Authors: Julian Lawrence Brooks
‘I see. Must’ve been young, then – seventeen, eighteen?’
‘Seventeen. And three months pregnant to boot.’
‘So, you’re a mother?’
‘No.’ I remained silent for a while, trying to control the rush of emotions welling up inside. ‘….I had an abortion.’
Dylan dropped his fork onto his plate and put his arm around my shoulder. I cuddled up to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m prying.’
‘It all happened a long time ago, Dylan. I was only a naive girl then. I’m thirty-four now.’
‘Really? You don’t look it.’
I smiled and carried on reading – or at least pretended to read – until he had finished his food. Then we dressed. As we went back down the driveway to finish the last of the clearing up, he said: ‘Sometimes I wish I’d kept to the popular fiction I wrote in my youth, before I got published. This literary stuff wins accolades, but it takes a lot out of me.’
A large truck came, with a crane attached. Dylan had called in the reinforcements, four men he evidently knew from the way he greeted them. They had brought heavier cutting gear and they set to work on the thick trunk, under Dylan’s instruction. By the afternoon, they were able to crane off the section covering my car. There was a crumpling of metal as the trunk lifted clear and was hauled onto the flatbed of the trailer. Next, they lifted the base of the trunk, but as the remainder of its roots ripped from the ground it started to shift down the opposite embankment. After a dangerous few moments, with men jumping clear in all directions, Dylan decided it was better to release the trunk and let it fall over the edge. There was a rumbling and a tearing as it descended through the rhododendrons, before coming to rest at the bottom.
Some time later, a grey Bentley cruised from the gatehouse and came to a skidding halt in front of the wreck of the Fiat. There was still plenty to finish off, but I was more perturbed about having our space invaded by these guests. It would make my task more difficult.
The passenger door opened and a man climbed out. He was dressed in tweed trousers and a waistcoat that strained against his developing paunch. He must have been in his late forties, but his balding reddish-brown hair, his chubby, pockmarked jowls and his long side-whiskers, made him look a lot older.
He immediately lit up a big cigar. ‘Hi, my dear fellow,’ he yelled towards Dylan. ‘What’s all this, then.’ He began to walk towards the car wreck. He looked down in disgust as his highly polished shoes became coated in sawdust.
Dylan came over and shook his hand and waved towards a woman, who was now climbing out of the Bentley. She was short and fat, with flowing grey hair. She was probably in her mid-fifties, with a deeply-lined face, still plain despite mountains of cosmetics.
Then the visitor saw me. ‘My, my, old man, what have you got here?’ He came over and took my hand and kissed it. ‘I’m Rupert.’
‘Freya,’ I replied, coughing as I inhaled some of his cigar smoke.
‘Enchanté.’
‘That’s enough, Rupert. Leave the poor girl alone.’ It was the grey-haired woman coming towards us. ‘I’m Ronni – Veronica to you, by the way. Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. Is this your little car blocking our way?’
‘Yes, it’s a long story. I’m Freya.’ I extended my hand, but she refused to take it. I took an immediate dislike to her haughty manner.
‘You must be Dylan’s latest bit of fluff, I take it?’
I flushed in embarrassment.
‘Slim, blonde-haired, blue-eyed.’ Veronica said. ‘You certainly conform to one of his usual types.’
Rupert stepped forward, as if wanting to intervene on my behalf, but he was checked by her piercing stare.
Dylan took over, guiding Veronica back inside the car. He then climbed into the driver’s seat and he carefully drove the Bentley around the wreck.
‘Let me apologize,’ Rupert said. ‘It’s been a very fraught journey with all the storm damage on the road and we weren’t expecting other guests.’
I nodded, but kept my head bowed as we followed the Bentley. Dylan had stopped ahead and was getting out again. He beckoned Rupert into the driver’s seat.
‘Park up in the courtyard and we’ll follow you up. Yasuko’ll carry your things inside.’
When they had driven off, Dylan bent down and gave me a kiss, stroking my hair away from my eyes. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘You’re the second man to apologize for her behaviour in as many minutes. Don’t defend the indefensible.’
‘She’s always a bit supercilious upon first meeting.’
‘You’re doing it again!’
‘OK,’ he said, putting up his hands.
‘How long have you known her?’
‘Many years.’
‘And Rupert?’
‘A few. He helped me put together the financial plan for this place and other Georgian properties I own in Liverpool.’
