Writer's Block, A Ghost Story.... Chapter Three

Chapter I

Chapter II

III

Up and Over

     Two hours later, Albert stood at his upstairs window and watched Gwendolyn negotiate the puddles along the pavement outside as she made her way to the waiting taxi.  It had been an enjoyable lunch but he was weary of steering the conversation to subjects that had nothing to do with her writing.  He did it well, it was true.  It was his go-to trick in any ticklish situation; keep the flow of conversation twisting and turning like a rushing river, all the while carefully avoiding the obstacles lurking just beneath the surface.  It had served him admirably for years and he had no guilt whatsoever about employing it whenever needed.  Besides, in this situation he was certain his plan to get Gwendolyn writing again was pure genius.  Once she got out to the island all would be resolved.  His plan was flawless.  It was carefully crafted; he had thought of everything and hired the very best, at no small expense to himself.  Now all he had to do was sit back and wait for the results.  He was cognizant of the fact her interest in her lucrative genre was waning, but he’d negotiated a substantial advance for this next book, an advance that had, for his part, mostly been spent, and he was in no mind to deal with the consequences of a default.  Nothing less than death would release Millicent Penfield from this contract.  Let her finish this book and they’d discuss a break later.  Perhaps.  If he was right, it could very well be that dear Millicent would return from her stay at Greyrocks with a quiver full of new ideas, ideas that just might keep them both in clover for many more years to come.  Of course, if it went wrong, Gwendolyn Sharp might never speak to him again.  But when was he ever wrong?

     Mrs. Dunn entered the room behind him and began to clear away the detritus of the elaborate lunch.  “She took the tickets then?”, she asked.  He could feel her frowning, her rapier gaze burning onto his back.

“Yes, Caroline.  It’s all set.  I know you don’t approve, but it’ll work.  Just wait and see.  Just trust me, won’t you?”

     “I do not approve of your methods, Mr. Pepperidge.”  The glasses rattled as she placed them rather roughly on a tray and turned to leave. 

    Albert folded his arms across his belly in a protective stance and continued staring out the window, not wanting to meet her confrontational eyes.  “Trust me”, he whispered, almost to himself.  “Just trust me.”

***

Whether from wine or weariness, Gwendolyn slept like a baby that night.  Her initial reticence over Albert’s offer - or was it a demand? - that she get away to his place up north had softened and she found herself rather looking forward to it.  Between glances at the photo of the house on the train ride back she’d convinced herself it was just what she needed.  And as she got closer and closer to home, the sun got brighter and the traffic got heavier so by the time she pulled up to her cottage on the hillside, she was practically giddy at the thought of getting away.  She’d get this last book written, it’d make her a packet, and then she could settle down to write only what she wanted for the rest of her days.  All in all, a good plan.  Good old Albert, he always came through for her. 

     So 8:00 that morning found her standing on the platform at St. Ives Station waiting on the train.   It was a twelve hour journey with three changes, but she didn’t mind.  She loved to travel by train.  She’d brought along her knitting, a bit fat book on Elizabethan textiles, the latest copy of the LRB, a thermos of Darjeeling and a flask of Glenmorangie.  She was set. 

     Jostled by another incoming trainload of tourists, she made her way down the platform to her train.  She found an empty seat by a window in the quiet car, and put on her sunglasses, waiting for the doors to close and her adventure to begin.

***

     As the miles stretched further and further away from home, Gwendolyn found the ever-changing scene outside her window such a distraction that eventually, having read the same sentence over four times without retention, she closed her book to watch.  The view, like a moving painting of greens and golds, altered and revised by an unseen artist with every hour that passed - its color palette deepening, its light darkening -  signaled a distinct shift from the usual.  She felt a bit nervous.  She’d always preferred careful plotting and planning to spontaneity or caprice.  This journey was unlike her, she knew.  She didn’t even know the name of the island to which she was heading.  But as Albert had said, and he knew her better than almost anyone, she needed to shake things up a bit if she was to climb out of the writing rut she was in and for this last book - and it was the last, whether he knew it or not - she was willing to try just about anything to get it done and bid farewell once and for all to the profitable but pestering Millicent Penfield.  

     The windows were black and slashed with horizontal lines of silver when the train glided into its final stop. The last passenger left, Gwendolyn pressed her forehead to the cold glass, trying to get a better look outside through the pouring rain.  One tiny station sat crouched against a lacy iron fence which appeared to be the only fragile bulwark preventing it from blowing off the hillside and into the sea.  The wind sounded alive.  She swallowed hard, picked up her bags and pulled the hood of her coat up tight.

