The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  The car came to an abrupt halt. The door opened and there was a dark-skinned woman standing there, with a snake wrapped around her neck like an ornament. ‘Stay away from my granddaughter.’ She leaned into the car, aiming the snake’s head in Emanuel’s direction.

  ‘Driver!’ Em backed away from the aggressive stranger.

  ‘Nobody will help you if you harm my kin,’ she drove home her conviction with her matronly tone. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Em nodded.

  ‘You don’t be threatening my Gabby.’

  Gabrielle? Peter panicked.

  With a start, Peter awoke in bed to find Gabrielle seated upright beside him, holding her neck and gasping for air. ‘Gabrielle!’ He sat up to hold her. ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m good.’ She regulated her breathing and calmed. ‘I don’t know what happened, but I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to suffocate!’

  ‘I know what happened.’ Peter climbed out of bed, to keep his anger away from Gabrielle. ‘This is a shitty way of showing your appreciation, Em! She’s trying to help you, just as I am!’ he roared, addressing nowhere in particular in the dark room. ‘Threatening my girl is not on! Do you hear me? Or I’ll bury your bloody story where no one will ever find it!’

  ‘Aw.’ Gabrielle had her hands clutched at her chest, admiring him. ‘Would you really do that for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he realised, still angry at Em. ‘I absolutely would!’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t Em?’ Gabrielle ventured to suggest.

  ‘I know it was.’ Peter calmed a little. ‘I was speaking with Emanuel in my dream, and a woman, who I suspect was your grandmother, appeared and warned Emanuel to leave you alone.’

  ‘Really?’ Gabrielle sounded surprised. ‘If it were my abuelita, you’d know it, as she always wears —’

  ‘A snake around her neck?’ Peter guessed and Gabrielle gasped.

  ‘Yes! Oh my God!’ Gabrielle appeared mind-blown. ‘If she really did enter your dream . . . you must have some psychic ability yourself.’ She waved him back towards the warm bed. ‘You’ve been dreaming about Em?’

  Peter nodded, but stayed where he was. ‘Ever since we found the diaries. But I spoke to the writers’ group and they said it’s completely normal to dream about your story. Still, I believe threatening my girlfriend is going way beyond the boundaries of normal writer/muse relationship!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Em gets the message.’ Gabrielle bit her lip. ‘Did Em actually confess to harassing me?’

  ‘Well no,’ Peter admitted, ‘but he didn’t deny it either.’

  ‘But according to your tale Em was something of a pacifist?’ It clearly made no sense to Gabrielle.

  ‘Maybe that changed after a few hard knocks? I should go on strike.’ He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger, but then considering the sad story of the painter, Fabian Donati, it may have been just such a protest that had seen his love, Isabella, to her grave.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ Gabrielle insisted. ‘I think that will just make you both miserable.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Peter called out for Em’s benefit.

  ‘I do.’ Gabrielle climbed out of bed and began to dress.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Peter finally cast off his angst and softened his tone.

  ‘Well, it’s nearly sun up, so I should think about going home and getting ready for work.’

  ‘No, don’t go yet.’ Peter took hold of her to waylay her dressing. ‘Mrs E does a mean breakfast by the pool.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful, but I would absolutely be late for work then,’ she said with some regret. ‘Some day, after you finish this piece, I’ll come and enjoy that with you.’ She kissed him, and carried on dressing.

  ‘So I’m not going to see you until I’m finished?’ Peter felt he should object.

  ‘That’s right, so you’d best get stuck in,’ she teased, but as Peter was still most unamused, she explained, ‘Look, obviously this is very important to Em and to you. I’m happy to stay out of the way until you’re done . . . it’s not like it’s going to take forever. Look what you’ve accomplished in a week!’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘but at least let me make a coffee before you go. That’s the very least I can do after you were nearly strangled in your sleep!’ he snarled out at the house, and then looked back to Gabrielle.

