As Michael admired the fourteen sheets of paper covered with his handwriting, he shook his head in disbelief at how just hours ago they had been completely blank. No characters, setting, dialogue or narrative had existed, and yet now, miraculously, out of nothing, something had been created. Michael had not expected such a bounty as he put aside his laptop in frustration and picked up a pen. It was more a final resort in his effort to cure a persistent and frightening lack of production. But something about removing the barrier between himself and the page had enabled his ideas to flow more freely, and now he felt an irrefutable sense that a novel was finally underway.
Michael’s only regret was that the story concerned a writer. He had read enough debut fiction to appreciate how typical the subject was for a first time novelist. And had he been given the choice he would never have embarked upon such a topic. But free will, it seemed, played no part in the process. The story had appeared fully formed in Michael’s imagination, and now demanded that the shabby ideas he had been trying to bring to life for the past four years be put to one side.
To a point he knew it was wishful thinking – the idea of an established writer assisting an aspiring one. But that was where the similarities with his trip to Hobart ended. The story he had started to write would be more subtle than his own relationship with Lucian, and he intended on having a woman at the centre of the narrative. Michael wanted to undermine the cliché of an older writer taking advantage of an aspiring one. It had been written too many times, and few had improved upon The Lesson of the Master by Henry James. Although he would allow his readers to believe something sinister existed behind the established author’s encouragement towards marriage and children, Michael’s objective was for the aspiring writer to achieve all his ambitions. Maybe he was missing Rachel more than he realised, but Michael was sick of the idea that closing a heart to life, be it love or the responsibility of children, was conducive to being an artist. It was nothing more than a Hollywood cliché. Most of the authors he admired had either large families or long-term partners, and he wanted to demonstrate that if art was legitimately present it could emerge in a domestic setting as effectively as it could in a cold-water garret.
Michael understood that the writing process would be neither quick nor easy, but also knew the work he had travelled to Hobart for was far from complete. The quantity of papers Lucian had accumulated over his lifetime was daunting, and Michael envisioned at least four or five more months of sorting, filing and making notes. Enough time, hopefully, to have a first draft ready to take back to Sydney. The idea of writing a biography about Lucian now seemed a dreary and obvious pursuit when compared with working on his book. He could not understand why the famous author was bothering to do it. Unless of course his ideas had dried up. Was that even possible with a mind like Lucian Clarke’s? Michael doubted it. The day’s productivity had given him a rush of self-confidence, and with it a belief that he now had a better understanding of his employer and his work. An insight deeper than anything he had gained from writing a PhD or climbing down the blowhole at Blackmans Bay. Michael checked his watch and saw he had less than an hour before he was due back at Wood Green. Continuing his work would have been his preference, however Lucian had asked him to pick up a special type of sausage for their dinner. As Michael descended the stairs of the B&B he met Andrew walking up.
I was just coming to see you.
Sorry, I can’t stop, I’m running late for work.
Yes, yes, of course. What time do you think you’ll be back? Perhaps we could have a chat later tonight?
I don’t usually get in until after midnight. Why don’t we have breakfast together instead?
The idea instantly appealed to Andrew. All right. That sounds lovely. I’ll see you at eight, shall I?
Michael hurried outside as Andrew continued up the stairs. There was now no reason for him to keep climbing, but the idea of a breakfast date made Andrew feel light on his feet. And more than a little pleased with himself. It was so nice to have friends to stay rather than just guests, he thought. Friends made the place feel less like a business and more like a home. Of course there were still bills to pay. Everyone has to eat. But there was no need to be always so concerned with counting pennies. Andrew suddenly realised that he did not care whether Michael smoked in his room or left a window open so rain wet the carpet. What was a little water damage amongst friends? And really, if Michael had not been renting the room it would have stood empty. At this time of year Andrew usually closed up half the house until spring arrived. So what did it matter if he was giving Michael a discount rate? A little money was better than none, and after all, he was a friend, not just a customer. The prospect of a long chat over breakfast thrilled him. Maybe he would cook something special for the occasion. No, better not. There were still other guests in the house and the last thing he needed were jealous complaints about favouritism. Andrew reached the top of the stairs and stood at a hallway window watching waves being blown across the Derwent River. It was such a pleasure to have a permanent guest at the B&B. It almost felt like family. Just without the noise and mess. Andrew wiped a layer of dust from the windowsill. Well, without the noise at least.