Wood Green Read online

  42.

  Good Morning. How may I help you?

  I’m here to see Michael Pollard.

  And you are?

  Could you tell him that it’s Rachel Atler please.

  I see. Was Mr Pollard expecting you Ms Atler?

  No. I wanted to surprise him.

  Yes, yes, well that certainly explains why he failed to mention you this morning while we were having breakfast together. You’re welcome to leave a note for him if you’d like, and I’ll make sure he gets it.

  You mean he isn’t in?

  I don’t think it would be professional of me to disclose something like that. I’m sure you can appreciate my position.

  Well could you call up to his room for me please?

  I’m sorry but we don’t have internal phones. This is a B&B not a hotel.

  Then can you tell me his room number so I can knock on his door myself? I guarantee he’ll be happy to see me.

  Andrew leaned forward and whispered. I’m sure he would, but just between you and me, Mr Pollard has already left for the day. He said something about needing to do a little shopping before going to work.

  Oh. I don’t suppose you know when he’ll be back do you?

  As you’re such a good friend of Mr Pollard’s I’m sure you would not want me giving out his personal information to just anyone who walked in off the street. And in truth, I can’t be expected to keep track of my guests’ whereabouts.

  I just thought you might know what type of hours he keeps.

  Yes, yes, well look, all I am prepared to say is that he usually comes home quite late. Like I said, you are more than welcome to leave a message with your name and phone number on it and I’ll be happy to pass it along to Mr Pollard whenever I see him next. Which will probably be at breakfast tomorrow morning I’d say.

  I don’t suppose I could leave my suitcase with you? asked Rachel as she wrote her note.

  Unfortunately I couldn’t possibly take responsibility for something like that.

  You can’t just put it inside Michael’s room for me?

  Not without Mr Pollard’s permission. I’m awfully sorry.

  Andrew watched the young woman dial on her mobile phone as she exited his B&B. She did not seem like the type of person that Michael would be friends with. Her heels were too high, and her hair was cut into one of those annoying fringes that made it look, to Andrew at least, like she was wearing a helmet. He found her voice too raspy, and the fact she wore so little makeup left him in no doubt as to her status as a feminist. Oh some might say she was attractive, though not him. Too tall for his taste, and the swing of her hips too provocative. He doubted she was Michael’s type either. Not that they had discussed such matters. Their breakfast conversations usually consisted of weather predictions and amusing stories about the people who had stayed in the B&B over the years. Andrew did not encourage Michael to talk about the work he did when he left each day, and certainly never suggested they swap anecdotes about their sexual escapades. There were other guests having breakfast in the same room, and Andrew preferred not to offend their sensibilities as they listened in on his conversations with Michael. Instead he wanted them to appreciate how close the bond between them had grown. No longer businessman and customer, or even casual acquaintances, they were now genuine friends who could and would talk about anything. Andrew was proud of forming such a relationship at his age. The older he grew the harder it was to make new friends. Most people he knew in Hobart he had grown up with. And it was so difficult to meet the type of people he wanted to be friends with. People who knew how to talk. To listen. Oh yes, someone like Michael was to be cherished, and Andrew deliberated whether it might be best if he just dropped the message from…what was her name again?…Rachel, that’s it…maybe it would be best if he just threw her note into the garbage. That way Michael would not become distracted from his work by someone who was clearly unsuitable for him. It was a harsh decision, but real friends looked out for one another. Andrew dropped the piece of paper into the wastepaper basket, then felt a sudden pang of unprofessionalism. Fulfilling his duties as a friend was one thing, but betraying his role as a concierge was quite another. There was the reputation of his B&B to consider. Friendships don’t pay the bills. And what if Michael found out? What would he say? That woman was sure to blab about leaving him a message. Oh no, he would not fall for that old trick. He was far too clever. Andrew fished out the note and walked upstairs to slip it under Michael’s door. There. His friendship was safe, and so was his B&B. No need to worry. Everything was fine. Michael had already paid in advance for the next month, and there was a strict rule about not have guests to stay overnight. Andrew did not want his breakfast time with Michael intruded upon. Surprises like that were what he had worked all his life to avoid.

