The River Home : A Novel (2020)

by Richell, Hannah

  Smoke cleared, feathers swept, entrails removed, order restored, the journalist arrived promptly an hour later. She had been sent by a leading women’s magazine to write an exclusive ‘at home’ pre-publication feature on Kit before her book – the highly anticipated fifth volume in the Rare Elements series – was released that autumn.

  The girls had been asked to stay out of the way, to entertain themselves in the garden or stay up in their rooms, but Eve couldn’t resist. She sat halfway up the stairs chewing her nails, her head pressed against the wooden balustrade, her gaze fixed on the view through the open door into the living room below, where her parents perched side-by-side on the green velvet sofa.

  Her mother was straight-backed, her knees pressed together and, thankfully, she had taken Eve’s heavy hints and had both brushed her hair and changed into a dress – a proper one with buttons down the front and a belt at the waist, the fabric pulled taut over her thighs as the sunshine fell through the window onto her lap. Her father, in contrast, was one broad shoulder, a cord-clad leg, a brown shoe and a tanned hand resting lightly on her mother’s knee. The one brogue Eve could see tapped out an unheard rhythm on the worn rug. He sat beside her mother, half a man.

  The visitor had her back to the door. All Eve could see of her was the stiff sweep of her grey, feathered hair and the dramatic puffed sleeves of her silk shirt, the pussy bow tied at the side of her neck quivering like school blancmange whenever she bent to consult the notebook on her lap. A recording device sat whirring on the coffee table between them.

  ‘Well, this is lovely,’ said the journalist, looking around the living room. ‘It’s exactly how I imagined a writer’s home would be: intimate, cosy, inviting.’

  Eve smiled and congratulated herself for her foresight in dusting off the coffee table and arranging the freshly picked garden flowers in an earthenware jug.

  ‘I’m sure our readers would love to know how it felt,’ the woman continued, her voice high and nasal. ‘It must have been life-changing, receiving that phone call from your agent?’ Her head was angled towards her mother.

  Eve imagined the journalist’s ‘readers’ as an orderly army of quiet librarian types poring over issues of the magazine, the satisfying swish of pages flicking in unison.

  Kit smiled. ‘Do you remember, Ted? You sent the first rough draft to Max as a favour, thinking he might have a contact or two who would take a look at it for me. The last thing either of us expected was his phone call two weeks later. When he told me the news, I screamed and dropped the telephone.’

  Eve had heard this story before, but she always enjoyed reliving her mother’s excitement.

  Kit turned back to the journalist. ‘It was Ted who continued the call. I couldn’t take it in. A bidding war!’ Kit’s face wore the same look she had when standing by the Aga mindlessly stirring a pot, or when she sat at her desk, chewing aimlessly on a pencil. She might have been present in body, but in her head at that moment she was somewhere else.

  ‘We had nothing in the house to celebrate did we?’ Kit continued after a moment, turning back to Ted. ‘Certainly nothing as extravagant as champagne. We couldn’t afford the good stuff back then, could we?’ She nudged Ted with her leg and smiled again. ‘But you insisted.’

  Eve heard her father’s murmured assent.

  ‘Ted dashed to the local pub,’ Kit continued. ‘He forced them to open up and sell him a bottle of champagne!’

  The journalist was nodding enthusiastically. ‘A true Cinderella story, rags to riches, our readers love that sort of thing.’

  Her father let out a strange, strangled noise, but neither of the women appeared to notice. ‘I wouldn’t say rags,’ said Ted.

  ‘And I wouldn’t say riches,’ smiled her mother. ‘At least, not back then. The offer was beyond my wildest dreams, of course, but I don’t think any of us could have anticipated how popular the series would become. The first book, Eye of the Stone, was a slow build. It took several months before it appeared on the bestseller list. Then everything seemed to … snowball. Other countries came on board and I was commissioned to write the rest of the series. It was the readers, you see. They were the ones who took the story of Tora Ravenstone into their hearts and began to spread the word.’

