GROKEN CHAPTER FIVE - ROBERT ELDON

This is as far as Groken goes at the moment - Robert should resume soon (we hope!)

Nils Joansen is sat in his study at home, when his wife enters.

‘You have a visitor,’ she says, and she ushers Freya Krol into the room.

‘One of the Huldegarde folk accosted me in the street today. He said he was the son of my mother’s sister. Is it true then, what mother has always said about Anna, that she, well, you know…. with that man from Huldegarde?’

‘Whether what your mother alleges is or is not true is not for me to debate,’ says Nils. ‘I think the man in question must be Bron Turner, who is indeed, or so I believe, the son of Anna Turner, Anna Frandsen. As such he is the legal heir to the Skarafjord properties, both Alvanaes and Huldegarde, and technically my client.’

‘Alvanaes is rightfully my mother’s, she was the elder granddaughter, it should be hers,’ says Freya.

‘But old Frandsen disinherited your mother when she left Alvanaes against his wishes, he left everything to Anna, his will is very clear.’

‘He made that will under threats from Anna and her Huldegarde lover, father will get it overturned soon, I know.’

‘Your father is about 25 years too late to mount a challenge, though I’m sure it fits with his plans to retake the Huldegarde site from Mr Youngman.’

‘Eric says that you should never have given Youngman leave to start his project, and what’s more he says that if you meet with this Bron it will be the worst for you.’

‘I do not take kindly to threats,’ says Joansen, ‘not even from someone as pretty as you. Tell your brother to watch his step.’

He shows Freya out through a door that leads into his garden and then along a path to the street. Once he’s back in his study, Mrs Joansen comes in and says ‘tonight seems to be your night for being visited by attractive young women, maybe I should worry!’

A slim girl with long black hair follows her into the room. Mrs Joansen leaves and Nils and the girl sit opposite each other across Joansen’s desk.

‘Well, Mr Joansen,’ says the girl, ‘you will see Bron Turner in the morning. In fact here is his mobile number, call him now and make the appointment.’

‘The Krols have just told me I mustn’t see him,’ says Nils.

The girl looks amused, ‘Mr Joansen, the AM Foundation has a considerable interest in the success of New Huldegarde and also in Mr Turner. We would not wish our plans to be impeded in any way. You will see Bron Turner in the morning.’

‘Your foundation has made a considerable investment in the project …..’

‘Considerable to you, perhaps….. Do you not think it interesting though?’

 ‘What’s interesting?’

‘That just a couple of days after Anna Turner told you that she and her husband intended to travel here, they were both killed in that car crash. Just a coincidence I suppose? By the way, how did Anna Turner inform you of her intention to visit the islands?’

‘A letter, to my office, Mrs Turner was a somewhat old-fashioned woman in some ways.’

‘And did you mention her plans to anyone?’

‘Other than your colleagues, you mean?’

He picks up his ‘phone and dials the number she has given him.

‘Hello,’ says a voice at the other end, ‘Bron Turner.’

‘Mr Turner, my name is Nils Joansen. I believe we should meet. Can you come to my house tomorrow morning at 8.00 a.m? It’s Karl Johansgatan 14, it’s easy to find.’

The girl smiles at the old man. ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘I’ll be on my way.’

The next morning Bron parks his motorcycle outside the lawyer’s house, and walks up to the front door. Mrs Joansen lets him in and shows him into Nils’ study.

‘Let me bring you some coffee,’ she smiles, ‘and maybe a few buns would be welcome?’

Bron smiles back, friendly receptions have been few and far between on this trip.

Nils arrives and the two sit down. Mrs Joansen brings in coffee and rolls and then slips away.

‘So, you are Anna Frandsen’s son. How may I help you?’ says Nils.

‘I know that you were my mother’s lawyer and that you wrote to my father about my great grandfather’s estate.’

‘There are those who would dispute that Adam Turner was your father.…’

‘What do you mean, who says that?’

‘Sigyn Krol for one, she believes that you are the child of a liaison between your mother and a Huldegarde man. If I may say, without offence, your appearance does support that belief.’

