Freya's Quest

by Julian Lawrence Brooks

  I smiled. At last I appeared to have influenced his decision-making.

  ‘You would’ve noticed, I’m sure, from your reading of my novels, that they turn on two or three main characters. But I feel my writing’s regressing. If I don’t get this right, the whole book’s going to fail and I’ll have to put it in the bottom drawer. I already have two junk manuscripts in there; I don’t really want a third.’

  ‘Ah. That could explain the greater gap between the publication of your second and third novels.’

  ‘You’re very intuitive, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I am.’ Hadn’t that been another reason why John had chosen me over other possible candidates?

  ‘But no, you aren’t right on this occasion. Both were written before the publication of Pillar Rock.’

  ‘Ah. So that was not actually your first true novel?’ As I said this, I remembered my conversation with Janis about unpublished works.

  ‘No. The others were a way of learning the craft. It’s probably the same for most successful novelists.’

  ‘So what explains the gap?’

  ‘This place. I spent three years out here in the garden in a caravan, spending the proceeds of The Music Man film rights on rebuilding the Lodge. It was in an almost irredeemable state. Trying to write a third novel and project manage the builders and subcontractors at the same time was exhausting. I can still remember all those nights returning from the site, particularly those winter months with limited heating. Then I’d type The Immigrant into the small hours, resting the typewriter across my knees.’

  ‘But you must be pleased with the result.’

  ‘Yes. On both counts. The novel was critically acclaimed. It sold disappointingly at first, but sales rose due to my tabloid exposure. And while there are still outer areas of the garden to reclaim, I’m very satisfied with the transformation of the Lodge as well. Not many people can see an adolescent fantasy come to life in the way I’ve realized this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was all carefully planned. I deliberately wrote The Music Man as a more commercial book, together with an accompanying film script, hoping it might generate enough capital to save the Lodge. I succeeded beyond all my hopes.’

  ‘Yes. That book is much less literary than the others; though no less interesting as a result.’

  ‘Thank you. I wish more of my former girlfriends – and the tabloids for that matter – had taken as much of an interest in my writing as you appear to be doing.’

  ‘You’re certainly a lot more complex a character than the “ruthless philanderer” usually painted. Even the people you surround yourself with seem to have dwelt on the sexual angle to the detriment of everything else.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, smirking. He took out a cloth from his pocket and began to wipe down the butt of the shotgun. ‘So what’s keeping you here if I’m this sexual ogre?’

  ‘Well, many a philanderer has settled down eventually.’

  Although he smirked again, his wiping of the gun became more vigorous and his face became more lined and intense. ‘I can’t promise you anything, you know, Freya. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘I know. But promise me this one thing. Spend the next couple of days with me.’

  ‘OK. So long as you allow me to return to my writing after that.’

  ‘Agreed….And I know Janis has been in your life for a long time, but can you just concentrate on me for the next few weeks without her intruding. Or anyone else, for that matter. Only then will we know whether we have a future or not.’

  I already knew there wouldn’t be. But I had to keep making Dylan believe there might be in order to complete my mission. And getting Dylan on his own could only help John’s cause.

  ‘I can go with that.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Let’s go on a two-day expedition.’

  ‘Oh no, not more mountain walking,’ I moaned. ‘My feet couldn’t take any more of that at the moment.’

  ‘No. Something a little more sedate, but still in the outdoors.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘OK,’ he said and kissed me, taking me unawares.

  We made love right there on the bank.

  When we had finished, I rolled over and found myself staring into the eye of one of the dead rabbits. I wondered whether I might share a similar fate, now I’d renewed my commitment to Dylan. And to John’s quest for knowledge.

  - XIX -

  WE SET OFF later that day on Dylan’s surprise trip, taking Quasi the dog along with us. We drove first to the museum and exchanged the Singer Gazelle for a sturdier Rover P5 Coupé. Then we travelled into the heart of the district, through St John’s Vale, over Dunmail Raise for a view of “The Lion and the Lamb”, then down through Grasmere and Ambleside and thence, on narrower roads, to Coniston. Dylan took delight in pointing out the sights on route, whilst Quasi stuck his head out of the back window all the way there. We parked at the northern end of the lake. It was a perfect day. The tranquil waters, catching the sunlight, were framed against the sylvan shoreline.

  Dylan opened the boot and took out two waterproof canisters. Then we packed all the gear we’d brought into these and made our way over to a boathouse.

  ‘Great. What are we going to be doing?’

  He had kept the surprise well, and wasn’t about to reveal it quite yet. Only when he pulled out the open canoe from inside the building did I realize what he had in mind. He spent some time strapping the canisters against the bar in the middle of the canoe, then searched for further gear. He returned with two paddles and a tarpaulin, whilst Quasi sniffed around the bushes, piddling regularly.

  Dylan went through the procedures of how to paddle and told me I was to sit in the bow, as the person at the stern needed to steer.

  ‘You own the boathouse?’

  ‘Yes. But most of it’s rented out to a local outdoor pursuits company…. Damn!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘This paddle’s developing a crack.’ He went back inside and brought out a roll of waterproof tape and proceeded to bind up the paddle blade. ‘That should do it.’

