The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘Poor Julian.’ Peter entered Penelope’s room at the beginning of his shift.

  ‘Indeed,’ she agreed with a grin.

  ‘So Em is a woman.’ The events in the tale seemed to indicate this.

  ‘It would appear so,’ Penelope concurred, but Peter noted she seemed not entirely convinced.

  ‘I suspect Em might just adapt to whatever persona the observer wants to see.’ Peter began his daily check, strapping the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around Penelope’s upper arm and inflating it to measure her blood pressure and pulse rate — he noted this was a little high again today, which was a concern.

  A mild stroke was what had landed Penelope in hospital care five years ago. Her blood pressure had been fine until recently, and Peter hated to think that writing this book might become a health issue for her.

  ‘Speaking of transformations . . .’ Penelope eyed him over. ‘You actually appear quite suave with that haircut.’

  ‘So very pleased you approve.’ He removed the cuff from her arm and placed the apparatus aside.

  ‘Was your shopping date a success?’ she probed, seeming far more interested in his love life than the book they were writing.

  ‘We bought everything you requested and then some.’ He knew she wasn’t interested in the retail details, but that was all she was going to get from him. ‘I’m sure Gabrielle has filled you in.’

  ‘Quite,’ was all she said, being as obviously evasive as he was.

  Again Peter felt her puppet strings compelling him to her will as he was naturally curious about Gabrielle’s impression — but he was not going to be drawn into her inquisition.

  ‘Did you ladies manage to get any work done today?’

  Penelope appeared most disappointed by his comeback. ‘I would never have taken you for an authoritarian.’ She reached into her side table drawer and from it retrieved an envelope along with the usual memory stick.

  ‘You typed it out?’ Peter was bemused, as the items were handed to him.

  ‘In the envelope is the award speech.’

  ‘Oh.’ Peter turned it around to break the seal.

  ‘No,’ Penelope urged his restraint. ‘Don’t open it.’

  ‘After work, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ Penelope insisted. ‘Not until you accept the award.’

  ‘You want me to read this cold!’ Peter was horrified — it was bad enough that he had to read it at all under such circumstances.

  ‘If you explain to the audience this was my wish then it will give them cause to be twice as patient with you,’ she disclosed her strategy.

  ‘You think?’ Peter was sceptical, placing the items aside to get on with his routine. ‘Now who’s being punitive?’

  ‘I know you believe this is some sort of punishment, but nothing could be further from the truth.’ Penelope whipped her bedcover aside to expose a leg for Peter to jab.

  ‘Trial by fire more like.’ He administered her blood-thinners, and covered her back up.

  ‘There is far more to being an author than just writing the story. There are interviews, talks, panels, promotion, research —’

  ‘We haven’t done any research for this story,’ Peter pointed out to side-track her lecture.

  ‘I researched it eons ago,’ she advised. ‘Like I said, this muse has been persistent.’

  ‘Did you record your research anywhere?’ Peter was intrigued to hear this. ‘Perhaps I should read it?’

  ‘When we get to the part in the tale where the research is pertinent, I’ll tell you where to find it and not before.’ Penelope conveyed her annoyance at being rushed. ‘But my point is you have to get comfortable with dealing with people from all walks of life, as one never knows where a tale might lead you. So you need to be prepared to venture out of your comfort zone and to do so with wild abandon and confident flair!’

  ‘Outside my comfort zone,’ he repeated what Gabrielle’s grandmother had said about his future novel. ‘Has Nurse Valdez been telling you about her grandmother?’

  ‘Do stop changing the subject,’ Penelope grumbled. ‘It’s hard enough for me to keep my train of thought. What has Gabrielle’s grandmother got to do with anything?’

  ‘Look,’ he stood corrected, perhaps the turn of phrase was pure coincidence? ‘Clearly, I don’t have any confidence or flair.’

  ‘One does not just automatically possess such traits; they are cultivated,’ Penelope stated, matter-of-fact. ‘Hence fate is awarding you the opportunity to surprise yourself.’

  ‘Hopefully in a good way.’ He remained cynical and Penelope lost her patience.

