Freya's Quest Read online

  ‘Still here, Rupert,’ Dylan called.

  ‘Yes. Thought I’d get my Bentley serviced before heading to Scotland. I’ll pay, of course.’

  ‘Oh, I thought the Bentley belonged to Veronica,’ I said.

  Rupert grinned wryly.

  ‘Heading up to the MacAlistairs, eh? Ronni said you were keen on Lady Jennifer. She’s a bit of a handful. You’ll need to keep your wits about you.’

  Rupert nodded, then frowned.

  ‘Shame you and Janis haven’t worked out.’ As he said this, I had the impression he was rather pleased they hadn’t.

  ‘No. I can see now it was all her mother’s idea. I think I bored her.’

  Dylan smiled, then led me away to show me around the four-storey main building. It had been converted into a small museum for British cars from the Fifties and Sixties, which were fast becoming classics. Some were in original condition; others, he told me, had been restored by his small team of mechanics and bodywork specialists. I’d always liked old cars and he smiled at how enthralled I was.

  ‘I notice most are basic models. I see you have some MGs and Triumph TRs here. But I was expecting more high-performance sports cars.’

  ‘Yes. I can understand that,’ Dylan replied. ‘But there are enough collectors for those already. The more mundane marques and models are being lost as we speak. Take this Humber Super Snipe, for example.’ He laid his hand on the bonnet. ‘85% of all the Rolls Royces ever built still survive. Less than 10% of Humbers do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I suppose I’m also following Sera’s example. She had the riches to buy a luxury model. But she chose a humble little car instead. That’s why I’ve dedicated the museum to her memory.’ He pointed to a plaque on the wall.

  ‘Come on, let’s find Ronni.’

  ‘Veronica? – she’s here?’ It didn’t seem the right sort of environment for her.

  ‘Yes. She manages this place for me.’ He chuckled at my astonishment.

  He walked me over to the old mill-owner’s house, where Veronica lived. She met us at the door. She smiled at Dylan, but gave me a poisonous look. Dylan observed this and rebuked her with a cold stare. She became subdued as she guided us into the living room. A pot of tea was soon provided.

  Suddenly, an Old English sheepdog scampered in, jumping up on Dylan’s lap and licking his face. This lightened his mood again and the moment was forgotten.

  ‘Hello, boy. Have the mechanics been looking after you OK?’

  ‘He’s your dog?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been staying here for a few days. Janis unfortunately hates dogs.’

  The dog came over to me, sitting down and raising his paw. I cuddled him. ‘How could anyone hate you, eh? He’s lovely, Dyl., what’s his name?’

  ‘Quasimodo. Quasi for short.’

  ‘Oh, surely not. He’s too gorgeous for a name like that. Why?’

  ‘My favourite classic novel’s Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo. I named the dog after the hunchback because I found him abandoned as a puppy, just as unwanted and unloved as Quasimodo.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Is he coming back with us?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I can’t get over how Emily was the other night,’ Veronica interrupted, looking at Dylan.

  ‘Neither can I.’

  Veronica sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘She’s trying my patience, she really is.’

  ‘She ruined my garden with that bloody machine!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about that confounded motorbike! And what about her uncouth friends? You met them yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose you could euphemistically call them “motorcyclists”.’

  ‘What? – A gang?’

  ‘Hell’s Angels.’

  Dylan laughed. ‘You exaggerate too often, Ronni, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘No. I’m being serious. She’s joined them. Giving up the chance of Oxford, to gallivant around the country on that dangerous contraption. She’ll get herself killed. Now she’s threatening to change her appearance radically, no doubt encouraged by her new friends. Heaven knows what that’ll mean….And I think she’s self-harming again.’ Veronica put her head in her hands and started to sob.

  Despite what had transpired between us previously, compassion began to get the better of me. ‘She’s very young,’ I said. ‘We all go through a rebel stage. She’s got plenty of time to come back to studying.’ I already felt an affinity with Emily, having given up my own studies at a similar age, and for similar reasons.

