Mill House was abuzz with the celebrations of a literature festival at the height of summer. Adorned in white tents against a backdrop of sprawling greenery, the usually quiet country estate was now a beehive of activity. The sweet scent of lavender and mint wafted through the air as visitors meandered through makeshift chairs and public address systems arranged in its once forlorn rooms. Shelves were stacked with lanyards, booklets and a plethora of books.
Holly found herself serving as the author’s aide and general dogsbody. It was menial work that could only appeal to those desperate enough to add it to their resumes. Faced with challenging tasks, Holly had just averted a disaster. Connell Prize recipient, Mark Waley, had voiced dissatisfaction with his living arrangements. The bone of contention was his room’s single-chair configuration.
“I need a second chair for my morning meditation. I did mention this explicitly,” he grumbled, scrunching his face painfully and intermittently checking his mobile device.
However, the guest rooms offered at the festival were designed with a single-chair per room policy. Granting Mark’s request meant denying another writer, triggering a potential domino effect of complaints. Amidst this chaos, Holly sought Suleika, the festival co-director. Frustratingly, Suleika was in transit from Dublin Airport, accompanied by Sara Annesley, the renowned second-wave feminist pioneer.
A sense of resignation lingering in his expression, Mark kept sneaking glances at his phone. Eventually, Holly took the initiative of procuring a second chair for Mark’s room. Unsurprisingly, he did not lift a finger to assist. Holly watched as Mark meticulously arranged the chairs at a corner of his room, scrutinising them from diverse perspectives.
“Alright,” he muttered, nodding in satisfaction. “Alright. Thanks.”
His eyes never met Holly’s.
Mark’s widely acclaimed novel, They Are Us, spotlighted the ordeal of Syrian refugees lost in the English Channel. Dubbed by The Guardian as a compelling read for our times and always, its storyline seemed fixated on the refugees’ rickety vessel. Holly abandoned the novel around the hundredth page, having grown bored of repetitious descriptions of the marine landscape.
Deciding to see if her assistance was necessary downstairs, she ventured to find the house inexplicably empty. She thus proceeded to step out onto the patio, where the aroma of freshly mown grass wafted to her nostrils, the scent magically carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower, despite there being no audible presence of one. Such a picture-perfect day was meant to unfurl the possibilities of life in front of you.
On the patio, authors lingered, dressed in airy summer wear, sipping coffee from disposable cups. Far from ordinary, it was disorienting to observe so many faces and names from the world of print journalism. Take for example the burly man in the brown leather jacket, his big square head and an amused tortoise-like expression, that was none other than Rich Abrams, the man who had shaped the postmodern American novel for an entire generation. Engaged in conversation with him was Petra Acton-Jones, a columnist known for her critique on gender issues for The Telegraph. Petra, having sported an oversized blue hat with a billowy brim, held onto it with her left hand, refusing to let go as if resisting a strong wind. Yet, it was a completely serene day.
This gathering of renowned writers, journalists, and critics, whose physical presence seemed heightened by their fame, lent an overwhelming sense of reality to their attire and bodies, a product of their success. This milieu made Holly profoundly aware of her own lack of unmistakable success, intensifying this feeling far more than she was accustomed to.
At the young age of 23, Holly had abandoned her studies in Creative Writing at the MA level in the city of London and had returned to live with her well-off parents in their Terenure home. Despite the supposed blessings of her galaxy, she found life to be more a nettle-strewn path of monotony rather than a radiant horizon of possibility. This was a point of view she realised wasn’t justified, given her privileged background and residing in a secure country. Nevertheless, the humdrum drumbeat of life resonated with a vacant echo whenever Holly knocked upon its door.
It wasn’t the incompetence of her university tutors or the unwelcome competitiveness among her peers, bursting with sellable novel ideas and carefully masked ambitions, that pushed her towards this pit of despair. It was the consistent intrusion of the toxic orange street lamp light past her flimsy curtains in her rented Stoke Newington space at odd hours, painting a derisive caricature of her existence and everything else.
Holly began doubting her ability to write as her attempts to pen short stories would lose life after the first paragraph. She felt like an alien in the wrong metropolis, with love seeming like a distant dream. How could such perceptions be managed? By choosing to disregard them and retreating to the familiarity and solace of her parents’ abode. She decided to keep up appearances of engaging in ‘normal’ literary activities by volunteering at a book festival.