  43.

  After six weeks spent tracking down Michael’s whereabouts, Rachel had envisioned the culmination of her efforts as something far more satisfying than being stonewalled by a man like that. Her skin crawled at the memory of his smarmy smile and faux professionalism. What on earth was Michael doing having breakfast with such a person? He still wasn’t answering his phone, and as Rachel rolled her overnight bag along the blustery streets of Battery Point in search of another B&B, she began to question the instincts that had told her to ignore all caution and just fly down to Hobart. So far the place had not endeared itself. Crazy cab drivers, freezing weather, and a B&B proprietor with a broomstick so deeply wedged it would take a team of surgeons to pull it out. There were countless other destinations she would have preferred to visit for a long weekend. But the flight had been a last-minute special, and after so many weeks of uncertainty Rachel felt compelled to confirm with her own eyes that Michael was indeed safe.

  At least she could now stop worrying about whether Lucian Clarke had been telling the truth. His reply letter had been so free with information about where Michael was staying and what time of day he was likely to be home that Rachel had feared the author was making it all up. Had he shown Michael her letter? If so, and Michael had still not made contact, then there was little hope of reconciling their relationship. But if he hadn’t seen her letter? Well then the note she had left at the B&B was going to come as something of a surprise. Rachel knew that Michael hated surprises, but after what he had put her through he deserved a little inconvenience. In the few minutes since she had stopped fearing for his safety, Rachel a re-examined her feelings, and found an unexpected ambiguity. Had her emotions somehow deceived her? Like a well-fed cat killing a bird for sport, was her quarry devoid of all attraction now the hunt was over? Did the decision to separate from Michael make good sense again? Rachel admitted there was a chance she had made a mistake, and that her search for Michael may have been motivated by wounded pride. Had she resented the idea of him moving on so fast? And taking the trip to Tasmania he had talked about so often, yet been too afraid to book while they were still together?

  Rachel checked into a nearby B&B and fell on top of her bed with a sigh of relief. The effort of travelling to Hobart had left her exhausted, and the prospect of seeing Michael had inexplicably become a chore. How would she act? What would she say? The note she had left for him explained her intention to drop by early tomorrow morning, but she had no idea of what she was going to do until then. Rain had started to fall, and her clothes had already proven themselves inadequate for Tasmania’s climate. Why on earth would anyone want to come to such a place? she thought, as her head nestled into a pillow. She inhaled the scent of lavender and groaned with frustration at how everything in Hobart seemed so old fashioned.

  44.

  1987 – Patricia visits her parents in England. She does not enjoy living in Berlin and all efforts to find an apartment in Paris have failed. Returning to Surrey does not appear to be an option for you. (Please fill in gaps if possible. Suspect sexual impropriety by the tone of the letters received from Patricia at the time.) Berlin is wet, cold and awash with heroin. You smoke it a few times but desist whe
n a neighbour overdoses and nearly dies. A cough develops into pneumonia and you spend eight weeks recovering. During this time you consider abandoning Foxtrot altogether. (Please confirm????)

  1988 – Istanbul is hot and welcoming. Patricia finds work in a local school teaching English. It is the first job she has ever had and appears to enjoy it. The first draft of Foxtrot is complete. Rewriting begins immediately. Your agent finds you work reading screenplays. Patricia is attacked on her way home from school. Only money is stolen but she is shaken and flies back to England alone.

  1989 – Patricia is living with her parents while you rent a room in London and work as a cinema projectionist. An affair with an usher loses you your job and ends your marriage for good. You return to Tasmania, pick up whatever work you can, and complete the third draft of Foxtrot.

  1990 – You turn forty. Cards arrive from friends in England. The Australian reports you as deceased. You refuse to correct the mistake and send the final draft of Foxtrot to your London agent.