‘You have other houses?’
‘Yes. My property portfolio brings in more income than my writing now.’
‘I see.’
‘Are they a couple?’
Dylan laughed. ‘Heaven’s no!’ We approached the Bentley and found Yasuko struggling with unloading their overnight bags. ‘Ronni’s trying to pair him off with Janis.’
‘Who’s Janis?’
‘That’s me.’ I turned to see a woman climbing somewhat timidly out of the rear door. ‘I’m Janis Norton. Pleased to meet you.’ She was an attractive woman with collar-length jet-black hair. She’d been there all along, unseen.
Later, we all assembled in the drawing room.
‘Ah, I see you followed my recommendation, Dylan,’ Rupert said. ‘What a fine grand piano – even if I do say so myself.’
He sat down on the stool and Yasuko rushed over with an ashtray, just as Rupert was waving his cigar above the keys.
‘Careful, Rupert,’ Dylan cried. ‘You of all people should know how much that’s worth.’
Rupert grinned, then launched himself into a series of Noel Coward and Ivor Novello songs. I was surprised how such a melodious voice could spring from such an unlikely source.
‘You’re on form today,’ Dylan said between numbers.
‘Give me some of your wonderful wine and I’ll entertain you all afternoon.’
‘Oh, dear, please don’t,’ Janis mumbled under her breath, as Yasuko took his hint and poured Rupert a large glass.
‘This is such a wonderful room now you’ve finished it, Dylan,’ Veronica said. ‘Quite marvellous.’ She took a sip of her own white wine.
‘But it is a little anachronistic, isn’t it,’ I chipped in.
‘How so?’ Veronica raised one of her painted eyebrows.
‘Well, it’s Regency in style….’
‘And?’
Well if you don’t butt in all the time I’ll tell you, I thought, then wished I’d actually said it out loud. ‘Dylan tells me the house dates from the 1840s. This room’s decorated circa 1810-20.’
Veronica looked vexed, but said: ‘Oh, yes, of course you’re right – and let me tell you, I’m steeped in architectural knowledge myself – but it still doesn’t take away my earlier comment.’
Janis made a grab for Yasuko’s arm as she returned from refilling Rupert’s glass. ‘Don’t give him any more, Yasuko. He’s starting on the bawdy ballads already.’
I tuned back in to Rupert for a moment and listened to the suggestive lyrics.
Despite Janis’s probably deliberate distraction, Dylan returned to the earlier conversation. ‘I agonized over this room for ages. The original fittings had been stripped out and packed off to America after the Great War. I hunted everywhere for the room, and would’ve paid good money for its return. All to no avail, I’m afraid. Then I heard these fixtures were being auctioned from a mansion demolition in Yorkshire. I bought furniture to match it. But you’re right, Freya; it doesn’t sit right with the rest of the Lodge, and can only be a temporary solution. The heritage people thought the same. When I find the right interior, I’ll redo this room again. Expensive, I know, but I want to keep faith with the original design – eventually.’
Janis frowned. ‘I wish you’d stop that crudity, Rups.’
Rupert ignored her and carried on.
Veronica started talking to Dylan about profits from his car museum.
‘She does all my accounts,’ he explained to me. ‘No. I don’t want to spend it all on new cars, Ronni. I want to develop the visitor centre so children can appreciate car history. And I want to donate a few thousand so the parish council can build that adventure playground in the village.’
Veronica didn’t seem too impressed by his philanthropy. ‘Well, I suppose we can get the local MP to open it for you.’ Then she turned to me. ‘I was dining with him only the other night at the Conservative Club.’
‘Well, that’s nothing to boast about,’ I said loudly. ‘The Thatcherites are destroying this country.’
Veronica huffed. ‘We’ve just won another landslide victory. The country doesn’t appear to share your view.’
‘Calm down,’ Dylan intervened sharply. ‘Freya, it’s understandable that Veronica and Rupert are Tory supporters – one from the landed aristocracy and one from the city.’
‘Quite so,’ Veronica said.
‘But Ronni, I tend to agree with Freya.’
Veronica scowled.
‘What are your politics, then?’ I asked.
‘I’m from the old Radical tradition. Dating back to the Levellers and Diggers of the Civil War, the supporters of the American and French Revolutions, and the Chartist movement. Finds its expression most these days in the left-wing of the Liberals and the Bennite fringe of the Labour Party. But frankly, all today’s parties are as bad as each other. And I certainly don’t want some Tory upstart making political capital off the back of one of my donations, thank you very much.’