Festival co-director Jack approached Holly and asked, “Holly, are you occupied?” He had a knack for catching you off guard albeit politely. “Would you be able to make your way to the mill?”
Confused, Holly responded, “The mill?”
“Sara and Suleika are there,” Jack informed her. Ignoring Holly, he clenched his jaw, “It would be helpful if you could give her some reassurance. Help out with the luggage and such.”
Taking Jack’s words to heart, Holly began navigating her way across the lawn. The oppressive summer heat felt like an insurmountable burden and quashed her motivation. The kind of weather that urged you to surrender any notion of movement. As she advanced closer to the mill, the sonorous lullaby of the river became more evident. Holly wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of spending time with Suleika, as her efficiency, which was somewhat frightening, often left Holly feeling inadequate.
Determining the nature of Suleika and Jack’s relationship was a complex endeavour. Suleika displayed notable physical affection towards Jack, enveloping him in touches on his arm, face, and shoulder. Their frequent intimate conversations often had them huddled together, whispering. Despite being an English native, born and raised in country, schooled, and groomed in premier English institutions, Suleika claimed Irish roots.
Jack, on the other hand, was the lord of Mill House and had connections with literary personalities. Often tousling his hair and looking perplexed, he assumed that everyone was conversant with the people in his circles. He would name drop figures like Margaret Atwood and express astonishment when people did not recognise her.
Situated above a bend in the Blackthorn river, the prominent Mill House, named after its origin as a mill that manufactured either cotton or wheat a hundred years ago, now served as a grand venue despite its outwardly dishevelled appearance. It was noted for its modern conveniences and four-star comfort, once renovations were completed. Some eminent festival performers were billeted at the Mill House, though Mark Waley expressed disappointment at not being accommodated there.
Suleika was spotted by Holly in a bedroom that still required some work along with Sara Annesley. They were in conversation with a young man with a beard, paint-speckled overalls, and a tool belt around his waist. Sounds of repairs echoed from other parts of Mill House.
Sara was vocal about her specific requirements on the room orientation, acknowledging her over-particular needs with an apology. She questioned the east-facing window and pointed out the bright morning sunshine it would let in, along with the inconvenient placement of the bed.
Now well into her 70s, Sara was the author of a pivotal book in the second feminist wave, “Mad Women and Empty Men”. A staunch feminist, she had been part of the Greenham Common protest and had infamously labelled Tom Paulin a chauvinistic tit on a television show.
With her mobile clutched firmly in one hand, Suleika motioned toward the window using her other. “Couldn’t we hang blackout curtains, or the like?” she suggested.
“No, darling, there’s no need for any fuss, particularly when Mike here is armed and ready with his toolkit,” countered Sara Annesley.
Possibly suggesting an underlined message, Mike in his blue jumpsuit took notice, but decided to remain silent. He clarified, “To perform the task, I’d need to set foot on that exterior frame, and there isn’t an entry point from here. The window’s too narrow.”
Disregarding his explanation, Suleika questioned, “Why can’t that be done?”
“We’re currently short of the specific ladder needed,” Mike responded. Mike’s slightly sarcastic tone caught Holly’s attention. A tattoo displaying the name ‘Caroline’ was etched on his left hand.
“One could presume every ladder serves a similar purpose,” Suleika argued.
Mike chose to let her comment pass uncommented. Instead, he raised an eyebrow in response.
“What’s the barrier?” asked Holly curiously.
Caught unawares by her question, Sara turned to Holly, then warmly grasped her arm, shaking it as a show of camaraderie.
Surprised, Suleika widened her eyes. “The window’s covering… there’s only one. The other hasn’t been fitted,” she revealed.
True to her words, the small lofty window featured only a single shutter, painted in blue. The counterpart lay against the textured wall.
Mike nonchalantly suggested, “How about using a spare bedsheet? It would work just as well.”
“We were promised everything would be sorted by the previous week,” Suleika stated. “We’ve been nothing but patient despite the delay. Surely we can manage to attach the spare shutter for our esteemed guest?”