  ‘As your mentor I can only open doors. You can walk through them or not.’ She shrugged as if she didn’t care either way.

  ‘I believe I’ve already been shoved through the door on this one,’ Peter joked in an attempt to lighten her mood.

  ‘Well, none of us are getting any younger,’ Penelope reverted to a civil tone, ‘so I suggest you make the most of it.’

  ‘I promise you I shall, if you promise to calm down.’ Peter was more concerned about her at this point. ‘Your blood pressure is up again, did you get out for a walk today?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, shaking her head in the negative to confess the truth indirectly, and Peter served her a displeased look. ‘Who has time for walks?’

  ‘Ms Whitman, your health is far more important than any story,’ he insisted in all seriousness. ‘Nurse Valdez should know better —’

  ‘I told her I was feeling nauseous,’ Penelope came to her nurse’s defence.

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘A little,’ she confessed with a pout.

  ‘And do you still feel nauseous?’

  ‘No, it’s passed.’

  ‘Good,’ Peter concluded. ‘It’s quite warm out, so I’ll be back presently to take you for a stroll.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘No buts.’ Peter was enjoying telling her what to do for a change. ‘Fresh air and exercise are very important. Besides, I thought writers liked to go for long walks.’

  ‘Only when under fifty,’ she retorted. ‘And even then I only walked when I had writer’s block and couldn’t find any weed.’

  ‘Ms Whitman!’ Peter was surprised at her.

  ‘What? I lived through the sixties, you know. I was very active in the peace movement.’ She served him a devilish grin. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a drag on a spliff these days.’

  Peter was stunned that she even knew that term. ‘I hardly think smoking is going to improve your blood pressure any.’

  ‘Good for the nausea, though,’ she bantered, looking hopeful.

  ‘When you were under fifty, perhaps.’ Peter’s buzzer went off to alert him to another patient needing his assistance. ‘But today, a walk is the best you are getting out of me.’ He headed for the door.

  ‘Fascist killjoy!’ Penelope called after him.

  It was a long, long time since Penelope had been on a moonlight stroll with a young man, and just quietly she had to admit she was rather enjoying it. It brought back memories of happier days. ‘The young have no idea how much they take their freedom for granted . . . God knows I didn’t cherish it enough when I had it.’ They walked at a snail’s pace through the hospital gardens. ‘But once you get to my age, everyone is telling you what you can and can’t do. It’s like childhood all over again, only now you know what you’re missing.’

  ‘What do you miss?’ Peter politely rolled with her topic.

  ‘The little things mainly . . . like preparing my own meals just the way I like them. Making a cup of tea whenever I feel like one. Having a bath on a whim, and soaking for hours, if I choose.’

  ‘And smoking weed,’ Peter discreetly added.

  ‘That most of all.’ She sighed. ‘In my day everyone smoked something, and every artist had a vice.’

  ‘But today we know better,’ Peter’s tone had a touch of a rebuke about it.

  ‘That’s debatable,’ Penelope scoffed. ‘I smoked wee
d for fifty years and it never did me any harm.’

  ‘Ms Whitman . . . you had a stroke,’ Peter reminded her.

  ‘It wasn’t smoking that gave me a stroke,’ she argued passionately. ‘It was —’ She caught her tongue, having thought better of explaining. ‘It was a stressful situation.’

  ‘That might have exacerbated the issue, but I doubt very much it was the cause.’ Peter advised kindly, but Penelope found his view rather irritating.

  ‘You’ve been brainwashed by medical science and pharmaceuticals, but look to quantum physics and it will tell you that it is what you believe that dictates your reality. There are no facts, only opinions.’

  ‘So you’re saying that if I don’t believe smoking weed will hurt me, it won’t hurt me?’ Peter shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘I am saying that what you choose to believe will shape your existence,’ Penelope clarified. ‘Popular opinion is usually cultivated for a profit; find out for whose profit, then form an opinion, don’t just repeat what you’ve been told.’

  ‘Are you going to hit me with a conspiracy theory now?’ Peter asked cynically.

  ‘Conspiracy theories make for great books!’ Penelope was surprised by his attitude.

