The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘This is far more pleasant in any case.’ Peter felt thoroughly spoilt. ‘I could get used to this.’

  ‘You will,’ Wilfred allowed kindly. ‘Was the lounge quite comfortable?’ The caretaker seemed amused by Peter’s choice of bed. ‘We shall leave more blankets about in future.’

  ‘I was a little cold when I woke,’ Peter confessed. ‘But feeling so much better now.’ He tilted his head back to catch the mottled sunshine through the pagoda vines and decided he couldn’t be happier. There was a twinge of regret underlying his bliss — he should have invited Gabrielle to stay another day; she would have loved this pampering. Still, he could surprise her next time she stayed over.

  ‘Will you be requiring lunch or dinner today?’ Thelma placed his breakfast down in front of him and it smelt and appeared fit for a king.

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Peter hoed into his meal, and groaned with delight. ‘This is amazing, Mrs E.’

  ‘There’s more where that came from,’ she chuckled. ‘And it’s no trouble, it’s my job to keep the kitchen well stocked.’

  ‘Thelma loves to cook,’ Wilfred attested.

  ‘I love to eat . . . match made in heaven.’ Peter grinned. ‘But I am going out this morning, so I won’t be home for lunch, and I’m not sure about dinner, either.’

  ‘I’ll leave a pie in the fridge; you can just heat it up if you need something.’ She backed up wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Peter had never felt so taken care of, as his parents had been professional types and not very domestic.

  ‘Enjoy.’ Wilfred accompanied his wife back into the house.

  The pool filters and sprinkler systems in the garden shut off — Peter hadn’t noticed how noisy they were until their absence — all that was left was the trickling sounds from the various water features and the chirping of the birds and bugs.

  It was hard to escape the feeling he was on holiday in this oasis; he didn’t think he’d ever really consider this estate as belonging to him. Peter felt rather more like a custodian with benefits at present, and that wasn’t likely to change any time soon. Any normal person would take the time to enjoy all this — he hadn’t even seen half the house — but all things aside, it was all just a pretty distraction. At long last, Peter had a realistic shot at his goal and he wasn’t about to lose sight of the prize for any reason.

  ‘It never let up!’

  This inexplicable compulsion was no doubt exactly what Penelope’s daughter, Evelyn, despised so much about her mother, but this need was something only another artist could understand — or perhaps a great athlete, mystic or activist. For the drive and passion required to complete the quest had to be great and all-consuming, or you would never go the distance.

  Could this desire have triggered his dreams about Em? Perhaps the occurrence was merely his psyche submerging into her world in order to write it, and a completely normal part of the writing process? That was a question to put to Denise Yin and company when they met for one of their writerly gatherings.

  But today, it was back to 4 Kismet Way and the characters thereof. Had this story unfolded in reality, or had Penelope just used the situation as a muse for her fiction? Even though Peter would be forced to leave his idyllic present circumstance, he couldn’t wait to find out.

  At the retirement village, Peter was directed out into the gardens, to where Mr Boyle could be found.

  ‘Mr Boyle?’ Peter approached the bench where Billy sat in the shade of a large tree. ‘My name is Peter Lemond.’

  ‘You’re the one who called yesterday?’

  ‘I am,’ Peter smiled and took a seat on the bench beside him.

  ‘I saw you at Penelope’s funeral, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did,’ Peter pulled the photo he’d found in Penelope’s art book out of his jacket pocket and showed it to Billy. ‘Is the sax player in the photograph you?’

  Billy gave a laugh once he focused on the picture. ‘It surely is.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was wondering whether you could tell me anything about the circumstances in which the photo was taken? Where, when . . . who the others in the photo are?’

  Billy cocked an eye, suddenly wary. ‘Are you writing a book about Penelope?’

  ‘No.’ Peter wanted to set the man at ease, but if Billy was the musician in Penelope’s story, he doubted the truth was going to be of any consolation. ‘Actually, I was working on a book with Penelope about four artists sharing a studio.’

  Billy appeared a tad annoyed by the synopsis. ‘Did she mention it was haunted?’ he scoffed.

  ‘So 4 Kismet Way actually existed?’ Peter’s heart began racing in his chest.