“It’s an undue hazard. The tools I currently possess….that’s a severe drop outside, and the framework is unstable. Likely over thirty feet,” Mike retorted.
Just as the sounds of drilling and cutting dissipated, the window allowed the powerful whispers of the flowing river to be heard.
Softly laying her arm onto Mike’s shoulder, Suleika led him onto the landing, where they engaged in a quiet, vague conversation.
In an unexpected one-on-one encounter with Sara Annesley, Holly was at a loss for words. Sara mentioned ‘men’ with a playful wink. Suleika’s return was a welcome interruption and with a chipper boost of enthusiasm, she informed them that Michael was about to nip off and sort things out. She then turned to Sara, inviting her back to the house for a celebratory glass of bubbly.
With Suleika and Sara heading to the house, Holly committed herself to lug Sara’s pair of hefty luggage from Suleika’s SUV, up three stories. Afterwards, with a faint desire to utter an apology to Mick, she began to look around. What she felt sorry for, she wasn’t entirely sure, but Mick was nowhere in sight.
When she returned to the house, she found it filled with more people, a throng of authors and guests clutching onto books—belonging to themselves or others. In the midst of all this, the literary festival was humming with excitement. Losing track of time, Holly worked through a string of random jobs for an hour, possibly two. Jack handed over the responsibility of guiding renowned memoir writer and historian, Liam Cochrane, to his event through the bar, with express orders for triple servings of chardonnay, all together, not one at a time.
While standing in line for their drinks in the tent, Cochrane laid his hand subtly on Holly’s lower back and commented on her shoes. Caught off guard, Holly found herself mentioning a shared college ties with his daughter Róisín. Holly had indeed heard quite a few gossips circulating about Róisín, who during her undergraduate days was part of UCD’s infamous trio relationship, now trotting the Broadway stage in a play themed around the Aids crisis.
Taking off his hand from her back, Cochrane asked fondly about his daughter “Dear Ró, is she keeping well, do you know?”
A slight disruption occurred when Saoirse Maguire, a popular young author, requested mint tea and the stock at the Mill House proved deficient. Suleika considered sending Holly to Spar in Rathmullen for procurement, however, the lengthy journey meant that Saoirse Maguire’s tea wouldn’t be prepared until midway through her session. Thankfully, Saoirse changed her preference towards an oat milk decaf latte from the trendy coffee truck parked in the square, thereby dodging the issue.
There was a certain tension brewing amongst the festival crew, primarily focused on the impending discussion between Petra Acton-Jones, a believer that trans women had no place within feminist spaces, and Sara Annesley, a writer of opinion pieces advocating otherwise. “They utterly despise each other,” Suleika remarked delightfully that morning. She had labelled the anticipated conflict as the festival’s highlight. Expecting a full-blown controversy, Suleika had contacted her journalist comrades in the arts realm to witness the clash firsthand.
However, as Holly escaped from Liam Cochrane’s gathering in the Great Room, she was taken aback to see Sara and Petra in high spirits, sharing a joke over their Bollinger glasses. Sara was tenderly holding Petra’s wrist and Petra had finally relinquished her hold over her hat.
Holly couldn’t shake off an uncanny feeling of being a mere spectator, as though the vibrancy and essence of her immediate environment – the musty scent of the antique manor, the vivid hues of the attendees and their attire – held more substance and reality than she did. She felt strangely detached and not entirely present, akin to floating but standing still; she felt lost despite knowing her location.
Suddenly, Jack appeared, visibly distressed. “Oh god. Oh bloody hell,” he blurted out. He made a beeline for Holly, anxiously tugging at his hair. “Where is Suleika?” Jack implored, “We’ve encountered a catastrophe. Oh bloody hell.”
In a firm motion, Jack ushered Holly out onto the expansive terrace with a steady hand on her shoulder. She offered no resistance to his guidance, as she seemed somewhat indifferent, lacking any sense of urgency. For Jack, an incident was simply an inconvenience such as mislaid belongings or a depleted ink in his pen.
“We must contact the authorities,” urged Jack, his fingers tapping nervously on his phone, “Do we need to alert the paramedics when the person is already deceased?”
