The Murdstone Trilogy Read online

  ‘Minerva, I told you. I can’t write that dreadful hobbity stuff. I just simply … can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Minerva said quite sharply. ‘You’re a professional, Philip. You could turn your hand to anything, if you put your mind to it.’

  Philip clasped his hands together until the knuckles whitened. ‘Minerva, please. Listen to me. I—’

  ‘No, darling. You listen to me for just another tiny minute. Your total income for last year, from all five books, OK, was twelve grand and some change. My share of that was a measly eighteen hundred quid plus VAT. Now, you may be perfectly content in your badgery little cottage living on poached mice and hedge fruit, but my tastes run a little richer. Eighteen hundred hardly pays for lunch for a week. Unless you eat here, of course. People are starting to wonder why I keep you on. And to be frank, darling, in my stronger moments so am I.’

  ‘You can’t mean that,’ Philip cried, aghast. ‘Don’t say that. I mean, good lord, it’s true that I’m having a bit of a dip at the moment, but—’

  ‘It’s not a dip, Philip. It’s a ditch. It’s a rather deep trench. One might almost say a canyon filled with darkest night.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s—’

  ‘Write me a phantasy, Philip. Let’s make lots of money. Then if you don’t like being rich you can go back to writing about loopy boys. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘But Minerva, Minerva,’ he wailed. ‘I don’t know how to do it!’ He seized her hand in both of his.

  ‘Oh, come on, Philip. It’s not quantum physics. There’s a formula.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll show you. Would you like a brandy first?’

  ‘Oh God, yes please.’

  Minerva spoke rapidly, simultaneously scrawling key words and sentences on the back of a sheet of scrap paper taken from her bag. She wrote in purple-ink felt-tip. The scrap paper was the tragic final page of Philip Murdstone’s manuscript of Sent Off.

  ‘So. The world – “Realm” is the proper term – of High Fantasy is sort of medieval. Well, pre-industrial, anyway. Something like Devon, I imagine. Vaguely socialist, in an idyllic, farmerish – is that a word? – sort of a way. But the Realm has fallen under the power of a Dark Lord who wants to change everything. He was probably a decent sort of a guy originally, but went mental when he got a sniff of power or got snubbed or something. You know. Anyway, the Dark Lord is served by minions. That’s a word you must use, OK? The top minions are the Dark Sorcerers. Some of them conspire against the Dark Lord, but he is much cleverer than they are and always finds out what they are up to and does terrible things to them. Below the Dark Sorcerers there are hordes of brutish warriors. They’re usually something like warthogs wearing leather armour and are called Dorcs. The oppressed subjects of the Realm are of three sorts. There are dwarves, who live under the ground in old mines, burrows, that sort of thing. Then there are elves. They live in, up, or under trees. Finally, there are sort of humans. Some of them live in walled cities, some live in funny little hamlets a bit like whatsitsname, the one you live in. All three types can do magic, but it’s pretty feeble stuff compared to the heavy magic the Sorcerers can do.’

  She underlined ‘feeble magic’ and ‘heavy magic’.

  ‘I could murder a cigarette,’ Philip said.

  ‘In a minute. The young hero lives in a remote village in the furthest Shire – that’s another must, Shire, OK – of the Realm. He thinks he’s an orphan, but he’s a prince, of course. He’s being brought up by nice doddery old sort of humans. They probably get slaughtered by Dorcs and he has to flee. Somehow or other he becomes the apprentice of a Greybeard who is a Good Sorcerer, the last of the Twelve High Magi or somesuch. He knows the true parentage of the hero, but doesn’t tell him. He does instruct the hero in the rules and uses of Magick – that’s magic with a kay – but otherwise keeps him in the dark about what the hell is going on. The hero passes various tests and ordeals, sort of like Mystical GCSEs, then he gets a magick sword. The sword has to have a name. That’s important, OK?’

  Minerva underlined sword has name three times.

  ‘What sort of a name?’ Philip asked, dazed.