  ‘Still does, as far as I’m aware,’ Billy said, and Peter could barely breathe for his excitement. ‘I tried to burn it down once, albeit unsuccessfully.’

  ‘You did?’ Peter grabbed his head to contain his excitement. ‘You know what happened?’ It was impossible to convey how ecstatic he was to hear that, but clearly to Billy, Peter’s excitement was obvious.

  ‘I do.’ The old bloke grinned. ‘But it’s not pretty.’

  That fact didn’t dampen Peter’s excitement one iota; here was the living, breathing ending to Penelope’s book. ‘Mr Boyle, I wonder if you would indulge a first-time writer with a few days of your time? Penelope left her house to me, and I’d be honoured if you could come and stay a few days and tell me the ending of her story. I could read you what we wrote of the book,’ he proffered.

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’ Billy was obviously well disposed towards the idea. ‘I’d love to see Penelope’s palace again.’ Then the joy slipped from his face. ‘But I’m an old man, Peter. I can’t go and stay anywhere these days without a nurse. It’s a lot of trouble to —’

  ‘I am a nurse,’ Peter advised happily and Billy’s spirits appeared to soar once more.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ Billy resolved, raising himself as fast as he could, leaning on his walking stick to support his stance. ‘Let’s blow this joint.’

  Peter wasn’t too sure how to take this comment, considering what Penelope had been like. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  Billy laughed. ‘I meant, let us depart.’

  ‘Oh,’ Peter stood to walk with him.

  ‘There will be paperwork,’ Billy warned.

  Peter knew this. ‘There’s always paperwork.’

  ‘Thanks for this, Peter, I don’t get many visitors these days and even fewer outings.’

  ‘I assure you, Mr Boyle, I am far more excited than you are.’

  ‘Call me, Billy,’ he insisted. ‘Do you have any whisky?’

  ‘That depends on what your chart says.’ Peter wasn’t committing to anything yet.

  ‘I tell a much better story with a whisky,’ Billy cautioned Peter against ruling out the possibility altogether.

  In the car, his passenger snoozed for most of the trip back to Penelope’s house, and when they arrived Peter woke Billy gently and aided him to a guest bedroom on the lower floor. It wasn’t as grand as those on the second level of the house, but it would save Billy’s ageing bones the hike up the staircase.

  ‘Old muso habits die hard,’ Billy explained, as he crawled onto the bed. ‘I’ll be wide awake tonight.’

  ‘No hurry.’ Peter removed his guest’s shoes and covered him with a blanket. ‘I’ve worked the night shift for years, so we’ll be right in sync.’

  ‘You understand . . .’ he mumbled, drifting back off to sleep.

  Peter plugged in a sound monitor and attached the remote to his belt to keep an ear out for this charge, who might be disorientated when he awoke. He then headed to the kitchen to advise Mrs Eddington that they had a guest.

  ‘Good thing I made a pie big enough for two then.’ She grinned, pointing him to the fridge, which Peter opened to behold his generous dinner.

  ‘Are you a mind reader, Mrs E?’ Peter was beginning to wonder.

&n
bsp; ‘Well, you might have had company?’ She shrugged shyly and Peter realised she’d had Gabrielle in mind.

  ‘After Mr Boyle’s stay I don’t expect to have any company for a while, as I’ll be writing.’

  ‘That’s lovely.’ She was delighted. ‘Another writer.’

  ‘Aspiring,’ Peter felt compelled to clarify.

  ‘You’ve got an idea then?’ She fetched the coffee pot to rinse and make a fresh brew.

  ‘I do.’ It was only when she asked that it occurred to Peter that if Penelope’s story had really happened, perhaps Thelma and Wilfred knew something of Em? ‘Can I ask how long you and Mr E have worked for Penelope?’

  ‘Since she bought this house, really.’ She paused to consider. ‘Going on fifty years now.’

  ‘My goodness.’ Peter was impressed. ‘You must have been young when she hired you?’

  ‘My first and only job,’ she informed him proudly.

  No wonder the lovely old couple were having trouble leaving the place; it was all they had ever known. ‘I wonder . . . did Penelope ever mention a character named Em?’