  Then he handed the faulty paddle to me, along with a buoyancy aid.

  ‘No wetsuit, then?’

  ‘No. I’m not planning on getting us wet if we can help it. But we’ve packed spare clothes in any case. Now, help me drag it over to the water. Come on Quasi, here boy, here boy.’

  He held the canoe against the side and showed me how to get in safely. Once inside, he clambered in himself and whistled for Quasi to follow. The dog jumped in the middle and lay down with his head on one of the canisters and felt immediately at home.

  Before long, we were off and he continued his instruction as we hugged the western shoreline. I soon mastered the basics and we found a rhythm quickly. The Coniston fells dominated the scene, but the smaller hills to the east showed we had come to the very fringes of the mountains.

  ‘How long have you canoed for?’

  ‘Oh, since childhood. Sera and I would come here often and camp out where we’re going today.’

  He went very quiet after this. I turned around and found him staring vacantly into the far distance.

  ‘It must’ve been hard, finding someone so special, yet losing her so tragically after such a short time.’ This sounded a little crass, but I wanted to provoke a deeper level of emotional response in him.

  It was a long time before he replied, as we paddled onwards. ‘You never get over something as traumatic as that….You never do….A dream died with her. And so much talent, too. Such a waste. I’ve never been the same since.’

  Dylan went through a series of deft paddle strokes to steer us away from the bank to round a jetty. We were passing a number of exclusive properties and I admired their opulence.

  ‘Nearly bought one of those,’ he said, noting my interest. ‘But in the end, the Lodge was the only place for me. I owed it to Sera’s memory to restore it. And in doing so, it restored me.’


  ‘Perhaps the experience of her death also led you to write? Writing the emotions out of your system, and all that.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I think it was Georges Simenon, the Belgian detective novelist, who said: “Writing isn’t a profession, it’s a vocation of unhappiness”. But my motivation can be traced back to my childhood. I’d wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘So was it the Lakeland scenery that inspired you?’

  ‘Certainly. But again that was a later addition. I didn’t come here till I was ten. Or, at least, that’s what I initially thought. Mother told me a few years later that she’d known the Favershams previously. I’d even played with Sera and her siblings as a baby and toddler. That lost association formed a bond that had unwittingly drawn us back together. My mother never approved of our closeness, nor the subsequent marriage.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I could never be entirely sure. There’d been some rift between her and Faversham and she fought hard to keep me from his influence.’

  ‘No one’s told me much about your mother. Janis said she’d come from an upper class family.’

  ‘No. She was of pure working-class mining stock. She heralded from Ebbw Vale, the third of seven children. She gained greater status through her education, funded by a Faversham scholarship. After the rift, we returned to her roots. But the community couldn’t easily re-assimilate her; she’d become so divorced from their world. It was a difficult seven years for her. Only a deep religious fervour kept her going through these years….Although I felt suffocated by it.

  ‘But this tightknit community was the real shaping of me as a writer, with its library and pithead both seen from our cottage window. I used to watch all the dust-ridden miners walking past at the end of each shift. Much of the detail of Friends and Lovers is lifted straight from these experiences, although I transferred them to the Coniston copper mines in the story.’

  ‘Oh, right. Those passages are very evocative.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So your mother was a great influence in your writing?’

  ‘Heaven’s no! She only had time for the Lord’s book and found novels sacrilegious.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘I never had a father.’

  ‘But you told me he’d been killed down the pit. And your brother, too.’ I turned around to face him. He had reddened, as if he’d forgotten he’d spun me this falsehood.

  ‘I’m sorry. I weave stories about myself, it’s easier that way. No one likes to admit they haven’t a father.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But Geraint, a mining manager and lay preacher, married my mother. He had a great love of literature and used to take me down the library every night after school. He encouraged me to read. He was my true inspiration.’

  ‘Janis thought he was just her boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, no. You had to do things properly down there. And he gave us extra security, as Mother’s savings had run out. It may simply have been a marriage of convenience for her. I never felt her heart had been truly in it.’

  ‘What happened? Did he die?’

  ‘No. Mother ran back up here. She’d confided in him about her past and he could have nothing to do with her after that. He tried to explain things to me when we left, but she never mentioned anything about it ever again.’

  There was a silence for a long time, with only the sounds of the paddle blades knifing through the water and the gentle lapping against the side of the canoe for company.

  ‘Where’re we headed?’ I finally said.

  ‘Over to that isle in the distance.’

  My arms and back were beginning to ache from the effort and our destination still looked a long way off.

  As the canoe edged towards the shore, Quasi jumped into the water and began to drink. Then he grabbed the bow-rope in his jaws and carried it ashore. I soon followed, leaping clear of the water and landing on the gravelly shore. I threw the paddle in front of me and there was a splintering of wood as it hit on a rock. I went over and found the blade had broken in half where the earlier crack had been.

  Dylan didn’t look amused as he passed by, carrying the containers into the wood that covered the isle.

  ‘Go and find some dead wood for a fire,’ he said.