  ‘Something a bit Welsh-sounding is usually OK. Something you can’t pronounce if you’ve got a normal set of teeth, you know? Oh, and on the subject of names generally, it’s a good idea to stick an apostrophe in where you wouldn’t normally expect one. So. Where was I? Ah yes. Then the Greybeard disappears, or dies. Towards the end of the story the hero acquires an even more powerful and more mysterious mentor. He’ll be a Whitebeard, not a Greybeard. But before that the hero has to go on a Quest. This is terribly important, Philip, OK? You’ve simply got to have a Quest.’

  She wrote QUEST in purple capitals.

  ‘Really?’ Philip tried to sound arch. ‘Surprising as it may seem, I am dimly aware of the importance of the quest in children’s fiction. All great children’s books are quest narratives. I think it’s fair to say that my own novels might be seen as contemporary versions of—’

  ‘Yes, darling, of course. But in the kind of quest I’m talking about, the hero has to overcome real dragons, not gropey games masters or embittered ladies from Social Services.’

  When Philip had recovered from this stabbing he said, rather meekly, ‘Dragons are compulsory, are they?’

  Minerva considered this for a moment. ‘Well, not necessarily, I suppose. Some other monstery thing might do. Probably best to stick with dragons, though, to be on the safe side. Anyway. The idea of the Quest is to find the Thing. The Thing has mystical powers, of course. It’ll probably be called The Amulet of Somethingorother.’ Minerva paused. ‘I’m not exactly sure what an amulet is, actually. It’s a sort of bracelet, isn’t it?’

  ‘Um, no, that’s an armlet. I think an amulet is a sort of totemic object, rather like—’

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, the important thing, OK, is that this Thing gives the hero the power to overcome the Dark Lord. Which he does, at the end, in a huge battle between his lot and the Dorcs. In fact, he nearly loses the battle, but then the Whitebeard shows up and shows him a trick or two so that he ends up victorious. The Realm is saved. The End. Actually, not the end. Just end of Part One.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These things come in trilogies, as a rule.’

  ‘Oh, dear God, no.’

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about that, darling. We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. There you go.’ She slid the sheet of purple graphics over to Philip, who stared at it.

  ‘I’m amazed,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve certainly done your homework. How many of these dreadful epics did you have to read to work out this, er, analysis?’

  ‘None. I pinched it out of the Telegraph. From a review of The Dragoneer Chronicles, actually.’

  ‘And what might they be?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Philip! Even you must have heard of The Dragoneer Chronicles.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘My God, darling, have you been living in a cave or something? Well, yes, I suppose you have, more or less. The Dragoneer Chronicles is the biggest thing since Harry Potter. You have heard of Harry Potter, I take it? You have? Good. Well, The Dragoneer Chronicles is a six-hundred-page fantasy blockbuster written by a seventeen-year-old anorak called Virgil Peroni. American, obviously. Actually, his mother wrote it for him, but that’s not the point. He got half a mill upfront from Armitage Hanks. A full mill for the movie rights. Enough to keep him in Clearasil for eternity. Which just goes to show, darling. If a beardless youth and his mum can do this stuff, a writer of your calibre should find it a doddle.’

  Philip said, ‘Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to go to the toilet.’

  When he came back Minerva was putting her iPad away. She glanced up at his face. ‘Philip, have you been crying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Now then. Style. The style for High Fantasy is sort of mock-Shakespearian without the rhyming bits. What you m
ight call half-timbered prose. Characters “hasten unto” to places; they don’t just piss off at a rate of knots. You have to say “dark was the hour”, not “at night”. Bags of capital letters. You know the sort of thing?’

  Philip tipped the brandy glass until it wept its last burning tear into his mouth. ‘Yeah. I know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Good. Now then, what I suggest is this, OK? Take my notes away with you. Do a spot of research. Immerse yourself in the genre. Or take a quick dip in it, if that’s all you can manage. Then go on one of those lovely long walks of yours across the boggy fells or whatever they are and dream me up a quick outline and a couple of chapters. I’ll give you a bell when I get back from LA and see how you’re getting on. Actually, come to think of it, darling, you’re ideally situated, aren’t you? It’s all very misty and legendy down your way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, very. Can hardly move for legends, some days.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  Minerva described a dying man’s electrocardiograph on the empty air and the waiter hastened unto her with the bill. She slipped into her silk and flax-mix jacket, and hefted her bag onto the table. ‘Now, darling, I really must dash, OK? I’m already seven minutes late for lunch with a Dark Sorcerer called Perry Whipple.’