  ‘Em?’ The housekeeper turned white. ‘Only once that I recall.’ She seemed rather disturbed by the memory. ‘It was just before her first stroke. Ms Whitman was talking to someone who was not present in the room, which wasn’t an unusual event; as an author she spoke to her characters and muses all the time! But I never heard her quite so upset as she was that day, and the name she kept using was Em.’

  Peter was intrigued and discomforted at once. ‘Do you remember anything she said to Em?’

  ‘I heard her say something like . . . “I can’t risk it, Em. You should have told me the truth from the beginning.” That’s all, really. Once the stroke took hold everything she said was gibberish.’

  ‘It wasn’t smoking that gave me a stroke, it was a stressful situation.’ The recollection of Penelope’s claim gave him a chill now.

  ‘Do you have a character named Em?’ Thelma was obviously curious about his line of questioning.

  ‘There was one in the last story Penelope was writing,’ Peter allowed, ‘who seems to have been a bit more than a work of fiction.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ Thelma quivered and crossed her arms to warm herself. ‘You’re giving me chills already. Are you a horror writer then?’

  ‘I’m not too sure what genre you’d class this story as.’ His mind boggled at the possibilities — there seemed to be several stories here, all interwoven across time, and even he was now bound up in it.

  ‘Well, we’ll be very careful not to disturb you once you start. I’ll just slip in a little snack every now and then.’

  ‘That sounds like heaven,’ Peter expressed his gratitude — now if he only knew where to start.

  After dinner Peter read Billy the manuscript, right up to the last scene. ‘And that’s it,’ he concluded. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

  ‘I could . . .’ Billy suggested, holding fingers to his temple, ‘but it’s all a little vague.’

  ‘Let me guess, whisky does wonders for your memory,’ Peter posed.

  ‘Now that you mention it, yes . . . yes, it does.’

  ‘At your age, drinking is really not good for you —’

  ‘At my age, breathing is not good for me, but I still do it,’ Billy grumbled.

  ‘Could we not go there?’ Peter didn’t wish to be responsible for killing the man.

  ‘Tell me, Peter, are you a writer first and foremost, or a nurse?’

  The crafty old bugger knew what the answer would be. ‘Just one.’

  ‘Of course!’ Billy agreed happily. ‘But you’d better bring the bottle, just in case,’ he called after him.

  Glass of whisky in-hand, Billy settled back into his chair by the fire. ‘Sheer luxury.’ He wallowed in the moment of his first sip.

  The man appeared so contented, Peter decided to pour himself a glass, and his first sip almost made him choke. ‘How do you drink this stuff neat?’

  ‘You don’t ruin a good whisky with a bloody mixer.’ Billy sounded completely appalled.

  ‘If you say so.’ Peter placed the glass aside and took up the photograph of the four artists. ‘So you are in the photograph and Penelope Whitman is the writer; who are the dancer and the artist?’

  ‘That photograph was intended to be a caricature of us all. The ballerina was Isabelle Basque, a rising star, and Fabian Donati, the painter you see there, was obsessed with her and painting her.’

  ‘Fabian Donati?’ Peter repeated, feeling he’d heard that name before.

  ‘Yes, his works are quite famous,’ Billy said, having another wee sip of his drink.

  ‘Are they both still alive?’ Peter ventured at the risk of sounding tactless.

  ‘No, no,’ Billy was sad to say. ‘They both died young.’

  ‘May I ask what happened to them?’ Peter inadvertently sipped from his glass, and although struck by the strength of the drink, it went down a little easier this time.

  ‘If you want my opinion, it was that bloody ghost!’ Billy was up in arms. ‘Fabian and Isabelle were the most perfect couple but Isabelle, like me, suspected that Em had a destructive hold on our flatmates. She aided me to start the fire in the storage closet. We hoped that in getting rid of Em’s artwork we might be rid of the ghost too. I’d already moved out of the place, but Isabelle begged me to help get the others out of there before they were so obsessed with their art that the rest of their lives went to hell.’

  ‘And?’ Peter was on the edge of his seat, sipping more whisky.

  ‘The artwork wouldn’t burn,’ Billy summed up. ‘We tried everything. Even petrol just rolled off the canvases without leaving a trace on the items or floor. It was freaky! A few days later Isabelle was found dead in the studio.’