  ‘And spread the word they did! You’ve written four international bestsellers and the fifth novel, The Quartz Heart, is scheduled this autumn?’

  Kit nodded. ‘There are to be seven in total. I know some critics have dismissed my books as racy potboilers, and readers probably wonder why I can’t churn them out more quickly, but you can’t rush inspiration. It takes as long as it takes. You have to follow the thread of your ideas, let it guide you. You have to bow to the Muse.’

  ‘Right,’ said the journalist, sounding a little baffled. ‘And presumably there is a fair amount of research for each book?’

  ‘Yes. I like to get the historical detail right, to make the characters and the world they inhabit feel as authentic as possible. We’re so lucky, living around here, close to fascinating historical sites like Stonehenge and Glastonbury. The landscape feels imbued with a certain kind of mysticism and magic. Can you feel it? It is inspiring.’

  The journalist tilted her head, then cleared her throat. ‘Um … yes … I think so. I’ve been researching what your fans particularly seem to respond to in your writing. It’s not only the historical detail, but also the way you write about the female condition, the experience of being a woman in a male-dominated world.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it true that you conceived the idea for the whole series while out walking with your baby daughter? You mentioned in one interview you had been wrestling with postnatal depression. Writing became a form of release for you? A way of saving yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I found early motherhood challenging. It involves such sacrifice, such a loss of self. The opening sequence in the first novel is something that came to me in a moment of extreme emotion and tiredness: what would compel someone to sacrifice a newborn child to a higher power? To leave a baby on a riverbank and walk away?’

  The journalist murmured. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It was through the writing that I began to feel like myself again. It was a surprise as I had never written anything before I started the first novel.’

  ‘You’ve written all of your books here, at Windfalls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a particular method? I know Stephen King, for example, always writes in the morning and won’t stop until he has written at least six pages every single day.’

  Kit nodded again. ‘It’s a silly superstition, I know, but I write each book the exact same way as I wrote that first one. There’s a potency of energy down by the river. It feeds my creativity. I write in my studio – an old apple store at the bottom of the garden. It’s nothing fancy, but it is comfortable and quiet. I write on an old Olivetti typewriter Ted gave me.’ She patted Ted’s knee. ‘It brings me comfort to follow the same method for each book.’

  ‘A typewriter!’ Eve saw the woman lean back in surprise. ‘How – how …’ She seemed to struggle for the right word.

  ‘Antiquated?’ Kit suggested and laughed. ‘Yes. Ted’s constantly haranguing me to update my methods. He’s trying to drag me to the dark side with endless talk of Apple Macs and USG sticks.’

  ‘USB,’ Ted muttered.

  ‘But I can’t be bothered with all that modern technology. I don’t trust it. I like to work on one typed hardcopy. It’s how I’ve always done it. Far simpler and easier for me to keep track of the story that way.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ There was a short silence as the journalist flicked through her notes. ‘It’s certainly a picturesque spot. Have you always lived round here?’

  ‘Since the late 1980s,’ said Ted.

  ‘It’s a lovely house, but like most old places, it’s in need of constant upkeep,’ continued Kit. ‘Truthfully, Windfalls would have fallen down around our ears by now if my readers hadn’t proved such loyal followers.’ Kit smiled. ‘I
’m grateful to them.’

  Eve noticed Ted’s foot fall still. There was a sudden shift in atmosphere, a sort of tightening, as if a door had been closed somewhere in the house, altering the air pressure or temperature with it. Eve leaned a little closer, the balustrade pressed hard against her cheek.

  ‘And how have your friends and family taken to your success? Is everyone thrilled for you? Have you encountered any …’ the journalist gave a light laugh, ‘personal or professional jealousy?’

  ‘Oh no. No jealousy. It helps that my partner is a writer. You understand what it takes, don’t you, darling?’

  Ted gave a grunt, which sounded like agreement, though Eve wasn’t entirely sure.