  ‘I don’t scare easily,’ Gabrielle set him at ease on that count. ‘As you say, I have my grandma looking out for me. I’d be more worried about you, only I know Em needs you to finish this piece. Please don’t be mad at Em. There’s something very fishy going on; someone is lying, and you need to find out who.’

  ‘But, why would Emeline come clean about her darkest secret, if not to expose a great injustice?’ Peter posed.

  ‘Exactly,’ Gabrielle agreed. ‘Do you really think that beautiful painting on the wall in the sitting room was painted by Lord Pettigrew? If he was really Em Jewel then maybe it was his ghost haunting Penelope and her friends in the apartment —’

  ‘Holy shit, I hadn’t thought of that!’ Peter was excited and began dressing himself. ‘The apartment still exists, you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Gabrielle was suddenly concerned.

  ‘Billy Boyle told me where I could find it —’

  ‘No, Peter,’ Gabrielle objected before he’d even made the suggestion. ‘You must not, under any circumstances, go there without telling me first.’

  ‘I am telling you first,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘Then it’s a date,’ she said. ‘Pick me up on the way.’

  ‘I thought you said I wasn’t going to see you before the story was done?’

  ‘That’s before I knew you were planning on walking into that hornets’ nest of ghosts,’ she specified. ‘I’m not letting you go there, knowing next to nothing about psychic self-defence. I’m coming with you and that’s that.’

  ‘Only if you bring your grandma,’ Peter agreed, ‘as she’s one scary lady.’

  ‘Yes, she can be a little over-zealous.’ Gabrielle grabbed her bag to head downstairs with Peter. ‘Can you wait until Thursday or Friday? They’re my rostered days off.’

  ‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll have to do a little ringing around to find out how we get in there in any case. Someone might be living there for all we know.’

  Gabrielle served him a knowing look. ‘No, for all we know, there’s no one living there.’

  After coffee, Peter drove Gabrielle home. Even though he now owned a huge garage of pristine classic cars, Peter only drove the Aston Martin he’d been given, as he still felt like a custodian, not an owner. Once he’d finished his first novel, maybe he’d have the brain space to figure out the best way to honour Penelope’s great gift.

  As soon as he was back at the house, Peter got back on the research case.

  A search on Google Maps revealed the building at 4 Kismet Way was indeed still standing — just. The satellite image revealed the block was surrounded by construction fencing. On the street view a sold sign could be seen, the lower levels of the building still appeared as a car park, and the warehouse was still standing above.

  ‘God knows how long ago this image was taken?’ Peter was flustered when he considered they might have already demolished the building. ‘It’s the key to linking the stories.’ Peter scribbled down the name of the construction company and their phone number, but checking the time he discovered it was still before office hours. ‘Damn.’

  He was tempted to just get in the car and drive down there, so he grabbed his keys, then stopped in his tracks.

  In stories the hero was always making promises and then breaking them for some justifiable reason, whereby he’d do something stupid and fall out with his girl because of it.

  ‘Let’s just skip that subplot. I’m not that guy.’ He put down the car keys and took up the phone number instead.

  ‘What the hell?’ He figured he’d give them a try now anyway, as trad
esmen started their day earlier than most.

  Peter’s call was diverted from the office number to a mobile, which a fellow answered. ‘West End Construction, Steve speaking.’

  ‘Hi Steve. My name is Peter Lemond, I’m a writer and I’m doing some research into a property West End purchased recently at 4 Kismet Way. I was wondering if you’ve demolished the building there yet?’

  Steve started laughing, although his laugher was not joyful, more ironic. ‘Are you a science fiction writer then?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Peter replied, more than a little intrigued by the man’s reaction to his query.

  ‘Sorry,’ Steve controlled his amusement. ‘The answer is no, we have not demolished the building. West End has decided not to develop that particular site, but has re-listed it for sale, if you’re interested?’

  ‘I am.’ Peter felt this a great opportunity to get inside the building. ‘Is it possible to make an appointment to view it on Thursday? Or Friday, if that’s more convenient?’