  ‘But you’ve just had lunch,’ Philip pointed out.

  ‘I know. It’s a nightmare. You’ve no idea.’

  She stood up, so he started to. Then she sat down again. He was left half up and half down, bent in the middle like a man with stomachache. Which, in fact, he was.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ Minerva said. ‘You have to have a map.’

  ‘A map?’

  ‘Yes. For the endpapers. You know, a map of the Realm with the funny names on. Showing where the Mountains of Shand’r Ga and the Mire of Fetor and so on are. Oh, and don’t forget to leave a bit of the map mysteriously empty. Terra Incognita sort of thing. OK?’

  ‘I used to enjoy drawing imaginary maps at school,’ Philip admitted.

  Minerva beamed at him. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d be ideal for the job. I said so to Evelyn. You’ll do it marvellously, darling. I just know it.’

  It was dark in the room now, but he could not bring himself to turn on the lights. He drained his glass, groped for the plastic flagon.

  Redundant.

  Obsolete.

  Fucked.

  Sold out.

  He tried not to cry. He was assisted in the effort by his father, the late Captain Morgan Murdstone, who said from beyond the grave, ‘Steady, the Buffs.’ Philip had never understood the meaning of the phrase, but in his childhood it had halted the advance of pain, forced loss to retreat, driven tears back into their dugouts.

  He snuffled up snot and sat to attention.

  He would reach deep into himself. Yes, he would do that. He would draw from that quiet well of obstinate courage that had sustained him before. He had been forced to lower his spiritual bucket into it, so to speak, in order to endure the dreadful writer’s block that had beset him halfway through Waldo Chicken. And again when the new septic tank had backed up. Those had been hard times, God knows. And this now was not much worse. He would get through it. He would boldly go into Hobbitland and bring back the goods. After all, he had a map, of sorts. It wasn’t quantum physics. He’d amaze them all. He’d amaze – sweet thought, this – Minerva.

  So tomorrow – yes, tomorrow, why not – he would visit the Weird Sisters and carry off whatever Phantastickal, Magickal and Phantasmagorickal crap they had in stock and work his way through every last page. Although, given the choice, he would rather endure an operation for piles.

  As if the thought had conjured it, an appalling spasm forked through Philip’s innards. Even as he doubled up and fell to his knees on the hearth rug he knew its cause. The farmhouse scrumpy had made alchemical contact with the Mexican Platter and, perhaps catalysed by the rhubarb and chocolate torte with Pernod cream followed by brandy, had triggered a seismic eruption. Just behind his navel, something huge and grotesque hatched from its egg. A brutal fist hammered at the door of his bowels. He climbed, whimpering, upstairs to the lavatory.

  When he emerged, some forty-five minutes later, his face was white and waxen as a graveyard lily. He felt his way to his unmade bed, fell onto it and lost consciousness almost at once.

  3

  In the morning, delicately, Philip made himself a cup of tea and rolled a cigarette. He carried both out his front door and across the lane to where a warped and rusted gate was set into an ancient wall of stone. He sat his mug on the gatepost and lit his thin smoke.

  The view from here was lovely, constant, and never the same. Somehow, it was always sympathetic to his mood. Today, it was a composition in weak watercolour lit by a pallid sun. Sheep Nose Tor was a couple of beige brushstrokes at the foot of a colourless sky. The clandestine outlines of the lost village St Pessary, halfway down Goat’s Elbow Hill, were thinking about becoming indigo. Beyond Beige Willie the elusive meander of Parson’s Cleft was a sepia vein running down the soft loin of Honeybag Common into the dark thicket of Great Nodden Slough. But, for once, this beauty did not comfort. Something slumped inside him. Could he possibly bring himself to leave this splendour to wander exiled in some ludicrous version of Middle Earth?