     Her bags nearly blew out of her hands when the door to the train opened.  The wind took her breath away and blew the rain straight into her face.  Squinting through the darkness she saw a pair of car lights flash once in the distance and began to head in that direction, head down.  Over the wail of the wind she heard a car door slam and saw the shadow of an approaching figure, bent double against the force of the wind.  

     “Miss Penfield?”.  The voice sounded far away even though only ten feet separated them.  

“No I’m.. I mean, um… yes!”, she bellowed back.  So this was part of Albert’s strategy, was it?  Gwendolyn Sharp was still back at her sunny cottage and she was to be Millicent Penfield whilst here.  Some sort of psychological trick to get her in the proper mindset for the new book.  A few seconds irritation, then she decided to play along.  What could it hurt?

     The man reached her and bent for her cases.  “You must be Henry”, she said.

   “Aye, that I am, Miss.  Car’s over here.  We need to step it up or we won’t make it across tonight.  Weather’s getting worse.”

Gwendolyn followed close behind him as they fought the wind to a battered truck sitting alone in the car park.  “You can’t mean we’re crossing the water in this?”, she yelled.  No answer from Henry.  

     He threw her cases in the front seat and motioned for her to climb in beside them.  It was a tight squeeze but she managed it.  The wind was muffled by the closing of the doors but its effects could still clearly be seen in the trees bending sideways by the road leading away from the station.

     “Seriously, I’m grateful for your assistance, Henry.  But I really don’t think we should be on the water in this, do you?”

     “Well, it ain’t ideal, I’ll give you that.”   His hands, ungloved and weathered,  shifted gears and the truck complained with a lurch.  “But we can still make it over if we leave now.  I’ve seen it worse believe me.  And it’ll be worse tomorrow by the looks of things.”

Gwendolyn stared up through the rain-soaked window and sincerely doubted his judgment.  “Worse?”, she asked.  “You mean this isn’t as bad as it gets?” 

     Henry barked out a laugh.  “Oh, nae, lass.  It can always get worse.”

    The truck bounced and rolled down the narrow roadway in the dark, then took a sharp left.  She could tell without sight they were nearing the sea, its presence could be felt in the blackness outside her window as strongly as if she were sitting on a beach in the sun and she felt the usual frission of excitement that visited her every time she was near it.  

    “Here we go.”  Henry turned sharply and stopped.  In the beam of the headlights she could just make out a small boat swaying and bobbing against the rope holding it tightly to a wooden dock.  Gwendolyn swallowed hard.

When she was little her father had once taken her out in a boat.  She remembered the way the sun had felt on her shoulders as he pushed off from the shore.   It had been a still day, cloudless and mild, and the sea had been glass-like, with nary a wave nor a ripple.  But the soft sway of the boat had made her sicker than she’d ever been in her young life.  By the time they returned she was positively green.  Since that day, no one had since been successful in persuading her to climb aboard a sea-going vessel.

But this trip was different.  The waves were so high and the wind so strong that the journey over to the island had much more in common with a ride at a fun fair than a sailing.  Too terrified for sickness, she sat huddled beneath a blue tarp in the minuscule cabin as the boat climbed and plunged over hill-high waves, certain this was to be her last night on earth. 

  

***

     Exhaustion was descending on Gwendolyn like two strong hands pushing her into the car Henry had waiting at the dock on the island.  The journey over had taken much longer than she’d expected, an indication they were much further away from the mainland than Albert had led her to believe.  The blackness of the stormy night was like heavy theatre curtains closed to the scene playing out just beyond her car windows so she shut her eyes and rested her head against the coolness of the glass.  

    “So then, how long you’re to be stayin’ at the old house?”  Henry’s voice, finally audible in the relative quiet of the car, brought her back from her dozing.

   “Around two or three weeks, I think.”  Gwendolyn realized she wasn’t precisely certain of her departure date.  “I’m working on a book and I guess I’ll be leaving when I’ve figured it out.”

   “Oh, so you’re a writer then are you?  Mr. Pepperidge didn’t say.  Well, I hope you like solitude.  Ain’t nobody lived on this island for over ten years.”

  “But Mr. Pepperidge visits occasionally, surely.”  Gwendolyn was sure she remembered Albert mentioning this.