  Veronica paused to digest my comments, then said: ‘No, she’s right. I pushed her too far. Now I’ve lost her for good.’

  Dylan, crestfallen, excused himself. The dog followed him out of the door, wagging its tail.

  Once alone with her, silence ensued. After a while she asked a few questions about me. I gave her the same stock answers I’d given Dylan, revealing nothing of any real importance. I managed to draw her onto a discussion about her own family, before her questioning of mine became too difficult.

  ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong. Maybe I didn’t bring them up right.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. Sera’s death can’t’ve helped.’

  Veronica eyed welled up. She paused. ‘Anyway, it’s “Seraphina”. I always hated the shortened form. We chose a very rare name, yet she and her siblings always called her “Sera”.’ A flash of anger passed over her face. ‘Sounds like “Sarah” – too common for my liking.’

  ‘OK. Sorry – “Seraphina”.’

  An uncomfortable silence followed, until Veronica relaxed her defences again.

  ‘You’re probably right. My other children have struggled to cope with Seraphina’s death, just as much as I have – Janis a failure, Eric skulked off abroad and now Emily trying to run away, too.’

  Emily can’t’ve been very old when her sister died?’

  ‘No, she was only one. An afterthought.’ She paused for an intake of tea. ‘She never really knew Seraphina. Nor her father. Frederick was heartbroken by her elopement with Dylan. It hastened his death. She died within a few weeks of him.’

  ‘Must’ve been difficult bringing up your other children on your own.’

  ‘Yes. Well, Janis was nineteen. Two years older than Seraphina. She’d already left home. Eric was only fourteen. He really missed out. I had a complete breakdown, you see. Wasn’t really there for him emotionally. He failed his exams and bummed off round the world. He’s in Australia now. Doesn’t keep in touch.’

  ‘What about Janis?’

  ‘Always had a chip on her shoulder thinking Frederick and I favoured Seraphina. In a way she was right. Seraphina was more beautiful, more intelligent. A genius destined for high achievement. All Janis ever seemed interested in was climbing mountains. A failure, really.’

  ‘Sorry if I seem a little presumptuous, but isn’t that being a bit harsh?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Her tone took on a hard edge. ‘She’s never settled to anything. Got herself engaged to a mountaineer. That soon broke up. He later died on K2. Then she became a single mum. Had loads of jobs. Married and divorced. Now she’s got this rock-climbing school. Making a go of that, at least. But she’s not strict enough with her daughter. Runs rings round her.’

  ‘And Emily?’

  ‘The baby of the family. My final hope. Emily’s made me realize I’ve tried to put her into Seraphina’s shoes too much. As she grew, she looked so like her. It was uncanny. I only hope she doesn’t hate me too much.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come round. How did Dylan meet Seraphina?’

  ‘Really, you’re full of questions, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. But let’s make this the last one. Dylan’s mother and I were best friends. She lived in Wales. Came up here when Dylan was ten. He was great friends with Eric first. He and Seraphina became childhood sweethearts. But she didn’t blossom till she was about fourteen, when she grew
into her features and lost her dental braces.’

  ‘I see….And….’

  ‘Enough. Enough. I told you that would be the last question. What is it about Dylan and our family that brings out such fascination in hack journalists and his fancy women? Draws out too many of my own feelings every time. But still you all keep coming! I’m on medication, you know. Nerves and depression.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But that’s no excuse for treating me the way you did the other day.’

  An awkward silence enveloped us again.

  Yet underneath I was happy. Many had come before with probing questions, so I wouldn’t look too out of place within Dylan’s inner circle if I continued to ask my own.

  Then I brought the medallion I had found out of my pocket. ‘Found this the other day.’

  The change in Veronica was great. Her eyes widened and her interest had been renewed. ‘Where?’ she asked, eager to hold the object, as if she realized it must be worth something.

  As I gave the medallion to her, Rupert came in and immediately took it off her – much to Veronica’s annoyance – and sat down in a chair to admire the object.