The terrace was desolate, except for the presence of Mark Waley, who was seated on a wrought-iron bench reading what appeared to be a copy of his own book, They Are Us. He was due onstage shortly.
“Who has died?” enquired Holly.
She discerned a figure advancing across the lawn clothed in white overalls. Initially, she presumed it was Mick – but no. This man was burlier, older with no beard and ambled towards them gradually.
Suleika quickly joined them, “Is this real?” she asked urgently.
“The bloody staging fell,” Jack explained, holding his phone to his ear, “They believe he broke his neck during the fall.”
“Goodness,” was Holly’s shocked response.
Suleika stood hands akimbo, “What are you doing?” she questioned Jack.
“I’m attempting to call the authorities,” Jack responded, “He’s lying by the river, for heaven’s sake.”
Distracted from his book, Mark Waley was observing the unfolding situation. He then rose and approached them.
“How are things?” he casually asked.
Jack continued to focus on the voice on the other end of the phone; Suleika was fully engrossed in drafting a message. Mark then turned his attention to Holly, fixing his gaze upon her for the first time. His brown eyes radiated a certain melancholic beauty.
“There has been a fatal accident. A man who was labouring at the mill has died,” Holly explained.
“My word,” was Mark Waley’s response. He nodded slowly as though validating his own thoughts, “Should we offer any help?”
“Freaking answer,” Jack exclaimed to his phone.
Upon looking at the sky, Suleika commented, “The weather, I feared it might cause a disruption.”
In a matter of minutes, Mark Waley was expected to perform on stage. Taking a glance at his wristwatch, he acknowledged the twenty-minute countdown to his live session. Fumbling over her words, Holly expressed the unutterable, suggesting that perhaps they should abort the session.
Standing tall, Mark griped his novel, They Are Us, close to his chest, his arms crossed over the book. He simply responded with a silent nod and shifted his gaze.
Just then, a man dressed in white overalls arrived, addressing Jack. He appeared to be around fifty with soft, round facial features, talking in a toneless voice, void of any emotion.
Interrupted in the conversation, Jack excused himself and stepped away. Holly couldn’t contain her curiosity, she wondered out loud if it was Mick. Yet, the man in the uniform didn’t meet her eyes.
Suleika stowed her mobile away, secured Mark’s arm in her grasp and proposed they deliberate on Mark’s preference, given the present situation. It was a distressing incident, Mark confessed as he pondered on the potential disappointment their decision could cause, merely 15 minutes ahead of the event. In the end, he reminded himself that he was already on the premises.
With a calming reassurance, Suleika directed Holly to guide Mark towards the green room. She decided to handle the next activity and gauge the scenario as they go. They were to contain the current upheaval and not make any public declarations on it.
The green room, a small lounge adjacent to the Great Room, buzzed with chatter as Holly handed Mark a bottle of Evian. Mark was astonished at this mishap that occurred a mere twenty minutes prior to his event.
Presently, Mark’s event was a hit, fully booked with keen listeners eager to hear the Connell Prize laureate discuss his craft. Holly chose to remain in the green room, tuning into the resonating voices from the discussion. Overwhelmed, her instinct was to return to the mill, but found herself dumbfounded, incapable of deciding if she should rise, step out and confront the horrifying sight awaiting her.
irrevocably, the conversation took a turn as the RTÉ arts journalist interviewed Mark about the political implications of his book, They Are Us. This turned out to surprise Holly even further.
In what Mark described as a profound exhibition of compassion, reading a novel becomes an opportunity to vicariously live another’s life, exposing oneself to their experiences, and ultimately, their soul. It’s an audacious move, he insisted. In today’s tumultuous world, only such audacity and understanding can sustain us.
In response, Holly withdrew her mobile and ran a search on the concept of ‘two chairs meditation’. The process entailed invoking all negative feelings whilst sitting on one chair, then leaving it behind to occupy the second chair, where only positive feelings were embraced. This helped purge all harmful emotions. This made Holly ponder, what would happen if someone could only afford one chair, or even worse, none?
The man behind the novels ‘Bad Day in Blackrock’ and ‘White City’, as well as ‘The Written World: Essays and Reviews’, is Kevin Power. Besides being a renowned author, he holds the position of assistant professor at Dublin’s Trinity College.