     “Mr. Pepperidge?  Why, lass, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like if you paid me.  Never set eyes on the man.  He just hires me to look after the place, like his old man used to hire my father for the same job.  He’s had a crew over this past month, getting everything all set up for you, though.”  He had seen the worried look creeping across Gwendolyn’s tired face.  “It’s more than comfortable now.  Nothing to concern yourself with about that.  Even got fresh flowers sent over.  Place is full of them.  Can’t even think what that must’ve cost ‘im. ”

     “Why has it been unoccupied for so long?”, Gwendolyn asked.

    “Oh, you know.  People talk, I guess.  There’s some still around who say it’s haunted.  All rubbish, of course, but some of the old people still believe in that sort of thing.  Celtic mysticism still lurking in the corners of some minds.  But nothing to concern yourself about.  Nothing at all.  It’s just a lonely old house that nobody’s wanted to live in for years. Too far away.  Too quiet.  Too hard to get here.  You know how it is.  Nothing to concern yourself with.”

     Gwendolyn realized he’d said this last sentence three times and began to be a bit concerned.  What exactly had Albert set her up for?

     The road began to narrow into a drive that curved sharply to the right.  They bumped along the ruts, splashing into tire-deep holes and attempting, but not always succeeding, to avoid the rocks that had fallen in their way.  Then, rising up ahead of her she saw the grey stone plinths from the picture, each topped with a carved boar, larger than life-sized and winged.  Glancing up at them as they passed, Gwendolyn wondered what their  presence was intended to convey.  Whatever it was, welcome was not it.

     Henry stopped the car.  With no competition from the motor, the wind seemed more full-throated than ever.  It was unsettling to know the house was sitting right in front of her but she couldn’t actually see it in the darkness and the rain.  She followed close on Henry’s heels as he carried her cases to the door and waited behind him in the stone covered portico as he fumbled for the keys.  The dark door was twice his height and opened with a tired, low squeak, an inhospitable complaint that rose from unfamiliarity with the practice.  A low light was burning on a small round table nestled beneath a staircase that rose from the entry hall into the blackness of the upper floor.  The flagged floor, now dotted with dark grey dots of rain falling from their coats, was covered here and there with an assortment of old, and from what Gwendolyn could make out, rather fine, rugs.  

    “I’ll just carry your bags upstairs, shall I?”

   “Oh no, Henry.  I can do that later.  You better get back to the boat or you’ll never make it back over.”  The weather, far from getting better, seemed to be getting worse and, by the haste Henry displayed in retreat, she knew he thought so as well.  

   Thanking him profusely after he’d flatly refused payment for his service, she stood at the door and waved him goodbye.  He told her to check with Albert if she needed anything.  “Phone service is pretty unreliable with me, you’ll have more luck getting hold of him.  If you need anything, just let ‘im know and he’ll find me.  Good luck with your book, Miss Penfield.”  

Gwendolyn pushed the door closed against the wind and stood for a moment with her back resting against it.  She was so tired.  She had no idea what time it was but knew it had to be the middle of the night.  Looking over at her two cases sitting expectantly at the bottom of the stairs she realized she had neither strength nor interest left for getting them to their destination or even for the exploration she’d planned upon arrival.  Off to her left she could see a room painted with the grey and navy shadows of night and turned that way.   Books lined three walls and encircled a large stone fireplace that rose to the ceiling.  On the other wall two tall windows provided an excellent view of the storm outside; the horizontal rain, the tree-folding wind.  There were two downy sofas draped with cashmere throws facing each another in front of the fireplace and it was onto one of these she fell, curling up in a ball and falling immediately, deeply, to sleep. 

***

     Earlier that evening, back on Cadogan Gardens, Caroline Dunn picked up the phone and dialed the number she’d found in the top drawer of Albert Pepperidge’s desk.  A wave of relief washed over her when she heard the familiar delay that signaled a recording device.  This would be easier.  She steadied her voice to its most authoritarian timbre and spoke, “Good evening.  This is the office of Albert Pepperidge.  Mr. Pepperidge has asked me to inform you that he will no longer be requiring your services on Greyrocks Island.  He appreciates your time and is sending full payment for all your trouble in tomorrow’s post.  Thank you.”

     Mrs. Dunn replaced the receiver, turned off the light in the office and left the building, a tiny defiant smile on her face.