  ‘Found it under the fallen tree. Up at the Lodge. Dylan thought it might be Masonic.’

  Rupert was holding the medallion up to the light and taking a close look at the markings. ‘No, he’s wrong.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’m a Freemason myself.’

  ‘Oh, that would explain the dodgy handshake,’ Veronica said, walking over to Rupert and snatching the medallion back. ‘Let me take it to a friend of mine. A local antiquarian. He’ll know.’

  I was a little reluctant, but she had pocketed the medallion before I had a chance to answer. Upon reflexion, I thought it might help to keep her on more friendly terms. And I reasoned she could be a source of valuable information on Dylan.

  The conversation then moved on to more mundane subjects, until Dylan came back into the room. ‘Come outside. I’ve something to show you.’

  I was intrigued. I followed him to the car park. We approached a gleaming light-blue Austin-Healey.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes, rather!’

  ‘It’s a “Frog-Eye” Sprite.’

  ‘I know – and isn’t she a beauty!’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you like it.’ He threw me the keys and I caught them. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘No. I want you to have it. We’ve another one in the museum. Shame to sell it, after all our restoration. You keep it.’

  ‘Look. I really can’t accept.’

  ‘You can and you will. You’d still have your Fiat if I hadn’t towed it back to my place. It’s not really a free gift, more a replacement. I feel obliged. And – as I’ve said before – I don’t want you thinking you can’t leave whenever you like.’

  I embraced him and smothered him with kisses, grateful for his patronage. ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘Drive it back to the Lodge. I’ll meet you there.’ He waved, then walked off towards his workshops.

  ‘You’re lucky to’ve met him,’ Veronica said over my shoulder. ‘He’s a generous man.’

  ‘Too generous.’

  ‘Yes. Though he doesn’t give away gifts lightly. This must mean he thinks highly of you. But beware! Affairs rarely last long with Dylan. And anyway, he’s not even free. Just be thankful you’ve lasted beyond the first night.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’d make the most of it, if I were you. But be prepared to share him.’

  She sniggered when she saw my face. Beneath her sarcasm I could detect the frost of resentment. ‘I must go back to work now. It’s been nice to talk to you.’ She didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘Wait. What more can you tell me about Dylan?’

  She turned round, angry all of a sudden. ‘Stop bothering me. Go ask him yourself!’ She must have seen how glum my expression was as I climbed into the Austin-Healey, ‘….or you could try his scrapbook collection in the library….at the Lodge.’

  ‘Thanks….,’ but she was gone, walking off towards the house.

  Driving back to the Lodge was unforgettable. Being behind the wheel of such a car, speeding around the twisting bends, with the hood down and hair flowing in the wind, was an experience I never dreamed I’d ever have. I parked in the forecourt, pulling up the roof of the car again.

  Then I headed straight for the library. I searched patiently for the scrapbooks. I found them in amongst some ancient books on witchcraft and black magic. They turned out to be elaborately bound volumes, very similar to those around them. There were ten in all, each one representing a year, starting with the publication of his first book.

  Every article and review ever published on Dylan appeared to be here. The good and the bad. His first novel, Pillar Rock (1977), named after a real feature above Ennerdale, was a fictionalized account of the beginnings of rock climbing in the 1890s. The sport had indeed started in the Lakes at this time, apparently by people like O.G. Jones, Haskett-Smith and the Abraham Brothers, whom I’d never heard of. It had had good reviews, won awards, but hadn’t sold well.

  His second book, The Music Man (1979), about the rise and fall of a rock star, had secured his future. The book had been developed for film. He had written the screenplay himself. Hollywood had made him a millionaire several times over.

  His other books, The Immigrant (1982), Beyond the Raging Sea (1983) and Friends and Lovers (1985) had enhanced his literary reputation, if not his bank balance. He was now seen as a leading figure in a new wave of young writers.