  1991 – Foxtrot is published, accompanied by the announcement you are no longer dead. Reviews of the book are glowing, though sales are sluggish. You turn down offers to teach at universities in England and Australia.

  1992 – (No information for this year. Please let me know why and provide any leads.)

  1993 – You fly to the United States and take up a six-month post at the University of New Mexico. You decline an invitation to extend your contract and begin travelling across North America.

  1994 – While in Florida, building wooden decks for sailing boats, news arrives that Ursula has died of a brain aneurism. (No more information for another six months. Please assist.)

  1995 – Work begins on Lady Cadaver in Mexico.

  45.

  Oh, I’ve got something for you.

  Lucian read to the end of Michael’s notes then looked up to accept a small plastic bag containing a CD. What’s this?

  I was reading about Pärson Sound and saw this band mentioned in relation to them. I checked your collection. I don’t think you have it already.

  No, no, I’ve never heard of them before. That’s very kind of you. Why don’t you put it on and I’ll roll us some dessert.

  With their plates from dinner (roast pork stuffed with thyme and prunes) still on the coffee table, Lucian and Michael proceeded to lose their minds to a concoction of rhythms that blossomed, unwound and cohered again in a gloriously unconventional eruption of sound. Michael watched Lucian for any signs of boredom or irritation, but saw only deep concentration and a gentle nodding to the riotous clatter of Vibracathedral Orchestra.

  When the album ended a vacuum of silence engulfed the room and Michael shivered as if a blanket had just been yanked off his body. He needed to move, and picked up the dinner plates to carry them to the kitchen.

  Sorry, announced Lucian, but I have to listen to that again.

  Michael was still hopelessly stoned and felt the music align with his labour, so much so that he could not stop cleaning the kitchen until the CD had once again finished. When he returned to the sunroom Lucian was lying along his couch with an arm across his eyes. He looked smaller and more frail than Michael remembered. But maybe it had been a tiring day, or he was no longer able to stay up so late. Michael decided to let him sleep and was about to creep down the hall when Lucian suddenly spoke. Jesus, who needs mushrooms when you’ve got music like that.

  I’m glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully it’ll prove good to write to as well.

  Simply by the way Lucian removed his arm and turned his head, Michael knew he had said the wrong thing. But the raised voice he braced himself for did not materialise.

  You want to know what writing is? asked Lucian as he slowly sat up and scratched his beard. You want to know what real writing is?

  Michael presumed that Lucian did not expect an answer.

  I’m going to let you in on a secret that ninety-five per cent of the hacks out there are yet to grasp, and probably never will. Real writing is music. So long as there’s a rhythm strong enough to lift the reader and carry them along, you can do whatever you like in a book. Anything with the story. Anything with the punctuation. Anything with the structure. Look at Malcolm Lowry. William Gaddis. Virginia Woolf. Joseph Conrad. D.H. Lawrence. George Eliot. You know how they all achieved so much on the page? Because their writing contained rhythm. Give it whatever name you want. Melody. Metre. For writers like that it’s as strong as a bull and authoritative as a heart attack. That’s what sets them apart. And it’s the difference between real writing and just putting ink on a page. I see it all the time. The bookshops are full of authors who approach sentences as if they were mathematical equations. This word plus this word equals this expression. And the result is a flat, lifeless writing without an ounce of musicality to it. I tell you the only rule of writing you ever need to worry about is that your work sings. And the only way to achieve that is to listen to its rhythm. But how the hell can you do that if you’ve got music playing in the same room? As soon as an author starts listing their favourite albums to work to I immediately lose interest because it just proves they don’t understand the first thing about writing. It’s voice and tone. The rhythm of the story. The beat of the chapters. All working together like different sections of an orchestra. Or like the record we’ve just listened to. On the surface it might sound like noise, but underneath there’s a whole encyclopaedia of ideas at work. And to hear it you have to listen closely. In silence. You can’t even listen to two records at the same time, so imagine trying to compose music while something is playing in the background. Well that’s what writing is. Composing. Why do you think I live on this mountain? Because it’s quiet enough for me to hear my work. To make sure it sings. You look through all the records I own and you’ll find they’re predominantly concerned with rhythm. Well the same goes for the books I write. Underneath their stories are melodies of words. If you haven’t discovered that then you’ve missed half their point.