  I went off obediently. Quasi came close on my heels, sniffing new smells as he went. By the time I returned with an armful of sticks, Dylan had already rigged the tarpaulin between two trees, creating a tent-like canopy. He was placing blankets underneath as I approached.

  He put his arm around my back and kissed me. ‘This’ll make a cosy retreat tonight.’ He winked.

  He guided me back to the shore and told me to dump the sticks. He pulled out rocks from the water and buried them into the gravel to act as a hearth for a fire. Then he shaved off some bark to act as kindling, with a knife he’d unsheathed from his belt. He lit it by striking the edge of the blade against a special stone he’d brought with him. He held the bark in his hand and blew carefully into it until flames took hold. Then he returned it to the hearth and added other smaller sticks. A fire was soon blazing.

  I became more amazed at his bushcraft. He started by fashioning a tripod using sticks bound together with twine made from strips of bark. He used this to hang a saucepan of water over the flames to brew some tea. He made me tend this, whilst he went off into the wood. He returned later with a log he’d scavenged and sat down beside me. He took out a saw, whose blade folded out from its handle, and made a number of cuts. He asked me to sort out the potatoes and fish he’d placed into tinfoil before we’d left. When I came back, he was hacking away at the log with a hatchet.

  He suspended his carving so we could eat dinner. As we munched away, our eyes were cast out across the water as the sun sank lower in the sky.

  ‘So, it must have been difficult without a father and not being very close to your mother,’ I finally said.

  ‘You survive. She was a very angst-ridden woman, too, which didn’t help. I sank into my own imagination as a way of escaping her and all her religious mumbo jumbo. She even hung a large crucifix from the ceiling above my bed. So Jesus’s pain would be the last thing I saw every night before going to sleep. Gave me many a nightmare. Often thought I was hanging up there with him.’

  There was silence for a while. He picked up the log again and returned to his carving. ‘Meeting the Favershams took me away from all that….I was able to distance myself further from my mother’s influence. Veronica and Faversham were more like parents in those six years before I ran off with Sera.’

  ‘Running off caused the rift?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there more to it?’

  He didn’t answer, but cut away at the log more vigorously again.

  I sat and watched his skill as minutes trickled over the hour, like the water lapping back and forth against the shore at our feet. Gradually, a familiar shape became discernible.

  ‘You’re making a new paddle!’ I cried in amazement.

  ‘Well, yes. Since you’ve finished off the old one through your clumsy actions. How else do you expect us to get back tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who taught you all this?’

  ‘Faversham. It’s a dying art.’ He continued to chip away at the log whilst he spoke. ‘I could live in the wilds for weeks if I wished, living off the land and using these survival skills. I could’ve made us catch a fish for dinner, but thought that might’ve stretched things a little too far for a first outing!’

  Quasi lay down beside me, with his head in my lap, as I continued to marvel at Dylan. He was using a small rasping tool now, to shape it further and give it a smooth finish.

  ‘What was Seraphina like?’

  Dylan carried on with his work and didn’t look like he was about to answer.

  ‘I’m sorry. If it’s too painful, don’t worry.’

  ‘Of course it’s painful!’ He dropped the rasp on the ground and climbed to his fe
et. He filled a bucket from the lake and threw the water over the fire. He watched to ensure the embers were properly extinguished, before retreating into the woods.

  I stood and spent time aimlessly skimming peddles across the water. Eventually, I followed Dylan back to the camp.

  I expected him still to be angry, but he allowed me to snuggle up close. I fell asleep almost immediately. It was the first night I’d spent together with Dylan without us making love. But there was poignancy in the closeness we achieved that night, heightened by a sense of communing with nature.

  We awoke early to a chilly morning and hurriedly packed up the camp. We put on warmer clothes and huddled against a rock, eating cereal. He took out a camping stove this time to brew some tea, boiling two eggs with the same water.

  The cold stiffened my joints and made my movements slow. But Dylan jostled me along, wanting to make an early start. Soon we were in the canoe and heading back. But Dylan added interest by following the eastern shore for our return leg.

  We had been confined to small talk for much of the journey until I suddenly said: ‘Sorry if I upset you last night.’

  ‘It’s OK. The harm dates from years back. It’s nothing you’ve done.’

  This reassured me. ‘What was she like, then?’ I said, continuing to paddle, glad my back was to him, so he couldn’t see the air of expectation on my face.

  ‘Sera was very aloof. Her intellectual abilities put her far ahead of her peers and she felt alienated from them, as they did from her. She was just as arrogant in the early years with me, too. And she had another boyfriend at that time….Some older, more mature guy from Keswick. Fancied himself as a would-be man of letters. But Sera said all he wrote was puerile junk….Now, what was his name….Jason, Jacob, Jeremy….no, something beginning with “J” anyway….’

  John! I thought. His motivation for my mission was finally making sense.

  ‘But she dumped him eventually….And gradually, as I lost interest in Eric, the bond with Sera grew. Underneath her cold exterior, there was a passion burning. Ready for me to unleash it. Her accident first melted the facade. She clung to me desperately after that.’