  ‘But what if it’s not true?’

  ‘There is no truth, only perspective, I just got through telling you that. Besides, in fiction,’ she emphasised, ‘it doesn’t have to be true, only feasible.’ She felt suddenly weary and noting this, Peter led her to a chair. ‘I suppose you think I’m just a crazy old lady.’

  ‘No.’ Peter smiled. ‘You have a unique perspective, but that doesn’t make you insane.’

  ‘I never was a conformist,’ she admitted. ‘I despise being told what to do.’

  ‘But you are in this institution willingly. Why stay then?’ Peter posed curiously.

  The answer was bound up with the reason for her stroke, which she dared not think about, let alone mention. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, given that I’m a writer, but I like the feeling of having people around me these days. My house is so large it could take fifteen minutes for a nurse to get from the kitchen to my rooms,’ she joked, although the thought of her home made her feel even more nostalgic. ‘There was a time I adored my solitude. I recall sitting at my desk with my trusty typewriter, tea to one side, smoke in-hand, gazing out at the spectacular view of my pool and gardens as I mused my next tale. How indulgent that was. Such moments filled me with a sense of achievement. I was a self-made woman, doing what I loved for a living and nothing could hold me back. But as old age crept up on me those simple pleasures became a chore. Do you know how difficult it is to find a reliable weed dealer when you’re sixty-five?’

  The premise amused Peter, as it did her, for a moment.

  ‘They’re all kids, afraid you’ll drop dead on them!’ She waved off the woe. ‘As my dearest friends departed this world, I socialised less and less, and before I knew it my solitude became more like a prison than a release.’

  ‘Well.’ Peter grabbed for his phone as it sounded and read the message. ‘If you ever want to go anywhere, you just let me know and I’ll arrange it. But right now it’s time for Mrs Porter to have her medication. I’ll just run and grab a wheelchair to get you back, won’t be a second.’

  It was a lovely offer, she considered as she watched Peter leave with haste and grace, but anywhere she really wanted to go could only be accessed via her own imagination or memory — which always proved far more fantastic than actually being at the said destination, and far less trouble to get to.

  She sat back and gazed up at the open sky and the moon swathed in cloud, to pretend that she was sitting in her own back garden. Penelope imagined that any moment she would spring up and return to a party. Once upon a time she’d hosted many a shindig where she would dance and converse the night away with other like-minded artists; only to crawl into bed at dawn and sleep through well into the afternoon. The chorus to the old song, ‘Those Were the Days’ sprang to mind, which Penelope uttered out loud. Penelope was rather chuffed to have remembered all the words, but their sentiment left a bitter taste in her mouth. Where once she’d sung this like a manifesto with friends, alone now she understood the lament it was always intended to be.

  Nathaniel was coming to the end of his four-day stint in the apartment, during which time he’d been more productive as a writer than he’d ever been. On the other hand he hadn’t washed a dish, or had a shower — he’d only slept when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any more. He adored not having to deal with another living soul and just submerging in the creative process, but when Monique arrived a little early for her occupation his dishevelled state and that of the apartment was a little embarrassing. ‘Sorry about the mess, I’m going to clean up, you’re just a little early.’

  Monique was stunned speechless for a moment. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re normally such a neat freak, I wouldn’t have guessed you had an inner slob,’ she joked.

  ‘Don’t you start. I just said I’ll clean it up.’ He grabbed his dishes and began piling them in the sink.

  ‘Nat, I was just kidding.’ Monique was a little shocked by his hostile reaction. ‘As a fellow artist I completely understand why you would want to take advantage of every second you have here. I don’t give a shit about mess I never was much of a homemaker, as you know. Ah . . .’ Monique sounded enlightened. ‘Does Jenna not like our arrangement?’

  ‘She thinks I’m having an affair.’ Nathaniel lost his anger, and looked back to Monique.

  ‘And are you?’ Monique queried, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

  ‘Only with my book.’ Nathaniel switched the kettle on, feeling coffee was needed.