  46.

  Michael stood in the middle of his room holding Rachel’s note and weighing up if he needed to go back out and buy cigarettes. After rebuffing so many of her emails and phone messages the prospect of facing his former girlfriend reignited old anxieties, and their incumbent remedies. He re-read the note and wondered when she had delivered it. Where she was staying? How long she was staying? How the hell had Rachel found out where he was staying? Michael caught himself gnawing his index finger and remembered when Maureen’s face had wrinkled in disgust at his hands. He had never considered how they might appear to other people, and since then had tried to banish the habit along with his addiction to nicotine. An image of Maureen’s broad smile and avian eyes intruded upon Rachel’s small and elegant features, as if Michael were trying to meld the best of both women into a third of his own design. It made his head swim, and he opened a window to cut the viscosity of the internal heating. As the chill of midnight air penetrated his room Michael wondered what time Rachel intended to arrive, and felt irritated at the prospect of his morning routine being intruded upon. After putting up with Andrew during breakfast his reward was meant to be the freedom to work on his book uninterrupted. It was evolving so well that Michael had become defensive of any time he had to himself, and resentful of anyone attempting to impinge upon it. Maybe he could sneak off to a different B&B before Rachel arrived. There were plenty in Battery Point, though it was hard to believe he would find a room to compare with the one he had. Or a proprietor as easily manipulated as Andrew had become. Which meant that Michael was stuck where he was. And should he simply refuse to answer his door then Rachel would just sit outside and wait. Hadn’t she tracked him all the way to Hobart? Michael knew exactly how persistent Rachel could be. It was one of her most impressive qualities, as well as one of her most annoying. Maybe he could say he had needed a clean break. Explain that because his love was so strong it had been necessary to wrench himself away and go cold turkey. And her arriving now, so soon into his rehabilitation, was lik
e an addict revisiting old haunts populated with old friends who wanted to share old habits. But perhaps that was how Rachel had also interpreted his silence. Did she think there was still more for them to share? Surely, like Michael, she knew it wasn’t true. He was not only trying to keep Rachel away. He was trying to keep his entire old life away. Of which Rachel was just one part. He was trying to reinvent himself. Become the person he had always wanted to be. Here in Tasmania, through proximity to Lucian Clarke, he was hoping to unlock new dimensions of himself. Already there had been different experiences. And not just the drugs, but books and music he might never have otherwise been exposed to. Not to mention the progress he had made with his novel. So why the hell would he want people around to remind him of his former life and his former self? He closed the window, undressed and climbed into bed. He didn’t need a cigarette. That was the old Michael. The new one just needed to go to sleep so he could write well the following day. When Rachel arrived he would greet her as if everything was fine and nothing extraordinary had taken place. They would kiss. Eat lunch. Even see some sights. Then he would pack Rachel back off to Sydney without the slightest doubt that their relationship was over. There was no room for her here. Michael turned off his bedside lamp and watched the Derwent River glisten with a reflection of the Milky Way. Hobart contained so few streetlights that a thick, inky darkness descended upon the city every night, and as he waited for sleep Michael marvelled at how the silhouetted hills of the Eastern Shore appeared to fuse with the sky above.

  47.

  You look older, said Rachel, struggling to appear nonchalant as she leaned against Michael’s window. Though her strategy had been to act as if there was nothing unusual about her sudden arrival in Hobart, the shock of Michael’s appearance – tired, pale, red-eyed and heavily whiskered – had undermined her resolve. Quickly she searched for her cigarettes.