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Prologue.
‘Damn writer’s block! Damn it to hell!’
I sat before my lap top in the large dining room waiting for inspiration. There was nothing. A hundred times, or so it seemed, I had begun to tap in words, and then deleted them.
‘Rubbish, all bloody rubbish,’ I silently wailed. ‘I’ll never be able to write another story, ever.’
Chapter 1.The Mountain Hideaway.
It had started weeks before, this confounded inability to string two words together in an intelligible manner, sod it. I had ranted and raved as I’d paced the floor of the flat, until my flatmate, Ivor, said, ‘For God’s sake Chris, going on like this is getting you nowhere, and to be frank, I’m getting sick of it. You’ve become impossible to live with, I feel like clearing out for good.’
That stopped me in my tracks. Ivor was an easy guy to live with except his girlfriends sometimes got a bit noisy when they made love. In addition, he was a good cook and I needed him to help meet the rent.
Ivor went on, ‘Look Chris, why don’t you get away for a while. I’ve heard about other writers who when they can’t write go away somewhere on their own for a while. It seems that the change and seclusion often gets them going again. Why not try it, there’s nothing to hold you here?’
He was right about ‘nothing to hold me’. Financially I managed on the miserable pittance I got from my publisher for my work. I was with a small publishing company called ‘Eros and Cupid.’ They specialised, as they claimed, in works ‘Erotic and Exotic.’ Ms. Eros was a sort of female-male and Mr.Cupid a male-female.
I had several works published by them and recently Mr. Cupid had said to me as he adjusted a pink tulle bow in his hair: ‘Christopher darling, we’ve been getting a little slack lately, haven’t we? We’ve not been working as we should, sweetie, and Ms. Eros and I don’t much care for that my love. We haven’t written a great novel, have we precious? I mean, my darling, we haven’t exactly written a rival to Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’. Thus we cannot rest on our laurels, can we? So, my treasure, we expect something from you very soon or we may have to consider your place on our books. If you need a little help, we can provide a suitable amanuensis should you so desire, the cost of course, coming out of your royalties’ (they liked to use words like that instead of fee or percentage).
I thanked him very humbly for the offer of secretarial assistance at my own cost, and said I would let him know if I needed that sort of help. Mr. Cupid gave a final tug at his bow and dismissed me with the parting words, ‘Remember my sweet, something very soon.’ I left with my metaphorical tail between my legs knowing that if anything could help raise my writer’s block to new heights of paralysis, that interview had done it.
Another factor in the situation was that my most recent girlfriend had decided she preferred the assistant manager of a department store to an impecunious writer. Hence there was no current sexual attachment to hold me back from seeking distant solitude.
‘I think I know just the place for you,’ Ivor said enthusiastically.
He was obviously eager to send me on my way with my wretched unpredictable outbursts. On the other hand, it might have been that he wanted to hold a sex orgy in the flat, and knew I wouldn’t agree because the last time we had one so many things got broken. I hasten to add that I don’t mean hymens got broken because there weren’t any to break, the ex-maidens all being, as it were, well seasoned.
‘All right’, I said, ‘tell me about this restorative place.’
‘You’ll love it’, he said. ‘It’s up in the mountains, a fantastic house built by some eccentric old gold fossicker called ‘Jarvis Bleeby’ who struck it rich back in the nineteenth century and built himself an imitation English Manor House. It’s miles from anywhere and is looked after by an old lady called Mrs. McIntosh. The place is used sometimes by people wanting to ‘get away from it all’, or companies when they want to get their executives isolated so they can brain wash them.’
‘I couldn’t afford anything like that,’ I complained.
‘How do you know’, Ivor retorted. ‘You haven’t even tried asking, and its winter and therefore the ‘off season’. Look, I know Mrs. McIntosh through my mother, I’ll telephone her and ask, if you like.’
‘Mrs. McIntosh? I queried, ‘So the place went out of the Bleeby family’.
‘Oh, the isolation drove old Bleeby mad and he cut his throat.’
‘What! You want me to go up there and commit suicide?’
‘Don’t be so damned silly, Chris,’ Ivor replied crossly. ‘The old boy spent all his money building the place so he was near broke when it was finished. He wasn’t married and couldn’t afford servants, so he was up there in that great house on his own. He still fossicked but never had another lucky find, he just found enough gold to keep himself alive.’