Bron is silent.

Nils continues, ‘Sigyn believes that your mother and her lover forced her grandfather to draw up a will disinheriting Sigyn and leaving all to Anna. If she could get proof, then she and her husband would challenge your right to the land in our courts. Birger wants the land for his tourism business and Sigyn, well, Sigyn is a Frandsen and Alvanaes runs through their veins like blood.’

‘How after all this time can they believe they can get proof?’ asks Bron.

‘As I said, your appearance supports the story of a lover amongst the Hidden Folk. And were it ever possible to locate and question your, what is the phrase, biological father, they could go a long way. Birger Krol is a powerful man, and many would benefit, financially, were his plans to be successful.’

‘Adam Turner was my father, I will fight any man who says otherwise.’

‘Then you will certainly have to fight Eric Krol, for he will seek you out and try to provoke you.
But we move too fast, let’s drink our coffee and sit a moment, there must be much you want to ask me about your inheritance, about the estate.’   

An hour later, Bron leaves the lawyer’s house. As he reaches his bike, his arm is caught by a burly middle-aged man.

‘Birger Krol,’ says the man, ‘I’m your uncle, as I’m sure you know. Can we have a few words?’

Birger and Bron make their way to a nearby café. ‘If I have much more coffee and eat any more buns on this trip I’m going to be high as a kite and as fat as a pig,’ thinks Bron.

‘You’ve met my daughter, Freya I believe?’ says Birger.

‘Yes, she definitely didn’t like the idea I was a relative,’ says Bron.

‘It’s the Hidden Folk thing, my wife told them stories when they were small. Her feelings towards the Folk, whilst understandable and widely shared are, perhaps, a little extreme.’

‘I believe she has certain doubts about my parentage,’ says Bron.

‘I hate to speak ill of the dead,’ says Birger, ‘but my wife has always believed that your mother was party to some arrangement between her grandfather and the Folk. She believes that Anna was promised to one of the Folk, a man called Machndoch, to be his wife. My wife believes Machndoch and your mother forced old Frandsen to sign a will that disinherited her from the Frandsen lands. She is very bitter, even after all these years.’

‘And you, Mr Krol, what do you believe?’

‘Your appearance suggests that you are indeed the result of a liaison with one of the Folk. But I am not one to hold to old prejudices. You may be of the Folk but you are also half Frandsen, and for the Frandsens the land at Alvanaes has always been the most important thing, almost a sacred trust. And I’m sure you’ll want to maintain that tradition.

Work with me. I have money and influence, I have big plans for that land, together we could achieve much. Think about it, I’ll be in touch.’

And with that Birger Krol signals to a waiting Mercedes that sweeps him off into the town.

Bron rides back to Rachel’s house where he’d spent the previous night. She is standing by a motorcycle very like his own, but a shiny blue. She is tying her camping equipment onto the pillion.

‘Going somewhere?’ asks Bron.

‘I thought I’d join you at Alvanaes for a few days,’ says Rachel. ‘You can tell me everything that’s happened to you this morning. But first I think we ought to go out to Huldegarde. Word on the street is that Eric Krol and his friends are planning to pay Mr Youngman a visit this evening, maybe we should see what transpires. It promises to be ……. interesting.’

STILL WATERS - David Jackson

This is David's attempt at a murder story

Lying on my bed looking up at the ceiling, I think back to that morning when the Police Land Rover pulled up outside my house. I sat quietly alongside the CID sergeant as we drove up the moorland tracks, exchanging just a few brief words as we walked the last half mile to the tarn.

I could see the blue plastic sheet at the water’s edge and the group of forensics, uniforms and paramedics standing around it. They turned to watch as the sergeant and I made the long climb from the forest track below.
As we stood by the pool, a uniformed constable pulled back the sheet covering her.
I looked down at the body of my wife, then looked up at the sergeant.
‘Looks like she came up here for a swim….,’ he began. Then he noticed my expression, ‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
‘It’s my wife,’ I replied, ‘we’ve been separated years, but …..’
The sergeant looked stunned, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.  I’m really sorry, sir, it must be a shock…..’
I looked at him, ‘Could you give me a moment alone? Just a moment.’