Writer's Block, A Ghost Story - Chapter Two

Chapter I

II 

The Offer of Mr. Pepperidge

       The salubrious weather ebbed away the closer Gwendolyn got to the city, blue skies turning slowly to grey, and by the time her taxi turned into Cadogan Gardens and pulled up in front of the offices of Albert T. Pepperidge, Esq., a light rain was falling.  She threw her shawl over her head and walked briskly along the pavement towards the grand old house where Albert had his offices and where, unbeknownst to all but his most intimate clients, of which she was one, he lived in rather lavish splendor upstairs, splendor that more than equaled the tiny glimpse provided in the offices below.  In normal circumstances, Gwendolyn adored a visit to Albert’s offices for it afforded an entrance into another world, a world more gracious, more beautiful, and more exotic than any other in her experience.  To close the door behind you was to become part of an altogether different, and to her, and altogether enjoyable, reality.  Roses and lilies competed for prominence here; they crowded into Lalique vases on polished tables, perfuming the air with a fragrance that, when mingled with woodsmoke from the fireplaces, was insanely heady.  Colours, patterns, textures all coalesced in an exotic melange that perfectly illustrated Albert’s peregrine life:  saris from India were draped over tables, tweeds from the Outer Hebrides covered cushions and chairs, Italian tapestries hung like old master paintings on the glistening walls.  She loved it here.  In normal circumstances.  In normal circumstances they would be celebrating the completion of her new manuscript, or the best-selling status of another.  In normal circumstances, she would be invited up to his rooms for a elaborate lunch, regaled with stories of his latest travels, and sent home with bottles of wine so rare they were impossible to open without a celebratory cause.  But today was not a normal circumstance.

     Ringing the bell, Gwendolyn stood on the top step listening for the tap-tap-tap of the sensible shoes of Mrs. Dunn, Albert’s starched and ever-present housekeeper and guard.  She felt a little like a child called to the headmaster’s office with the evidence of stolen chocolates all over her face.  She had to shake this feeling or she’d never say what she’d come to say.  She’d never be able to admit she was tired of her insanely popular novels.  She’d never say she longed again for the hours of research required for her historical works.  She’d never say that what she really wanted to write was a biography of the Princess Louise.  An accomplished artist, an early feminist and extraordinary sculptor, hers was a life Gwendolyn longed to explore and illuminate.  With that thought in mind  she squared her shoulders as the heavy, carved door creaked open.

     “Good morning, Mrs. Dunn”, she said, determined to be the one to speak first.  “It’s so good to see your friendly face on such a dreary day”.

   Mrs. Dunn smiled slightly and stood aside to allow her entrance.  “How are you, Gwendolyn?”, she asked.  “We haven’t seen you in quite a while. You’re looking well.” 

    Both women knew that “haven’t seen you in quite a while” was a remark that meant more that the sum of its words, but Gwendolyn let it pass apparently unnoticed and followed Mrs. Dunn to the sitting room.  

     “I’ll get you some tea.  Darjeeling, if my memory serves?”

   “Yes, thank you.”  Rather than plopping as usual in her favorite overstuffed chair, Gwendolyn chose to sit in the hardest, straightest, most uncomfortable- looking one in the room.  Mrs. Dunn brought in the tea tray, sitting it down on the table in front of her.  “There’s some chocolate biscuits, your favourite I think.  Just baked them this morning.  Help yourself.  I’ll tell Albert you’re here”.

Gwendolyn knew this was disingenuous.  Albert knew she was there.  Without one doubt he’d been upstairs watching from his ruby velvet curtained windows as she’d walked up the pavement.  But she just smiled at Mrs. Dunn and obediently picked up a biscuit.  

Footsteps on the stairs made her sit up even straighter than her chair demanded.  A smell of peppermint and leather entered the room a millisecond before he did.  “Hello old girl”, said Albert.  He waddled across the room and planted a kiss on her cheek before she could respond. He always moved faster than one would expect him to given his rounded physique and, as was his habit, he gathered up the reins of the conversation and they were off at a gallop with no chance of an comment from her corner, Albert pacing back and forth behind his highly polished desk.

    “Alright, let’s get to it.  I know you well enough to know something’s going on.  Can’t write, can you?  Yes, yes, don’t try to deny it.  Those ugly blue circles under those green eyes give you away.  I’ve seen it before, you know. Comes on as suddenly as if someone turned off the tap to an ever-flowing faucet, am I right?  You don’t know what to do.  You're embarrassed by your lack of ideas.  Afraid you’re finished for good.  Don’t know what to tell your dear old agent.  So you simply pretend he doesn’t exist.  Am I right?  Well am I?”

    Gwendolyn was suddenly regretting her stiff red suit and rather longed to be wearing something a bit more like pajamas.  She nodded at Albert and took a bite of the chocolate biscuit.  Several brown crumbs dotted her ebony shawl.