‘His body wasn’t discovered for more than two months. About once a month he used to ride his horse, the only companion he had, into Wingalila Creek for supplies. When he didn’t turn up at the store one month they were a bit puzzled. When it got to two months the local cop thought he’d better go up and see if the old guy was okay. That’s when his body was found. It had been partly eaten by rats.’
‘Hey, I’m not going to a place like that,’ I objected vociferously.
‘For God’s sake, Chris, it happened nearly a hundred and twenty years ago. What are you afraid of, the old guy’s ghost? Mrs. McIntosh lives up there by herself during the off season. She hires in help when the season is on, but apart from that, well…anyway why is a great lump of muscle like you scared?’
‘I’m not scared. ‘ I mumbled, but I must admit I thought it sounded eerie.
‘Look Chris, just let me ring the old girl and find out if she’ll take you. If she says its okay, go up there, and if you don’t like it after a couple of days you can leave.’
‘Oh all right,’ I agreed reluctantly, hoping the Mrs. McIntosh would say ‘no’.
Damn it, she said ‘yes’. So, two days later I was heading for ‘Mountain Hideaway’ in my ancient and battered Volkswagen.
Mrs. McIntosh had made it clear to Ivor that I would get three meals a day, bed linen and a ‘clean-up’ as she put it, three times a week. ‘All else to be supplied by self.’
It took me five hours to get to the place including a brief stop at Wingalila Creek for a pie. The house was about another hour’s drive along a winding dirt road. I’d almost decided that I’d missed the place when I saw a large sign, ‘Mountain Hideaway Conference Centre and Retreat.’
A narrow track led up a long gully, and there, nestling against a hill at the end of the gulley was the house, an ugly sort of place that looked as if it was a mixture of Georgian and late Victorian architecture. In fact I doubt if an architect had a hand in designing the place. Really I think it must have been Bleeby’s demented concept of what an English Country Manor looked like.
I got out of the car and cautiously approached the huge front door. There was a lion headed bell pull that I tugged on to produce the sound of cathedral bells clanging somewhere in the depths of the Hideaway.
Chapter 2. Mrs. McIntosh
After a considerable wait I heard through the thick doors the rattling of chains being removed and locks being turned. Finally the door creaked open to reveal a woman of considerable stature in, I guessed, her mid sixties.
‘Mr. Dennis?’ she asked with a hint of suspicion in her voice.
‘Er…yes. Mrs. McIntosh?’
‘Yers. Gotcha room ready. Come in.’
I walked into a huge hallway with a ceiling that seemed somewhere up in the clouds and was guided up the stairs by a silent Mrs. McIntosh to a slightly less huge but still very big bedroom with an impressive four poster bed.
‘I’ve put yer in ‘ere,’ she said. ‘Yerv got the use of the small dinin’ roo
m and usual offices. I’ll show yer where they are and yer bring yer own stuff in. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve noon and dinner at six thirty, Two ‘undred dollars down na an a ‘undred a week. Orl right?’
I signified my acceptance of the laconic terms and paid up. I was then shown the ‘usual offices’ and the ‘small’ dining room. Actually the dining room could easily have accommodated three large families with room to spare.
Being winter and cold up in the mountains I noted that the massive fireplace was laid ready to be lit with a supply of, not so much logs as tree trunks, stacked on either side.
‘More logs out the back if yer want ’em. Get ’em yerself an id’ll cost yer extra. Orl right?’
Again I signified that I understood and accepted the terms.
‘Leave yer na. Yerv missed lunch so next meal is dinner. Orl right?’
I said it was orl, I mean, all right, even though it wasn’t because my Wingalila Creek pie had hardly served to satisfy the empty space within.
‘By the way, as most of our guests want ter know, I’ll tell yer. This is the room were old Bleeby done ‘iself in, over there at the table. ‘E was sittin’ in that chair.’ She pointed to a throne like seat. ‘Some reckon they can still see the blood stain on the table. Can’t see it meself. Orl right?’
Mrs. McIntosh moved off with stately tread leaving a depressed Chris contemplating with little enthusiasm the coming days.
I took a look at the table and failed to see any sign of a residual bloodstain, then decided how to arrange myself.