Five minutes later I re-joined the others.

The Forensics Officer broke the silence, ‘Looks straightforward, she got cramp in the cold water, got into trouble. No-one to help, she drowned. There’s been a spate of these accidents in this long hot spell.  We can bag her up now. I’ll do the PM this afternoon, we’ll be more certain then. You’ll have my report tomorrow.’
 ‘What about this, Sarge?’ asked one of the uniforms, holding up an old rubber ground-sheet. The sergeant hardly glanced at it, ‘just something left by a camper, I expect.’
‘Come on, Tom,’ I said to the sergeant, ‘we can leave this to the uniforms. I need a drink.’
Tom shouted, ‘Chief Inspector says to wrap it up. We’re off.’
The day passed, there were routines to follow, paperwork to do. The rest of the station gave me lots of space, whether from consideration or superstition, I don’t know. I left early, and made my way back to the stone built terrace on the edge of town where I’ve lived for the past ten years. 

Her letter had come a week or so before, another demand, another £1,000, ‘pay up or else’. It was the final straw.

So I headed up to the moors and hid myself on the edge of a small copse. From there I finally spotted her bright red anorak, as she walked briskly along the path, heading for the mountain tarn. 
I got there before her, concealing myself in the rocks above the pool.  
Standing by the water’s edge, she dropped her rucksack, shed her coat and removed her clothing. I watched as she entered the cold clear water and dived beneath the surface.
I moved silently to the far side of the pool, then spread out the old rubber mat I’d used as a groundsheet in my wild camping days. I stripped to my trunks and sat down on the mat and waited.
When she surfaced, she saw me sitting there.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Same as you. Want me to leave?’
‘Suit yourself, stay or go, doesn’t bother me,’ she said. And she floated off on her back, her face away from me, ignoring my presence.
I lowered myself into the water, drawing the groundsheet after me, and swam towards her. I threw the sheet over her head and forced her under the surface. I held her under until she stopped struggling. Then I released her, and gently steered the body out towards the centre of the tarn. The groundsheet was a neat touch, no tell-tale bruising on her body for forensics to find.
Drying myself at the edge of the pool, the skies began to darken and as I reached my car it began to rain.

Within an hour I was back in the office, chatting to my colleagues, taking phone calls, the start of a normal day.

I had to kill her. She’d never have given me a divorce. I’d never have been free. And all that money she demanded every month. I just couldn’t pay any more. Not with….

It was a week before a hiker discovered the body.

The day after Tom and I made that climb to the tarn, I sat on my old worn sofa. ‘It’s over,’ I thought, ‘at last it’s over’.

Then came the knock at the door…

The End of Allotted

Some of you may know that the Slug Society's  "Allotted" exhibition in neo:gallery27 in Bolton's Market Place closed after the session on Sunday July 24^th.

The exhibition had been very well received and very well supported and the exhibitors had hoped to fulfil the advertised run until August 7th. However the owners of the Market Place have now found paying tenants for the space occupied by the exhibition and those tenants needed the space as quickly as possible.

We could unfortunately do nothing to save the exhibition, neo simply got a message on Thursday morning (July 21st)  telling them that Moorgarth had to have the gallery cleared by Friday 29th July.

Moorgarth have generously provided a new space for the neo:gallery (also on the 1st floor of the Market Place) so the future of neo:artists' exhibition programme is secure - they will restart with the Print Prize exhibition in August..

However there was no provision available for the continuation of the Slug Society's "Allotted" exhibition, so there was no alternative but to take it down.

Naturally the Slug Society (as a group) are very disappointed that the show has been closed before its planned date. We had known there was a risk that new tenants might need the space but had hoped to keep going until at least the end of the month. A great deal of effort went into planning the show, getting funding, getting pre-publicity and creating the two publications (the catalogue and the writers' booklet). At least some members of the group now feel somewhat disillusioned at not being able to see the project brought to its planned conclusion.

