks from the shore, and vice versa. Is there some greater meaning you can find there? We’ll be looking at that tomorrow.’ She gives the group a smug grin. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be partaking, as I’m meeting my agent this afternoon to discuss the publication of my new anthology.’
‘Anthology?’ says Sally with wide-eyed interest. ‘How exciting. What’s it called?’
McKinley places a finger to her lips. ‘Not until the deal is signed,’ she says. ‘Don’t want to be jinxing it, do I? What I can tell you is that it’s a fusion of works both old and new.’
I bite back a sigh. I’m finding Dr Desra McKinley increasingly unbearable, which is already making it difficult to put the first bullet point of my action plan into play:
1. Try to get in with Desra McKinley, get close to her/ find out everything I can about her.
‘I should be back in time for our after-dinner session in the boathouse,’ she says. ‘I’ll tell you all about it then.’ Next to me, I hear Julia muttering something under her breath. ‘I would ask that all of you leave the work we discussed today until after dinner; or at least later this afternoon. It needs time to grow and develop both in the conscious and unconscious mind. Overworking it can lead to stagnation. If you feel you must write, try some diary or journal writing, but just as you would do with bread dough, or finely cooked steak – let it rest.’
There are a few chuckles, but if anything, I find McKinley’s metaphors to be more clichéd than those of her students. I feel edgy, uneasy. My disclosure this morning has rattled me more than I can say. The whole point of the week had been to integrate with the group and ingratiate myself with McKinley. That means keeping my life and my past a secret. Exposing myself means exposing weakness. I can’t afford for that to happen.
31
After lunch I am reluctantly coerced by Julia and Marie-Claire into a wetsuit and life jacket and then find myself stepping into a large, open Canadian-style canoe.
‘It’s not as bad as I thought,’ I say, gripping the oar. Sitting behind me, Becky provides support.
‘Blade in the water at ninety degrees, Kate. Imagine yourself slicing through the water like a knife through butter.’
We have only travelled a few metres offshore when Nikki and Malcolm approach in another canoe.
‘One of the most important parts of this training session is learning the capsize drill,’