  ‘Readers have followed your flame-haired heroine, Tora Ravenstone, from her earliest, tragic beginnings where her family are brutally murdered and she herself narrowly escapes sacrifice by her tribe to the pagan gods, through to her rise as a skilled healer and warrior. Many reviewers have credited you for the strong feminist angle of your novels. You’ve been praised for empowering your heroine, giving her true agency. No doubt you have even bigger plans for Tora in the coming books?’

  Kit gave a light laugh. ‘I can’t give away my secrets, but I think it’s safe to say that readers have only seen the tip of the iceberg as to what Tora is capable of and what her future holds. Not even Tora understands, yet, her full power.’

  The journalist nodded. ‘I feel I should ask … some critics have taken … issue, shall we say, with the numerous and rather graphic sex scenes. One broadsheet reviewer called your books “gratuitous and titillating … well-thumbed bonkbusters for bored housewives.” Do you read your reviews? Do you mind such comments?’

  ‘I try not to read them. I find them distracting. My job is to write for my readers. Not the reviewers.’

  ‘Would you mind if your daughters read your books?’ The journalist had leaned forward in her seat. Eve too found herself craning forward a little, interested in her mother’s reply

  Kit shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s only sex. We humans have such a strange, uncomfortable relationship with our bodies and our desires. Shame is such a destructive emotion. I’m happy for my girls to read whatever they please, though I suppose Margot, our youngest, might want to wait a couple more years before she tackles Tora’s story.’ She laughed. ‘Truly, I’d be surprised if they had any interest whatsoever in my career. To them, my job seems terribly dull.’

  No, thought Eve. No interest whatsoever. She’d got halfway through the first book a few years back before throwing it across the room. As a blossoming teenager, it had been far too horrifying to read sex scenes that had been dreamed up in her mother’s head. It was bad enough to know all her friends were reading them.

  ‘Your daughters aren’t impressed by your career?’ the journalist pressed.

  ‘Oh no. My daughters think my job is awfully boring. I sit alone in my studio every day. I spend too much time in my own head. It’s hardly glamorous. Margot told me the other day she’d much prefer it if I were a vet, or a shopkeeper, like her friends’ parents. Puppies and free sweets are far more exciting than bestseller listings, when you’re eleven.’

  The journalist laughed then turned her head, casting her attention for the first time in Ted’s direction. ‘And you, Ted, how about you?’ she asked. Eve could hear the woman’s smile, rather than see it. ‘Do you mind the erotic nature of your wife’s work?’

  Eve heard her father clear his throat. ‘It’s not for me to say. Kit must write whatever she pleases. That’s the way creativity works.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I suppose you would understand that better than most, being a writer yourself? You enjoyed a little success yourself, back in the day?’

  Eve noticed her father’s hand close over her mother’s knee, the knuckles whitening to bone. ‘A little, yes,’ he said tightly. ‘Though these days you’ll find me caring for the girls and running the house. I’m Kit’s chief enabler.’

  Kit took his hand in hers, lifting it and giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘He’s being modest. Ted is the real writer,’ she said. ‘He’s a brilliant playwright. I’m sure you remember Lost Words?’

  Kit paused but the journalist remained silent so she continued, ‘It ran for several seasons in the West End and then toured around the country. There was even talk of taking it to Broadway but, well …’ She trailed off. ‘This was a few years back. You’re writing again, aren’t you, darling. Another play.’ Ted remained silent so Kit turned back to the journalist with a forced smile. ‘He’s being secretive, but I know that it’s going to be brilliant.’

  The journalist nodded. ‘Terrific,’ she said, but Margot wondered if she was the only one to notice that the scratchy sound of the pencil moving across her notepad had fallen silent. ‘Do your daughters show signs of following in your footsteps? Any young writers blossoming here under your roof?’