We hope that opportunities will be found to show (and potentially sell) at least some of the artists' works in other venues at other times. David is keeping the blog going for a few more weeks – there may be a few more ‘Thoughts’ and he hopes that the projected 'review' of the exhibition can still be completed and published.

The Association of Bolton Allotment Societies are hoping that they may be able to offer the artists and writers some space for the writers' booklets and maybe a few prints at the Bolton Onion, Leek and Vegetable Show on August 20th but for now  from all concerned with the exhibition it's thank you and goodbye. 

We hope that the Slug Society has a future, exactly what form it will take and whether we as writers will be part of it, will be up to the members once they have time to take stock.

In the meantime, we 'd like to thank everyone who helped bring "Allotted" into existence especially our sponsors The Bolton Arts Forum and the National Allotments Gardens Trust and most of all, all those people who came along to see the exhibition, talk to us, leave comments and more... (especially those who read the ‘Gallery Thoughts’) THANK YOU

David Jackson / Robert Eldon

July 26^th 2016

DAVID WINS PRIZE!!!!

Emryst Press writer David Jackson was awarded first prize and £100 in 'Writers' Forum's Flash Comp for an 'amusing travel piece'.

You can see the piece 'Welcome to Bolton' in Writers' Forum Issue #178 (the August 2016 issue)

The Gelati Man

We're taking part in the "Allotted" exhibition at Bolton's Market Place.

The photo below shows David handing out free ice cream at the launch - we think it's the fact it was free that makes him look so cheerful!

We're also writing pieces called "Gallery Thoughts" - these go up on the wall at the end of the Gallery every Friday morning - so far there have been three pieces - one joint piece and two by Robert - Dave is writing a review / introduction piece (with photos!) this week as well.

You can read our offerings at www.allotted2016.blogspot.co.uk

More new stuff on here soon!

BEFORE - DAVID JACKSON

This is a poem about the early days of retirement. It's about the loss of identity that comes with no longer having a job title, with no longer having a role, maybe even no longer having a purpose or a use.

Clearing my desk out, I find a cache
Of old office diaries, dumped in a drawer
Cloth-covered chroniclers, telling the tale
Of the man that I was before

Randomly reading them, scanning the record
Of journeys, and meetings and calls to be made
Of all those things that so filled out each day,
For the man that I was before,

The long days in Dublin, Geneva and Riga
The party in Edinburgh, each Christmas time
That marked out the milestones, and set out the seasons,
For the man that I was before

Bundling the volumes, taking them out
To the recycling bin that stands by the gate
Ruefully, relinquishing the last traces of
That man that I was before



  

GROKEN CHAPTER FOUR - ROBERT ELDON

The Land Rover follows Bron out onto the highway that leads to the capital.

The man in the passenger seat takes out his mobile ‘phone and dials.

Back by the fjord, the watcher takes the call.
‘He’s heading for the capital. What should we do?’

‘Is the tracker on that bike working?’

‘Yes’

‘Then pull back. He’ll be going to see Joansen, get someone outside Joansen’s office ready for when he arrives. We do have the office bugged I take it?’

‘We do indeed.’

The watcher settles back. It’s good that Bron’s going to see Joansen. Rationally, that should have been his first port of call on the islands. But rationality is not a trait he often shows. Still better late than never. The watcher looks across the fjord. Soon Bron will go to Huldegarde. The watcher needs a plan.

An hour later, Bron disembarks from the small, rattling ferry that’s brought him from the Thörsvik island. Although the travel distance was small, the change is major. Here in the capital, he’s in a vibrant, thriving town. There are banks and shops and hotels, everything he might expect. He rides down to the waterfront and parks the bike next to the old harbour wall. Sitting on the wall looking at the sleek white shape of the ferry to the mainland, he realises he never got Joansen’s address from the land agent. Still, bustling though it is, it is a small town, how many lawyers called Joansen can there be? He heads for the Post Office to find a directory. Thirty minutes later he realises that just about every lawyer in the town is called Joansen.