The dining room seemed the best place to work in. Apart from the main table that was of a size to seat about twenty people, there was another smaller table that would serve to put my lap top on. I looked around and found, to my surprise, a fairly liberal supply of power points, so I lugged what was to be my work table nearer the fireplace, and went out to get my gear from the car.
Having dispersed the gear suitably around the bedroom, dining room and ‘usual offices’, I lit the fire, and I must say it did lend a more cheerful aspect to the room.
There was no desk lamp, so I heaved a standard lamp over to the work table. I looked up and saw suspended from the distant ceiling a massive chandelier. ‘That will give plenty of light,’ I thought, and pressed a wall switch by the door. The result was disappointing. Had it been fully armed the chandelier would have been wonderful. Sadly it was but a shade of its former self, having had about seventy-five percent of the bulbs removed, and what remained of low wattage.
I think I must have started to become inured to the situation, because I gave a mental shrug and thought, ‘Can’t have it all, I suppose.’
I set up the lap top together with its cheap printer and a pile of paper.
Having got that far, I fell into a lethargy that decided there would be no attempt to work that day. Instead I took a look around the rest of the mausoleum and found it impressive in size but hideous in appearance.
I strolled outside and tucked the car away in what must have been stables long ago. I then had a look around the grounds.
Unexpectedly the surrounds were quite well cared for. Being winter the flower beds were not at their best, but a little imagination helped visualise them in summer. The mountain forest pressed close up against the grounds as if threatening that one day it would come storming in to recapture its lost territory.
By the time I had finished my wander around it was approaching six-thirty, and having calculated that it would not be wise to keep Mrs. McIntosh waiting, I retired to the dining room.
Mrs. McIntosh entered promptly at six thirty bearing a tray, and announced economically, ‘Yer dinner,’ and departed.
I looked at the contents of the tray to find three plates. One contained soup, the next a couple of chops and vegetables, and finally a plate containing a sticky mess covered with a yellow substance that I took to be a pudding disguised with custard.
Having all three dishes delivered at once indicated that speedy eating was required if I was to have anything approaching a hot meal. I munched and swallowed at speed, and if the food was not especially appetizing at least it filled an inner void.
Finishing the meal I considered what I should do for the rest of the evening. As far as I could see there was no television set or even a radio. Fortunately I had brought with me a small radio, and retrieving it from the bedroom I settled in front of the fire in the dining room and roamed the radio dial for something interesting to listen to.
I quickly discovered that the surrounding mountains did nasty things to radio waves and when I did find a programme that sounded okay, it crackled, hissed and faded in and out. The only station that came through clearly was one that seemed to consist mainly of advertisements, interspersed by an announcer who sounded like a demented parrot who screeched at the listener, ‘This is a great, great song’. All the songs he presented were ‘Great, great songs,’ sung by ‘Great, great’ singers,’ whom for the most part I had never heard of.
After half an hour of the parrot chatter I surrendered and turned the radio off.
Having noted in the cavernous hallway an ancient telephone, I decided to telephone Ivor to abuse him. I got through to him, told him what I thought about his choice of a retreat, and heard in the background the shrill squeaks of female laughter and chatter.
Ivor, clearly intent on my not returning to the flat in the very near future, was placatory.
‘Stick it out, old boy. Just give it a few days trial. You might get to like it.’
I told him what he might attempt to do to himself, realising that in fact shortly it was what he would be doing to others, and slammed down the hand piece.
I even considered going in search of Mrs. Mcintosh for company, which indicates the desperation I was experiencing due to lack of companionship and entertainment. On second thoughts I decided against Mrs. McIntosh. She seemed to hibernate somewhere in the distant depths of the house, and recalling her terse manner, concluded that conversation with her, would be less than enthralling.
With that thought I decided for bed, a book and if possible, sleep.
Ensconced in the four poster, I went to sleep sooner than I anticipated and slept soundly.
Chapter 3. Came the Dawn.
I awoke to a pleasant winter morning and the distant sound of magpies warbling in the dawn sunlight. I even felt in a slightly cheerful mode in contrast to my previous nights despair.
The cheerful mode was modified a little when, on entering the dining room for breakfast, I discovered that Mrs. McIntosh had already set out my meal. It consisted of a box of cornflakes, a small jug of milk and bowl of sugar, plus what I assumed to be coffee in a mug that was in turn encased in a container that was supposed to keep it warm.