    “Well, I’ll save the scolding for another day.  Suffice it to say, Gwennie, I did rather think we were close enough for you to confide your troubles to old Albert, but no matter, no matter.  No, no… don’t say anything yet.  I can barely get through all the letters to Miranda, each one squealing for her next effort! We’ve got a book to turn in and we need to get to it.”   Gwendolyn, bristling at the “we” of this sentence, began to protest but stopped at Albert’s raised hand.  “No, no, now listen to me.  As usual, I’ve got the perfect solution even without all the details of the problem.  Here, take this.”

    He sat down hard in his leather chair, shoved a parchment coloured folder across the desk towards her and leaned back with a satisfied look on his face.  “Well, open it, open it.  Lunch is waiting upstairs and we don’t want it to get cold.”

     She smiled up at him, grateful though wary, and reached over to take the folder.  Inside was a brochure of sorts, old, a bit torn, with a photograph of a house on its cover.  Across the top was the word, “Greyrocks”.  The photograph was faded to the point of sepia and featured what appeared to be an old manor house made of stone, two stories tall, with wide diamond-paned windows across the front and a gathering of large, rather wind-deformed trees on either side.  Two stone boars, massive and grey, stood on plinths in the foreground and there were large rocks at the back of the picture, seemingly stacked in heaps on either side of the house. It was hard to tell for certain, but it looked like the house sat above a blackly turbulent sea.

    “It’s yours, old girl.  For as long as you need it.  Right up your alley, I’d say.  Been in the family for eons.  I never use it.  Not fond of the grey mist and all that wind.  But I know you are, aren’t you?  Right up your street!  Been way to sunny for you lately way down there in your little cove.  Too many tourists?  Am I right?  Well, this is the ticket, just the ticket.  I can tell you it’s rarely sunny at Greyrocks.  No, sir.  Rarely sunny.  Remember it from when I was little.”

    Gwendolyn started to protest.   Albert shook his head vigorously and said, “I won’t hear a refusal, Gwennie. This is a necessary change and you know it.  You’ll have every thing you need.  You won’t want for anything, I assure you. I’ve already had the kitchen fully stocked.  There’s fresh linens on your bed.  Fires are already laid and there’s plenty of wood stacked by the door.  Don’t concern yourself with the way it looks in the photo.  No one’s lived there for years, it’s true, but I make sure it’s carefully tended.  You know me, can’t let a house down!  Your train tickets are in there, you leave day after tomorrow.  I guarantee you’ll love it.  I’ve arranged for Henry, that’s the caretaker, to meet you and take you over.”

     “Take me over?  Where is this place, Albert?

    “Oh, up and over, you know, up and over.  North and west.  Can only get there by boat, old girl.  True privacy.   Just jumpers and jeans.  Good shoes and a hat.  All you’ll need.  Don’t look at me like that, Gwennie.  I’m telling you, you are going to love it.  Millicent Penfield will meet that already once extended deadline yet!  Ha!  Yes, ma’am.  You’ll see.  Now let’s go have some lunch!  Mrs. Dunn!!!  Mrs. Dunn!! We’re heading upstairs.  Pour the wine!”

Writer's Block..... A Ghost Story

This year's ghost story.  Hope you enjoy.

A chapter every night at midnight, till Halloween.

xx

Writer’s Block

I

The Perils of Sunshine    

    Gwendolyn sat on the edge of her bed squinting in the face of an unwelcome ray of sunlight that sliced through her half-closed curtains like a knife through butter, the herald of another sunny day.  Gwendolyn was tired of the sun.  All summer long it had shone as brightly as a Caribbean brochure, enticing hoards of pale-faced, lane-clogging tourists down from the city to lie on the sands of her usually deserted cove like corpulent seals.  Since June they had disturbed her peace with their snow-cone wrappers, blaring noise (she refused to think of it as music) and children.  So many children.  Though it was now nearing the end of October, this rare, sunlit summer gave no hint of abating and Gwendolyn Sharp was getting desperate.  How could she write in this situation?

     She’d never intended to be a writer of ghost stories.  She’d only written The Edge of the Lane as a lark, a bit of diversion from the weighty historical tomes she’d written for a decade.  Admired by critics and a shallow pool of of dust-covered academia elite, these books were never going to shake the world.  But they paid the bills, of which she had few, being, as she was, a woman of few wants.  Also, resting quietly alongside the brainless blather of best-sellers  that otherwise crowded her publisher’s catalog, her fastidiously researched books garnered some much desired respect for that publisher and therefore ensured their consistent, though rather tepid, enthusiasm each time she picked up her pen to write another.   