He rings Arnesen’s office, the secretary answers.

‘It’s Bron Turner,’ he says, ‘can you give me Joansen the lawyer’s address please?’

 'Oh, dear,’ she sneers, ‘don’t you have it? I’ll see if I can find it.’

 After what seems to Bron a ridiculously long wait, she finally comes back.

‘You want old Mr Joansen, Nils. He’s at 9, Hafnsgatan.’

‘Thank ….’ starts Bron but she’s already cut the connection.

‘What’s eating you?’ he wonders.

Bron sets out to find Hafnsgatan. It’s almost the next street.

He enters the entrance area, where another receptionist, another Miss Hansen look-a-like looks down her nose at him, as if he’s got dog shit on his shoes.

‘Do you want something?’ she says.

‘I want to see Mr Nils Joansen, old Mr Joansen.’

‘Mr Nils is rarely in the office these days, and he certainly doesn’t see people who just wander in off the street with no appointment.’

‘I hope he’ll see me,’ says Bron, trying a winning smile. It fails.

‘My name is Bron Turner, he was, is, my mother’s lawyer or at least her family’s lawyer.’

‘And your mother is …. ?’

‘Anna Turner, she was Anna Frandsen, from Alvanaes, Mr Joansen manages her affairs.’

‘Well, Mr Nils isn’t available today. Leave me a contact number and I’ll ask his secretary if she can arrange an appointment for you with one of his junior colleagues.’

‘I don’t want a junior colleague,’ snaps Bron, ‘I need to speak to Mr Joansen. Arnesen the land agent at Thörsvik said it was important.’
‘Give me your mobile number. I’ve told you, I’ll pass your request to Mr Joansen’s secretary. Now please leave or I’ll call security.’

Bron scribbles his number on a card and gives it to the woman who takes it and drops it into an in-tray, as if afraid it’s infectious. Then he storms out through the front door onto Hafnsgatan. Through a third floor window, an elderly, silver haired man watches his progress. He is Nils Joansen. He mutters to himself, ‘So that’s Bron is it? I will have to see him, of course. Perhaps tomorrow. I wonder how long he’ll last before Thomas Youngman or Eric Krol sends him packing.’

Bron walks through the streets of the capital. Why are people treating him this way? Back home, as the son of a respected academic writer and his beautiful wife, he has always felt accepted. At university, he’d been popular, his reputation in Tae Kwon Do and his lesser ability at sports like rugby and athletics, gave him an entrée of sorts into all sorts of groups. And of course there had been Ciara. Where was Ciara? She’d make sense of this for him, she’d know, with her lawyer’s mind and her psychology degree, what should be done. But Ciara has vanished.

He wishes his sisters were with him. They have inherited their mother’s quiet calm and determination. They always seem in control. As, he muses, his mother had seemed to be, according to his father’s account, on that flight from the islands all those years before. He still finds the story hard to believe, Adam seems such an unlikely knight errant riding to the rescue of his lady. But true it must be, for Adam never lied.

As if wishes could make things happen, he looks up the street, and sees a tall girl with pale blonde hair weaving her way towards him. He rushes forward but a few feet from her realises it’s not his elder sister, but a girl who looks extremely like her.

The girl looks at him in distaste. ‘Get out of my way,’ she says, ‘how dare you approach me!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I thought you were someone else, my sister actually.’

‘Do I look like one of your kind?’ she sneers. ‘I’d heard your people had come back to the islands. You’re trying to create a new Huldagarde. But you won’t succeed, my father will stop you.’

‘Your father?’ asks Bron.

‘Birger Krol,’ she snorts, ‘even you must have heard of him.’

‘I’ve heard of him, he married my mother’s sister. You must be Freya, we’re cousins.’

The girl looks horrified.

‘So my mother’s suspicions are true!’ she says. And she rushes past him through the crowded street towards the harbour.