  ‘I’ll give you the number of the realtor,’ Steve had another little chuckle. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to show you around the property.’

  The Fairchild Estate was sold in 1939 to a property developer, who planned to demolish the house, sell off the assets and build low-cost housing. Henry felt he’d failed in his promise to safeguard the family estate, but as Emanuel pointed out, they were not the first stately family to be forced into bankruptcy. High taxation, and the tragic loss of aristocratic heirs in the previous war, had forced many landed families to sell their estates, most of which were demolished to make way for housing, golf courses and roadworks. The preservation of culture, history and art, took a back seat to industry, as the world, once again, headed into world war.

  So what might have been seen as misfortune turned out to be in the Lord Fairchild’s favour. Emanuel was so antisocial, he had been diagnosed as agoraphobic long ago, so no one paid any mind to him selling up and relocating. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act was introduced later that same year, but Emanuel Fairchild would have been rejected for service due to his prior medical condition — thus there was no reason for anyone to seek him out. He was just one of a growing number of mentally ill people that no one gave a second thought to. The Fairchild car park facility was bequeathed to Em Jewel Holdings, a company set up by Henry Chesterfield in the wake of his dismissal from his Lord’s service. Henry converted the storage facility above the car park into an apartment for himself and his adopted, mentally ill son.

  Henry kept to himself and ran his business honourably, although business was not what it had been before the war had started. People were looking to save money wherever they could, and paying for a car park was considered something of a luxury. Street parking had become easier, as fewer people were driving and buying cars, which for lower income city dwellers was also an unnecessary expense.

  With the car park running at a loss, Henry knew that the nest egg they’d made from selling the family estate was not going to hold out indefinitely. Nor was Henry going to hold out indefinitely, as he was now pushing seventy. Emanuel had to find a means to make a living and survive on his own, and the most obvious route to this goal was to sell his art.

  Henry had tried to broach the subject with Emanuel many times. Their warehouse apartment space was filled with artworks that Emanuel would never allow anyone to see. In all honesty they were probably a little provocative for public consumption and might even have been considered pornographic. Emanuel didn’t always paint in a conventional manner either. Henry had often found the young man covered in paint or chalk powder, rolling around on a canvas. Or naked, staring at his body in the mirror. Henry often quietly questioned the mental health of his charge, but then he saw the amazing artworks that resulted. The man was either going insane from his self-imposed, prolonged isolation, or he was an artistic genius! These pieces were verging on abstract, a style that was popular at the present. Henry longed to find out if Emanuel could sustain himself as a painter, but the artist was more interested in maintaining his anonymity and secluded life.

  ‘Absolutely no,’ Emanuel objected to having a gallery owner view one of his works.

  ‘But Miss Manning is highly respected for having an eye for new talent,’ Henry pursued the matter, and wasn’t backing down this time. ‘She is an artist herself, as well as a gallery owner, and she writes for several periodicals about modern art. She’s —’

  ‘After what happened to my sister, I cannot believe we are having this conversation. I do not feel the need to seek the approval of others.’ Emanuel set aside his brush to have this out.

  ‘You will soon feel the need when the debtors come calling,’ Henry scoffed.

  ‘You are the one who told us to trust no one!’

  ‘You don’t have to trust Miss Manning, only me,’ Henry stressed. ‘I will be your go-between.’

  ‘Once there is interest in my work, people will become interested in me and I do not want their interest! I am perfectly content as I am.’

  ‘But it won’t last!’ Henry lost his patience. ‘What will you do when I am gone?’

  Emanuel shrugged. ‘Find my sister, I guess. Lord Pettigrew never did file a charge against her. I still write to her, and keep in touch.’

  ‘You need to be self-reliant!’ This was the point Henry was trying to make. ‘You know nothing of the real world.’

  ‘I read the papers. I’ve seen how the world operates through the experiences of my sister, I know enough to know I don’t want any part of the real world.’ Emanuel took up his brush again, thinking that was the end of the argument.

  ‘Well, it’s too late,’ Henry confessed. ‘I’ve already set the wheels in motion.’