  Kit looked thoughtful. Eve leaned closer to the banister. ‘Eve, our eldest, is far too practical. She has her head screwed on. She mothers us all.’ Eve couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Kit made her sound so … so dull. ‘And I doubt Lucy, our middle child, would manage it. She can’t sit still for more than a few minutes. She’s a free spirit, far too physical for the discipline writing requires. And then there’s Margot. I’m not sure about her. She has the imagination, I think, but she’s showing quite the dramatic flare. I think she might like to be an actress. It’s fun, isn’t it,’ she added, smiling at the journalist, ‘imagining where life might take them. Though, of course, those are stories they will create for themselves, in time.’

  ‘They’re wonderful girls,’ said Ted, speaking up. ‘We’re proud of them all.’

  The journalist closed her notebook and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward to switch off the cassette player. ‘Terrific. I think I’ve got what I need. It’s going to be a lovely feature. It will run in our September issue. I’ll make sure your publicist gets copies.’

  Eve, caught out by the conclusion of the interview, shuffled a few steps backwards up the staircase, careful to duck out of view as Kit ushered the journalist from the room and said goodbye at the front door. She heard Ted’s loud exhalation of air and the creaking springs of the old sofa before Kit returned to him in the living room.

  ‘Thank God that’s over. I’m telling you, Kit, that’s the last time I’m doing one of these interviews. “You enjoyed a little success yourself, back in the day?”’ he mimicked in a high voice.

  ‘I think you’re being oversensitive, Ted. She was interested.’

  ‘Interested?’ He let out a harsh laugh. ‘Do you have any idea how it feels to sit there like a ruddy fifth wheel while journalists gush over your work? I may as well have been invisible. I may as well have been banished to the garden with the girls.’

  ‘That’s why I told her about the play, and about your new writing.’

  ‘Throwing me a bone, were you? Spare me your handouts, Kit.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A petulant child.’

  Ted let out a groan. ‘And all that rot about the house falling down around our ears.’

  ‘I was spinning a story for her, Ted. That’s what writers do.’

  Eve, still hidden on the stairs, held her breath as Kit continued, her voice more conciliatory. ‘It’s publicity, silly hoops I have to jump through. We should be grateful for it. The more books I sell, the less financial pressure on us as a family. I’m envious of you. I’m tied into this blasted contract. Tora bloody Ravenstone is going to be with me for years yet. You are free to write whatever you like, or not.’

  Ted didn’t answer.

  Kit sighed. ‘Perhaps it’s time to think about the life you want to lead, Ted. Perhaps it’s time for a little honesty.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s been years, Ted, years that you’ve been putting yourself under this pressure to write. Haven’t you ever wondered if you might be h
appier if you found something else to do? Perhaps if you diverted yourself into something unrelated the words would come again.’

  ‘Write a few shoddy bestsellers and you are the font of all wisdom on the creative process? Is that it? I can’t bash out any old nonsense. I want my work to mean something.’

  A long pause followed. ‘And what would have happened to us, to this family, if I hadn’t written my “shoddy bestsellers”? Tell me that?’

  ‘Christ, Kit, can you hear yourself?’

  ‘You can blame me. You can blame everyone else. Haven’t you noticed Ted, the one person you can never seem to blame is yourself – the only person who can change this situation. You’re the only one who can write your plays.’

  Kit swept out of the living room and Eve waited a minute, checking the coast was clear, before skulking back down the stairs and slipping out into the garden.

  The picnic blanket lay empty on the lawn in front of the house, a chess set abandoned mid-game. Listening, Eve could hear her sisters’ laughter coming from the orchard. She followed the sound to the little clearing by the stream where it pooled beneath a twisted apple tree before flowing away down the hillside towards the river. With the sun behind them, her sisters were silhouettes, midges darting in the air around them like flecks of gold. She couldn’t see what they were doing until she drew closer and saw the penknife flashing in Lucy’s hand. ‘Ta-dah!’ she said, stepping back to show Eve their handiwork.