  However, increasingly the articles were shifting away from reviews and interviews about his work, towards sensational tabloid exposure of his private life. Highly publicized affairs with a page-three girl, Sheila Delaney; the French cult-film actress, Monique Devereaux; and the pop singer, Amy Morgan, with whom he’d co-written a number of protest songs; had brought the image of Dylan the playboy to life. He’d also been named in the divorce courts twice, and had broken up the marriages of several celebrities. The greatest publicity had surrounded his affair with a cabinet minister’s married daughter, which had led to a pregnancy, and then to a scandal.

  The articles began to peter out after 1985, with only the occasional story by one of his ex-lovers or one-night-standers, who’d cashed in with pieces like:

  MY NIGHT WITH DYLAN QUEST

  or

  CON-QUEST

  I had to laugh. Yet it revealed a very real fear that Dylan was exploiting me as much as all these other women, as Emily and Veronica had warned. What he hadn’t expected, though, was that I’d used my pre-knowledge of his womanizing reputation to help me seduce him in the first place.

  I put the heavy volumes away and went to the lounge with the copy of Friends and Lovers I’d all but finished.

  Dylan came back when I was settling myself onto the sofa.

  He stormed into the room, his anger all too evident.

  I stood up. ‘What’s wrong Dyl….?’

  He shoved me back down with force.

  ‘Shut up and listen! I want you to tell me the truth now. No more lies or you can fuck off!’

  I cowered. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean! You’ve been lying to me ever since we met! Everything you’ve told me’s probably untrue.’

  ‘Eh?’ I struggled to regain some composure.

  ‘Give up, Freya. I went through the wreckage of your car. I found notebooks full of shorthand. Tell me the truth. You’re an undercover journalist, aren’t you?’

  ‘’Course not….’ putting on an indignant face. ‘I’m really only a secretary. I use shorthand all the time at work.’

  I wasn’t lying. And whilst John had dabbled with writing in his youth, he was no journalist either.

  Dylan sat down, cooling off a little. ‘Thank God. Ronni said you’d been asking all these questions. Then I found the notebooks. I came to a logical conclusion, albeit a wrong one. I’m just so fed up wi
th hacks invading my privacy and exploiting my good nature.’

  He paused when he saw how upset I was getting.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve overreacted….Just promise me you won’t sell your story to the press.’

  ‘I promise,’ I mumbled.

  He wiped away the feigned tears from my eyes with his hands very delicately.

  Then he carried me up the stairs to bed.

  - VIII -

  WE SPENT THE next couple of days hardly venturing away from the bedchamber. His lovemaking was tender and experimental. The dutiful Yasuko responded to Dylan’s bell call with meals in bed at regular intervals. I felt safe, cocooned here in an unreal world. However, the next day he returned to his tower, ostensibly to work on a new novel-in-progress. With Yasuko fixated on all her chores, eager not to receive Dylan’s wrath, I felt lonely. And the Lodge had begun to take on a claustrophobic feel which disturbed me.

  I decided I had to break free.

  I went over to the old stables and opened the double doors. As I was unlocking the car, I spied an ornate gold picture frame poking out of a hessian sack. I went over to it and pulled it out. I choked as a cloud of dust rose into my face. I placed the heavy item onto a workbench and rubbed the grime of a generation off the surface of the painting.

  It was a portrait of an old man, with a full head of grey hair and a handlebar moustache. It was well executed. His eyes bore right into me and seemed to follow me as I gazed at the rest of the picture.

  I was fascinated, yet unsettled by it.

  I licked my right index finger and rubbed at the brass plate at the bottom of the frame. It read:

  Sir Frederick Faversham

  1890-1970

  I nodded in realization: it was Seraphina, Janis and Emily’s father. What I couldn’t understand was why such an imposing and undoubtedly valuable portrait was hidden away in here. Confused, I replaced it in the sack and made a mental note to ask Dylan later on.

  Returning to the car, I climbed in and reversed out into the sunshine. Then I pulled down the roof. Soon I was negotiating the driveway, the Austin-Healey roaring its approval. It only had a small engine, but it gave a good impression of true thoroughbred class.