     But then, one particularly wet and windy winter when she was between books, she’d written a spine-tingler.  Just for her own amusement.  It had been an enjoyable exercise, a diversion from weightier pursuits.  Looking back she could remember precisely when it had happened, the very moment when her life had turned like an owl’s head in a completely different direction.   It had been Christmas, twenty years earlier.  She’d invited her agent, Albert, to a holiday dinner and over dessert had told him of her diverting foray into the supernatural.  She remembered laughing at the absurdity of it and gradually noticing the hungry look of interest that had flared in his beady, brown eye.  “Let me see it”, he’d demanded when he’d polished off his third helping of trifle.    She’d refused at first, but flushed with the good spirits of the season, she’d gone to her desk and handed it over.  Albert had disappeared to her library, lit the fire in the grate, cracked the window to listen to the pouring rain pound against the sea, and began to read with the manuscript resting atop his capacious, waist-coated belly.  Emerging hours later, he’d held the manuscript aloft and bellowed, “You’ve done it, Gwennie!  You’ve actually done it, old girl!”  

    With the intention of preserving her hard-earned integrity, she’d insisted he shop the thriller under a pseudonym -  a prescient move on her part that had saved her untold irritation these past two decades - and watched, utterly gobsmacked - as the book rose like a pea vine up the best seller list, quickly stretching its tendrils to every corner of the globe.  As could only be expected, Albert soon insisted she write another.  She would have protested of course, had it not been for the rather astronomical recompense brought to her door by a bonafide best-seller.  She’d never known such riches.  She’d gotten a new roof, a new car and new central heating.  She’d visited Nepal, Peru and Prague.  And, as soon became apparent, she had herself a brand-new career, or rather, Millicent Penfield had a brand-new career, for that was the name under which Gwendolyn wrote these commercial sensations.  It was to Millicent besotted fans wrote their letters pleading for autographs and signed photos, not her.  It was for Millicent readers searched, scouring the novels for clues to the woman who composed them.   Millicent turned down every offer for interviews, photographs or public appearances, a move which, as Albert knew it would, only increased the fascination of her ravenous public.  Of course it was Albert who answered every fan letter, turned down every request, and who, with enthusiastic delight, managed to fashion a fully-formed persona, albeit an eccentric one, out of what was, in fact, a phantom.  Albert Pepperidge had made Millicent Penfield the queen of the supernatural thriller and was quite proud to have done so, while Gwendolyn Sharp remained happily, and firmly, grounded in the here and now. 

     At first it had been so deliciously easy.  She’d employed all the usual tricks:  the old mansion, the shifty-eyed caretaker, the dark and stormy night.  Then she’d ventured out a bit.  Animals that could talk, paintings that came alive, shape-shifters, chimeras - the possibilities had seemed endless.  But earlier this year, quite suddenly and without warning, they did end.  She hadn’t entertained a single idea in over seven months that hadn’t seem overused, trite, or frankly ridiculous.  And this blue-skied, sunlit, unending summer - so applauded by the masses - had certainly not helped matters one bit.  Without access to her once secluded, usually rainy, cove how could she work out her plots and pacing?  Happy families had been tucked into every corner of her valued privacy for months, all lured here by this brightly irritating weather.   How could she be expected to turn out a dark story on a sunny day?  Her book was way overdue, she hadn’t one solitary promising idea, and now she’d been summoned to Albert’s office for a face to face meeting about the situation.  It was all such a bother.  Millicent Penfield, once so benevolent, so prolific, had gradually transformed into a nagging, irritating, harpy and Gwendolyn now feared she rather hated her.

She stood up, took a deep breath,  crossed the room and firmly closed the sun-welcoming curtain with a jerk.  She stretched.  The thought of breakfast made her queasy, so she headed straight for a hot shower and then, standing in front of her closet, she decided to wear red.  A blood-red suit that would clash dramatically with her red hair to create an effect that she knew from experience was a bit intimidating.  Though she seriously doubted it would wield the slightest power over Albert.  He was rather impervious to intimidation.  But as she was leaving, an assessment of  her reflection in the entry hall mirror proved satisfactory.  She practiced a smile.  A nonchalant toss of the head.  Not bad, as long as no one noticed the faint blue colour underneath her eyes, two brush strokes of betrayal that would surely, if seen, let Albert know she wasn’t sleeping.  He knew, and she knew he knew, she always slept well when she was writing well.  She grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses and threw an ebony shawl over her shoulder and left, slamming the heavy door behind her.  The glass was still rattling as she crawled inside her green Rover and pointed its nose down the coast road to the train station five miles away.