Bron’s mind is racing. Too many people seem to know too many things about him that he doesn’t know. He needs some answers, and he wants them quickly. Who can he turn to?

‘Hello,’ says a voice behind him, ‘can I speak with you?’

He turns to find a small, brown-haired girl looking up at him.

‘You’re one of the Huldegarde folk, aren’t you? I’m Rachel, I’m really interested in your project.’

‘So, talk to Thomas Youngman,’ snaps Bron, still angry at two rejections in one hour.

‘Mr Youngman won’t talk to me, he doesn’t like journalists.’

‘So why should I talk to you?’

‘Well, you’re out of Huldegarde on your own. That makes you unusual. And you’ve just had a run-in with Freya Krol. That makes you interesting. And you look like you need someone to talk to ….’

‘And what does that make me?’ says Bron.

‘Attractive?’ says Rachel. ‘Well, shall I buy you a coffee?’

‘I’d like that,’ says Bron, smiling despite himself. It seems hard to be angry with this girl. ‘But I should tell you I’m not from Huldegarde. My name’s Bron Turner, I’m from the Isle of Man. You’ve probably never heard of it. And I’m currently camped out near Alvenaes on the Skarafjord. Still want to buy me a coffee?’

‘More than ever,’ says the girl.

Ten minutes later the pair are sat in a harbour-side café, eating cinnamon buns and drinking coffee.

‘So,’ says Rachel, ‘sing for your supper, or at least your buns and coffee. What’s your story?’

‘I don’t think I know all of it myself yet,’ says Bron, ‘but I aim to find out. I told you, my name’s Bron Turner and I was brought up on the Isle of Man. My Dad was Adam Turner, he was a writer on archaeology and ancient languages and my mother was Anna Frandsen, who was brought up at Alvenaes.’

‘You say was,’ asks the girl.
‘They were both killed in a car crash a couple of months back. A real shock. I’d just finished uni and ….. well it knocked me back really….

And then it turns out that I’ve inherited this huge tract of land out here from Mum. It’s on both sides of the Skarafjord, it includes Alvanaes and Huldegarde. So I’ve come over to find out more.’

‘Your parents hadn’t told you about the land?’
‘No, not a word. I just found out from a journal my Dad left and a pile of legal documents that their solicitor handed me after reading the will. I’ve tried to ask Mr Arnesen, the Land Agent out at Thörsvik about it all, but he just said I had to speak to Nils Joansen, the lawyer here in the capital. But Joansen won’t see me, I have to wait for a phone call.’
He pauses, then asks, ‘Why am I telling you all this?’

‘Maybe I’m just an easy person to talk to?’

‘You remind me of someone. But then everyone here seems to remind me of someone else, but then they never are that person. I mistook Freya Krol for my sister, that’s why I was rushing towards her. They’re very alike, I suppose because their mothers were sisters.’

‘Your mother was Sigyn Krol’s sister? You get more interesting all the time. And you’re the heir to Huldegarde, curiouser and curiouser.’

‘So, why are you interested in Huldegarde?’

‘Thomas Youngman is trying to establish some kind of community out there. He’s started bringing back the scattered remnants of the ‘Hidden Folk.’ They’re starting to retake Huldegarde. But his project stands in the way of Birger Krol. Krol has an idea for a place called ‘Ny Asgard’ – a new paradise, a new heaven, a leisure and tourism place for birdwatchers and naturalists. It’s likely to get interesting, few who challenge Birger Krol seem to survive.’

‘You seem to like the word “interesting”!’

‘I do, don’t I? Why don’t we work together then? Between the two of us, we can find out more than working alone.’

‘And then you’ll write your story? But about what, and for whom?’

‘Let’s wait and see shall we? That’s the good thing about stories, you never know how they’ll end.’ smiles Rachel. ‘Now where will you sleep tonight?’

Around six o’clock that evening, the watcher on the hill gets a text.

‘Gröken staying in capital tonight. He’ll see Joansen tomorrow. Have an early night.’

The watcher texts back ‘Take care, sister dear, take care’.