  He stomped on his roll-up and turned towards home.

  He had loved the cottage at first sight, ten years ago. Then, he had been flush with the optimism and the money that the success of Last Past the Post had brought him. He had treated himself to a long weekend break at a grand and expensive hotel near Moretonhampstead, secretly hoping to meet attractive young women who would melt into the arms of a rising star of children’s literature. As it turned out, Blyte Manor specialized in golfing holidays. His fellow guests were all garishly dressed men who, in the evenings, talked about golf until they were too drunk to do so.

  To console himself he took to walking on the moor. He found it surprisingly enjoyable. In the middle of an effulgent summer’s day he found himself in Flemworthy, a small and nondescript town that had no apparent reason to be where it was. He took a liking to it, despite its drabness; perhaps it was because the inhabitants looked as dislocated as himself.

  So he’d had a couple of pints in the Gelder’s Rest, the stark pub at the corner of the Square, then found the lane that led towards Goat’s Elbow, his target for the day. Beyond the low stone wall on his left, the ground tumbled into a leafy vale through which a stream murmured, then rose again into a landscape of interfolding, crag-capped hills that seemed to change shape as cloud-shadows stole across them. Sheep grazed, larks filled the sky with light jazz, etc.

  If Philip had been less happy, less hungry-eyed, he might not have noticed the cottage. It was built of grey stone with a monkish hood of shaggy thatch. It was snugly hunkered into a kink in the hill like a wily old animal expecting a change in the weather. Its small windows squinted as though unused to so much sunlight. The faded For Sale sign leaned wearily against the rusting ironwork fence that separated the tangled garden from the lane.

  Philip had knocked at the door, even though it was obvious the place had not been lived in for some time. Shading his eyes, he peered into one of the two downstairs windows. Heavy black ceiling beams, a green-painted door that led to some further room, a stone fireplace that occupied almost the whole of the gable wall. He’d had a sudden and irresistible vision of himself comfily ensconced in that room in front of the fireplace, his peaceful solitude illuminated by a great log fire. Of himself contentedly surveying the changing seasons as they worked their magic on that splendid view. It was the kind of place that Writers lived in.

  He’d jotted down the name of the estate agent and, after checking out of Blyte Manor on Monday morning, presented himself at the offices of Chouse, Gammon & Fleece in Moretonhampstead. When he explained the reason for his visit, Mr Gammon was both incredulous and exceedingly helpful.

  The independent surveyor (another Mr Gammon, as it ha
ppened) reported that the cottage needed ‘a spot of updating’, so Philip offered, as an opening gambit, a mere three-quarters of the asking price. To his surprise and delight it was immediately accepted. The paperwork, the legal stuff, was all completed at astonishing speed; Philip reflected that these Devon folk did not deserve their reputation for living at a slow and contemplative pace. Less than six weeks later, in a solemn little ceremony at the cottage door, he took possession of the keys to Downside Cottage and waved goodbye to Mr Gammon’s speedily vanishing Range Rover.

  Five years later the spot of updating (new roof timbers and thatch; new drainage; elimination of dry rot, wet rot, woodworm and deathwatch beetle; the installation of indoor toilet/bathroom; new kitchen; the underpinning of the subsiding rear wall; new electrics and plumbing; replacement of the crumbling window frames; damp-proofing and replastering; two new ceilings; new staircase and upstairs flooring) was complete. None of it, to Philip’s ineffable pleasure, had done anything to damage the cottage’s air of divine discontent and ancient stubbornness. Nor had it made even the slightest difference to the unique and timeless smell of the place, the smell that now greeted him as he pushed open the door and stooped under the low lintel. He had tried many times to analyse this subtle odour, to identify its many components. Damp boots, congealed sausage fat, stale tobacco, ripening cheese, mildew, the dung of tiny rodents; all these were part of the rich mix. But there was something else, something elusive, that made it so welcoming; he had never been able to put his finger on it. It was almost as if he had created the aroma himself, rather than inheriting it.