  ‘Good,’ Monique concluded. ‘Because if you have an affair, it had bloody well better be with me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her flirting always made him smile. He did love Monique, but flirting was in her nature, she was a free spirit, and he’d accepted that. ‘Jenna thinks I must be having an affair because I keep vaguing out when she’s talking to me, writing little secret notes on my phone, and barely contacting her when I’m here.’ This really pissed Nathaniel off. ‘She doesn’t understand that I have to sink into a world to write about it! She doesn’t understand how long that process takes! Or why I don’t welcome her little interruptions just to tell me that she loves me, or about some insignificant thing that happened during the day, which could have waited until I got home.’

  ‘Well tell her,’ Monique suggested.

  ‘I did tell her!’ Nathaniel prepared the coffee. ‘And her conclusion is that I’m lying to cover an affair!’ He threw his hands up, exasperated. ‘I should never have married someone with no artistic passion whatsoever, she just can’t relate.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her that?’ Monique hoped for his sake.

  ‘I might have.’ Nathaniel placed her coffee in front of her and retrieved his own cup before sitting down at the table.

  ‘Oh, Nat, you didn’t. You don’t want your marriage to suffer —’

  ‘Why not? I’m miserable, she’s miserable, we’re already suffering!’ Monique was surprised to hear this, but it obviously felt good to Nathaniel to vent. ‘If not for having a family, I wouldn’t be working a job I hate. Nor would I be living with a woman who seems to have forgotten I exist! Except for when I attempt to find the time and means to do the only thing that truly makes me happy . . . then she wants to know my every move, my every thought!’

  ‘Oh, Nat,’ Monique sympathised with him, as she always did.

  ‘I know that all makes me sound like an unfeeling bastard, but I’ve finally found my bliss, Mon. I found it all by myself . . . and I’ve realised I don’t need anyone else to make me feel good, that nurture all comes from within myself. Is it so surprising that I don’t want to give it up, or live without it a good part of the time? I dread leaving here to go back to the grind. And even when I do, my head is still here, in the story. My boss is complaining, my wife is complaining, and all I really
want to do is tell them all to just bugger off and leave me be!’

  Monique was a little bemused. ‘I know you’ve always wanted to write, but I’ve never seen you this obsessed.’

  ‘I know,’ Nathaniel agreed.

  ‘I know how that feels,’ she concurred, ‘but how would you afford this luxury if you were not working that job? And once you have this book out of you, how would you feel not having Jenna and the baby to share that accomplishment with? In the end you still have to come back and face reality, it would be better to have no regrets.’

  ‘I just don’t want to leave.’ Nathaniel looked around the warehouse.

  ‘Well you have to, as the rest of us have projects to be getting on with.’

  ‘I meant the story,’ he corrected. ‘I just want to stay in it, and still get paid.’

  Monique pouted as she considered his statement. ‘How far into the story are you?’

  ‘Thirty thousand words, more or less.’

  Monique appeared impressed and then smiled broadly to inform him, ‘Most agents can sell a novel based on the first three chapters, why not try a few, see if you get any bites? Land a publisher and they’ll pay you to finish it.’

  ‘I actually hadn’t considered that.’ Nathaniel felt his heavy heart lighten.

  ‘Then Jenna would also realise that you’ve been telling the truth.’ Monique grinned in conclusion.

  ‘It’s moments like this I wish we had stayed together.’ Nathaniel flirted, as that was Monique’s soul food.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She placed a hand on his. ‘I was an utter bitch, and still am, really . . . you deserve so much better. That’s why you married Jenna.’ She let him go and sat back in her chair.

  ‘I should have listened to you, Mon.’ Nathaniel recalled her repeated warnings that he wasn’t ready for marriage and a family.

  ‘Never listen to me when it comes to relationship advice, I’m always wrong,’ Monique insisted.

  ‘So are you wrong now, telling me to save my marriage?’ Nathaniel challenged.

  Monique was stumped and laughed at the query. ‘All I know is that I was rotten jealous when you proposed to Jenna; I would have told you anything to swing your favour back my way. But whether that was because I loved you madly, or simply because I must have everyone’s attention, I still can’t rightly say.’