***

A Decent Man

A Decent Man

My father loved westerns.  Most men of his generation seemed to.  Save for a two week holiday at the beach - the same beach - each and every summer, his life revolved exclusively around Mother, me and work, but every week or so, with us in tow, he would head off to the theatre to watch John Wayne ride through the Black Hills of the Dakotas on horseback.  On the screen was a strange landscape, treeless, with oddly jagged mountains so unlike their soft, green cousins of which we were familiar.  There was danger here as well: rattlesnakes, scorpions, rather frightening Indians.  A man could ride out in the desert in the morning and die of thirst, or worse, by noontime.   And through it all, Mr. Wayne and his compatriots rode tall in the saddle, unafraid and always victorious in whatever mission had been handed them. 

Though I accompanied Daddy to the theatre each time he went, I rarely watched the movie. The theatre we frequented most often was historic and beautiful with mysterious, Moorish hallways and lavishly decorated bathrooms that I loved to explore so all too often I was out of my seat whilst the action unfolded on the screen.  But occasionally we went to other theatres, ones more pedestrian in style with little to interest a child’s imagination.  On those occasions I would usually sit and watch the movie, albeit with mere cursory intent.  

It was one of those nights at one of those duller theatres that I remember very well, not for the film nor the actors but for something else entirely.  Lost, as usual, in the tall weeds of my own thoughts, I was only fractionally aware of the voices on the screen when suddenly, without the slightest warning, Daddy stood up, took my hand and announced to my Mother that we were leaving.  Together we marched up the carpeted aisle in his wake, me scurrying to keep up and thoroughly confused.

Back outside in the night as we quick-stepped to the car, I whispered to my Mother… “What happened?”  

“That man in the movie said something bad”, she whispered back.

I found out later, after hounding my mother relentlessly for the answer, one of the actors had called another the son of a female dog.  My father, outraged that language such as this was uttered in front of his daughter and wife,  simply got us out of there as fast as he could.    He was hardly as sheltered man.  He’d served on warships in the Pacific during WWII.  His ears had heard worse, much worse, I have no doubt.  But he cared about us as women, he respected us enough to want to hold us above such language and ugliness.

I have thought about Daddy a lot over the past few weeks. Though I miss him every day, I cannot help but be grateful he isn’t here to witness how low, how far down, we’ve been driven by this current presidential campaign.  For those who were raised as I was, by a loving, dignified and decent man who held women in high esteem, the words and behaviour of this man running for the highest office in our land have been repugnant and, for me, outrage and shock have all too often given over to depression and despair.  

None of us has the luxury of being sheltered these days. We hear worse language than my father tried to keep from me in the supermarket.  Certainly, it clogs our airwaves like sludge.  But this is different.  The office of the President of the United States is different.  When parents are afraid to let their children listen to the presidential debates because they don’t trust what this man is going to say, something is different.  Something is seriously, sadly, wrong.

The polls say this man cannot win.  I pray they are correct.  But I fear the damage has been done.  His followers, emboldened by his vile and viperish words, have had their racism, bigotry and hatred validated and will not, I fear, fade away to the ash heap of history en masse.  Even worse, those who have always championed “family values” and who have cravenly supported this man for political or, God help us, religious reasons, have sacrificed an integrity that will be almost impossible to regain.  

Through the years America has often been a beacon of justice and hope to the rest of the world.  We have held ourselves up as a light to which others have looked, a land where all are created equal, a country where we strive for fairness and decency.  Our President should be a role model for our young men to emulate and our young women to respect.   For too long this vulgar mouthpiece of ignorance and hatred has sullied our good name, as well as our good sense, across the globe and I feel utterly humiliated in front of my friends from other countries.  

I know what a decent man looks like.  

I was raised by one.

This is not a decent man.

***

(For those of you looking for a report of Scotland, trust me… it’s coming.  Along with a new ghost story for Halloween.  This is not my usual blog topic, it’s true.  But these are not usual times.  I have always expressed true feelings on this blog and I cannot help but do so now.)

Home

Home

See that face?  The one above?  That face, and knowing he is circling dates on the calendar every time I go away, is pretty much the only reason I got on the plane to come back from the wilds of the Scottish Isles.  He’s basically sat in my lap since I returned and no one can doubt he’s worth returning for.  But my soul, what a glorious journey to Scotland I had.  Thank you so much to all who followed along on Instagram and wrote me such delightful letters.  I’ll answer each one, I promise!  And a new post on all I saw, where I stayed, what I bought, where I ate, where I rambled… all of it… will be coming here.  Just as soon as I wade through all the mail, and the laundry, and the wilted garden, and the … well, you get the picture.  