  ‘What?’ Peter was alarmed to hear this.

  ‘I had nightmares for ages, so it’s surprising I didn’t end up the same. A freak heart attack they said, but I know different. Fabian never painted again, which is why his ballerina paintings are so valued now, due to their rarity and the tragic love story attached. Fabian died the year after Isabelle, of a broken heart, it was said. But that was just a romantic sales pitch. If you ask me, Fabian regretted not getting out of the apartment sooner, and refused to paint to get back at the ghost for what he’d suspected it had done.’

  ‘So Penelope finally came to her senses and moved out,’ Peter assumed.

  ‘Well, she moved out,’ Billy granted. ‘But I don’t know that she ever really let go of Em. Of all of us, she was the most obsessed with the ghost, yet the least aware of Em’s existence and the extent of the entity’s power. She simply regarded Em as her muse.’

  Peter was getting creepy chills all over him now. ‘But after all that had happened, why didn’t she try to escape Em, like you did?’

  ‘I think Em had her enchanted. Penelope never said so, but I don’t think she was convinced Em was responsible for our sad turn of events. I lost my girlfriend, two dear friends, and I nearly lost my mind. If you want my opinion, Penelope may as well have made a deal with the devil! She lost her husband, her children, and quite a few friends, but she started churning out bestsellers and never looked back.’

  ‘I have the journals they found in that closet,’ Peter confessed.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Billy grumbled, ‘please say you’re joking.’

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about Em since I found them.’ Peter thought he might as well be out with all of it.

  ‘Do not go there,’ Billy warned, ‘getting back out is hell!’

  ‘I understand your reserve, considering what you’ve said. I know this spirit likes to express its artistic flair vicariously through other living artists.’

  Billy gave a grunt, to make it clear he thought that an understatement.

  ‘But I believe that’s only how Em finds amusement; I think what Em is really waiting for is someone to write her story.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Penelope just write it and be do
ne with it?’ Billy scoffed.

  ‘That’s what I mean to find out.’ Peter finished the remains of his drink.

  ‘You’re a gamer man than I,’ Billy warranted.

  ‘Did you ever read the journals?’ Peter decided he wouldn’t mind another glass and Billy held his glass out for a refill too. Peter hesitated for a second and then obliged him.

  ‘Bless you, Peter, you’re a good lad.’ Billy settled back in his chair, happy once more. ‘No, I never read them. I didn’t want anything to do with the place after my classical duet in the otherworld. I can see that Penelope has updated some of the details of the story, and compressed events that happened over many years into a much shorter time span, but most of it is pretty true to form. Clever, making herself a man, so that no one would guess she was chronicling her own experience.’

  ‘Maybe she meant to tell Em’s story in this book, but died before she got there,’ Peter posed. ‘Penelope did actually refer me to these journals, so I feel she intended to use them.’

  ‘I reckon the only reason Em let me be was because Penelope was so obliging,’ Billy decided. ‘After she got divorced, she bought this place and the only time anyone ever saw her was between novels. Is that how you want your life to turn out, Peter?’ Billy queried sombrely.

  Actually, Peter mostly wanted to say yes.

  ‘That was a very pretty girl I saw on your arm at the funeral.’ The old gent placed his glass down for the first time in the entire conversation. ‘I can tell you now; Em won’t tolerate having that kind of a distraction around, and will find a way to be rid of her.’

  Peter felt he had that covered at least. ‘Gabrielle is leaving me alone to write this piece, which sounds like it’s for the best after what you’ve told me.’ Gabrielle also had her own psychic protection in the form of her grandmother. ‘Perhaps Em will be content if I take on writing her story.’

  ‘Or she’ll become even more obsessive.’ Billy played devil’s advocate. ‘You have no idea what her story is, or why Penelope didn’t go there. Should you decide you do not want to go there either, then what? You think you will be able to simply walk away? Well you won’t. And even if you do finish it, you think Em will just be content and leave?’ Billy hesitated to laugh, for clearly he felt it no laughing matter. ‘If she becomes famous through you, she’s going to want to bask in that glory! Em is the type who wants to be adored.’