  ‘What?’ Emanuel stood and tossed his brush aside. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I took one of your paintings to Miss Manning’s gallery, so that she might assess it,’ Henry admitted, his courage waning as he witnessed Emanuel’s inner rage bubbling to the surface.

  ‘No one has the right to assess my work!’ Emanuel turned away from his elderly guardian and directed his anger into the void of the warehouse roof. ‘How could anyone possibly understand it?’ He paced back and forth for a moment and then looked back to Henry. ‘Which painting?’

  ‘The Lovers.’

  ‘No! That painting is not for sale!’

  ‘Calm down.’ Henry walked over to a covered canvas and revealed the work in question. ‘I didn’t sell it, I just wanted her opinion. Don’t you want to know what she said?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Emanuel moved to inspect the painting to ensure it hadn’t been damaged.

  ‘Apparently it is a beautiful blend of Romanticism, Impressionism and Expressionism, and thus gives a new and subtle form to abstract. Miss Manning adored the androgyny of the lovers, which she claimed would appeal to many of her clientele, as it was sensual and provocative without being vulgar.’

  ‘Hmm, well, there is many a painting here that she would not feel the same about.’ Emanuel seemed appeased by the appraisal.

  ‘She wants to see more,’ Henry ventured. ‘You choose what stays and what goes. But some of them have to go, because we are running out of space.’

  ‘But my name is on all of these, I don’t want anyone figuring out who I am, especially Pettigrew, who may still be searching for my sister. She is in many of the paintings, what if he recognises her?’

  ‘You could be a fan, she was very famous,’ Henry suggested.

  ‘A fan who just so happens to have the same name as Emeline’s twin brother.’

  ‘Then paint over your name with a pseudonym,’ Henry suggested. ‘Use Em Jewel, that should fit over Emanuel quite neatly, and I’ll run your cheques straight through the company in any case, which is willed to you, my adopted son.’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘So is starving,’ Henry reasoned. ‘Besides, we left Pettigrew in Europe before the war! With any luck he’s been killed by now. We’ve heard nothing of hi
m.’

  ‘Cockroaches will survive anything, they say.’

  ‘I’ve squashed many a cockroach in my time,’ Henry assured him.

  ‘But you are no spring chicken, Chester.’

  ‘Exactly the point I am trying to get through your young Lordly head!’

  ‘I am no Lord any more.’ Emanuel found his reason. ‘Another point you are attempting to highlight, no doubt.’

  Henry put his hands together and applauded Emanuel, in a mocking, though affectionate manner. ‘Even if Pettigrew is still looking for Emeline, better that we draw him out now and confront the problem, than spend your life hiding from someone who many no longer exist.’

  ‘I like hiding,’ Emanuel said simply. ‘Without my solitude I cannot work.’

  ‘Then make a name for yourself, sell this place, move to the country somewhere and paint happily ever after,’ Henry outlined his vision.

  As Emanuel considered the notion he appeared inspired. ‘That does sound rather like perfection. If we find somewhere truly remote, and have a garden and woods again.’

  ‘If you like.’ Henry didn’t mind. ‘Just let me aid to facilitate that ideal life for you, while I am still in my right mind and able.’

  Emanuel’s smile was one of appreciation and understanding. ‘Then I shall take care of you, my good man, as you have taken care of us.’

  Henry had parts of the warehouse partitioned off, and a storeroom constructed for the pictures they didn’t want seen and Emanuel’s art supplies. They then displayed all the works for sale on the huge high walls of the partitioned-in area. Emanuel could keep on working behind the scenes and hear every word Miss Manning said about his work, without ever having to meet her. Of course she made inquiries and assumptions about the artist as she viewed the pieces.

  It did not escape Miss Manning’s notice that one of the subjects frequently featured in the paintings, bore a striking resemblance to the famed cellist, Lady Emeline Fairchild, who vanished and was never seen again. ‘The artist was a fan of the Lady Fairchild, perhaps?’