Till then, some exciting news to share....

As many of you know, my last trip to the UK was to Haworth in Yorkshire.  What you didn’t know is that I was working on an article for the autumn issue of Faerie Magazine on the Bronte sisters.  It’s just come out and you can find it here in the US at any Barnes and Noble book store. 

You can also order a copy HERE.

I’m very proud of it and hope you enjoy reading.

Be back soon!

xoxo, 

Pamela

Rainbows

Rainbows

One of the gifts offered to the only child - aside from one’s own room, which is a delightful  gift indeed - is the opportunity to cultivate a keenly observant eye and the chance to learn to enjoy one’s own company.  Some only children refuse these gifts, it’s true, feeling deprived of community and wary of solitude, but for myself, I grasped them both with grateful hands.  They have made my life richer, deeper and infinitely more interesting as both held the key to an intellectual curiosity that bubbles still.   Even today I often imagine myself invisible, a holdover from my childhood when I intently observed the often complex interactions of the adults all around me, secure in the knowledge that nothing save watching and listening was required of someone so small.  I still love to spend my time in airports, hotels or restaurants making up back stories for the characters wandering past.   One would think this habit of slightly detached observation would render me a bit unapproachable, the faraway look in my eye label me distant or cool.  I can assure you, this is not the case.   Strangers talk to me all the time.  They ask me things, they tell me things.  They inquire where I purchased my clothing, what I’m knitting, what I’m reading.  They share their plans, disclose their histories and reveal their worries.  I often feel as though I have some sort of flashing neon people magnet glued to my forehead.  I used to wonder why but I’m used to it now.  Besides, these random connections have their compensations.

For example, just last week, I was climbing off one of those contraptions at the gym when I noticed an elderly gentleman making his way towards me,.  Now it’s pretty much a written rule that one does not engage a fellow exerciser in small talk at the gym. It’s as if there’s an fortified force field of privacy around everyone affording each of us the freedom to look our worst.  But it was clear this man was going to pierce my force field like a puppy.  And sure enough….

“Hey there!”, he said, grinning.

I took the headphones out of my ears, reducing Adele to a tinny little squeak in my sweaty palm and smiled up at him.

“Do you like looking at pictures of rainbows?”, he asked.

Oh boy, I thought.  “Ummm, yeeessss”, I said, not sure where this was heading.

“Well, let me tell you.  Go on Google and type in pictures of rainbows and about halfway down the page you’ll see these pictures this National Geographic fellow took right here in the city after those storms that rolled through last week.  He just happened to be in town and I tell you, those are the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever seen in my life.  My wife found ‘em and I though you looked like someone who’d enjoy them like I did.”

Once again I found myself grateful for whatever is written 

on my soul that causes strangers to share things with me. 

 I mean who couldn’t love this?

It is astonishing to notice how little people make eye contact with each other these days.  And really, who can blame us?  So much distrust is sewn into our very beings in this current culture.  If one’s knowledge of the world was limited to certain media, one might be forgiven for thinking every face on the street is potentially an enemy.  Fear of “the other” seems rampant.   Immigrants are demonized, ( rather ironic here in America when everyone save a Native American is essentially an immigrant).   The poor are losers, the police are enemies.  Guns are good, travel is dangerous. Rather than the balm it could and should be, religion appears to have become a knife used for division and pain.

While I’m hardly a Pollyanna when it comes to the challenges we face in this age, happily, all this is not what I experience when I walk outside my door.  Troublesome issues are rarely easy to solve and very little is exclusively black or white.  But somewhere in the shady areas lies the real world.  It's cooler here in the shade, colors are truer and visibility is so much better far away from the glare of extremes.  

Looking into eyes unlike my own, conversing with those living lives so different from me, sharing a laugh with someone I can barely understand - all this makes my life happier, lighter, clearer.  My interactions with people have taught me to look for the good, and after all, we usually find what we’re looking for.  Author E. M. Forster put it much better and more succinctly that I ever could when he wrote in Howard’s End…. “Only connect!”  These words speak volumes and meant so much to him they are on his tombstone.    

So I’ll keep talking to strangers whenever I can.  

After all, that’s how I get to see rainbows like this…..

photograph by Andrew Evans

National Geographic

Note:  More connections will be made soon as I'm heading back
 to my beloved Scotland in a few short days.  
Follow along with me on Instagram... HERE