I drank the coffee first while it still retained some semblance of heat, and then filled myself up with cornflakes.
That over I decided on a brief walk round the grounds before attempting work. Half an hour poking into outhouses, sheds, stables and trying to view the house from various angles to see if it had any worthwhile architectural features added nothing to my previous aesthetic decisions about the place. It was simply ugly.
I returned to the dining room and noted that the fireplace had been cleaned and the fire re-laid. ‘Ah, there is some service around here,’ I rejoiced, but decided the day was too warm to light the fire.
I settled before the lap top and waited for inspiration. Nothing! I tried making a start pattering in words that when I read back made no sense. All that day I battered my brain to find a plot, a theme, anything. I typed and deleted over and over again until I was in an even more despairing mood than the previous evening.
At the point of hurli
ng the lap top against the wall, I decided that I would hide my misery in bed. In contrast to the previous night I slept fitfully and awoke miserably to a dawn that revealed the temperature had fallen during the night, and the bedroom was freezing. Wrapped in my dressing gown I peered out of the window to see a grey dawn and a lowering sky.
Chapter 4. An Unexpected Arrival
I hastened my morning ablutions so as to be in time for the arrival of breakfast and therefore coffee still with some residual warmth left in it.
I was in the dining room when Mrs. McIntosh arrived bearing the tray.
‘Breakfast. Id’ll snow before long.’ She left with her customary stately tread.
I swallowed the already lukewarm coffee and ate the cardboard-like cornflakes. Being a student of cereal packets and sauce bottles I noted that one plateful of the packet’s contents would sustain me for hours and ensure regular opening of my bowels.
The dreary aspect through the dining room window and the fact that the McIntosh predicted snow was falling, failed to tempt me into a morning stroll, so I set match to fire and attempted to work.
It was at mid-morning when I finally exploded with my ‘Writer’s block’ wail. I was in the slough of despond, the mire of misery. I saw myself as never writing again, and having to spend the rest of my life as a fettler in a foundry or some such inspiring task.
I lusted for a mid-morning cup of tea, but feared the terse Mrs. McIntosh’s disapproval of such conspicuous consumption.
Then I rallied my scattered forces, what was left of them, and decided on one more assault upon the castle ‘Block’.
‘Something sexy to open with,’ I thought. ‘It’ll catch the eye and interest of the prurient.’
I sat myself once more before the lap top and commenced:
‘The young, lovely and unsullied Wendy lay upon the bed naked. I let my eyes traverse her beautifully body. The long blonde hair spread like a fan over the pillow, her splendid dark blue eyes, with their look of ineffable pleading, the pert nose and full sensuous lips with the tip of her tongue protruding slightly between them, the long neck with a full throat and soft round shoulders above the milk white swelling breasts with their pink nipples. A wedge of blonde pubic hair descended from her mons to the neat tight cleft between her long luscious legs that now parted to entice me to enter her virginal womanhood.’
”Dear God’, I thought, ‘the most beautiful female in the whole world’, if only she was real.’
There was a tinkling silvery laugh right beside my left ear and a soft melodious voice said, ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration darling.’
I stopped typing and whipped my head round, my nose almost colliding with a face peering over my shoulder. My eyes were at such close range to the face I could not take in the features properly, but the voice went on, ‘I grant you I’m very attractive, but ‘the most beautiful female in the whole world!’ I think you’d better tone that down a bit, Christopher.’
The face stopped looking over my shoulder and withdrew a little distance from me. I could now see that its owner was a young female.
In a state close to shock I spluttered out, ‘Who the hell are you, where did you come from?’
Another silvery laugh, ‘Christopher, that’s not very kind. You just created me and you don’t know me?’
I was unable to absorb what she was saying properly so in my bewildered fashion I said, ‘I thought I was the only one in the house, except for Mrs. McIntosh. Who are you?’
‘There was only you and Mrs. McIntosh until you made me. Look at me Christopher and see if you can recognise me.’
I stared at the figure before me, and I must admit she was worth staring at. Long blonde hair, dark blue eyes, pert nose and…my God, Wendy!’ The girl whose details were on the lap top screen right in front of me was standing before me!
‘I’m going mad,’ I said out loud. ‘It’s this place, this bloody awful house and its lousy food, it’s getting to me.’
‘Well of course, darling, it is dreadful place but after all, you can change it.’
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