‘How can you talk that way, Dylan? Look around you. You should be a Tory. You’re a landed gent yourself, now, after all.’
‘I’m a self-made man, Ronni, and you know it. I didn’t inherit wealth. And all this might be transitory, like it was for you.’
I didn’t understand this, but Veronica looked miffed.
‘You never can tell. No, I grew up in a mining town, with real working class people. I’ve sampled their deprivations first hand. And to see how Thatcher used the police to rip through the picket lines, well….words can’t express my disgust.’
Veronica looked offended, but said nothing.
Rupert coming to the end of his song helped to divert our attentions.
‘Bravo, Rupert,’ Dylan cried, with a chuckle.
All except Janis clapped him.
‘That’s enough of that now, Rupert,’ Janis said. ‘Let me have a go.’
Rupert relinquished the piano stool and Janis embarked upon a recital of what sounded like a Mozart piece, but she appeared nervous and it was riddled with errors as a result.
Veronica cringed. ‘That’s awful, darling. I do wish you’d stop trying to pretend you’re any good. Your sister was always the musical one. You’re never going to be as good, so why bother?’
Janis looked at Dylan, but he said nothing.
‘Well, my dear sis. is no longer around! Why can’t you just be pleased for
me
!’
‘Please don’t speak to me like that, dear!’ she retorted harshly.
Janis slammed the lid of the piano down, close to tears.
Veronica took no notice of her. ‘I know, why don’t you play something, Dylan?’
‘Yes, old boy. Get your fiddle.’ Rupert encouraged.
Dylan reluctantly went over to a cabinet and brought out a violin. He tuned it and then burst into a fast folk reel that had us all stamping our feet to the beat after the first few bars. Janis opened the piano lid again and tried to play some chords, but she couldn’t keep up and had to let Rupert take over. Disheartened, she slipped quietly away from the room.
After a while, Dylan slowed and allowed Rupert to play and sing with him. I recognized a few of the folk standards like
Widdecombe Fair
and
The Vicar of Bray
.
Veronica and I watched and I felt a certain charisma emanating from Dylan, in the way he could hold our attention.
‘Dylan’s multi-talented, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘What with his writing, his musicianship and his architectural knowledge.’
‘That’s not even the half of it. He has an encyclopaedic mind on many subjects, which he makes good use of in his novels. He’s far superior to me. That’s why I never debate with him for long.’ She paused, and motioned towards Dylan and Rupert in an effort to pretend she was giving them her wholehearted attention.
But she had gripped hold of my arm, hidden from view behind her own, and I could feel her fingernails digging into me. Then she hissed through clenched teeth, whilst smiling towards Dylan. ‘Don’t you dare show me up like that again!’
I let out a gasp at the pain she’d inflicted and this made Dylan stop.
‘Is everything OK?’ Dylan said, as Rupert played on. He was looking in my direction, but it was Veronica who rose to her feet.
‘I’m getting a headache, darling. I think I need to go to my room and lie down. Will you help me, Dylan?’
Dylan took her by the arm and led her away.
Rupert used their exit to raid Dylan’s wine again.
‘Don’t let on to Veronica, Freya, but I think the Thatcherites are philistines as well. Cutting all that funding for the Arts!’ He tutted and swigged down some more red wine. ‘I’m a “One Nation” Tory at heart. Don’t care for the City, either.’ He came and sat down beside me, and sighed. ‘My family forced me into joining the bank, as they were dead set against me becoming a professional musician.’
‘Shame,’ I said. ‘You sing and play well.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, sipping his drink once more.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, as we both struggled to sustain the conversation. Finally, I said: ‘What do you make of Dylan?’
‘Well, I’ve known him a few years, yet….’
‘What?’
‘He’s a nice enough chap, but….’
‘But what?’
He drank some more. ‘I don’t think I know him at all.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I can’t really grasp his true character. He’s very defensive. Puts up a brave front….They say he’s had a troubled background….That might explain it.’
‘Yes, his wife died.’
‘Oh.’ He gulped, his face blanching. ‘Well, he’s never said.’
Just then, Janis returned. ‘Has she gone?’
I nodded.
‘Good,’ she said and returned to the piano.