- a free online novel Rob Hopcott

Chapter 17

When Rod got back, Iselle had opened one of the canisters that Rod had thought contained air for diving. The equipment inside couldn't have been different from what he expected.

Iselle looked up, her face serious; at the lanky youth with his mouth open.

"Do you know what this is," she said.

"It could be an anti-tank weapon," he said, slowly hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

"It is exactly that," said Iselle, grimly, "and you must learn how to shoot it."

"I must learn how to shoot it?"

"That is what I said." Iselle's speech, normally clipped, now dripped like acid in the air. Each word enunciated with precision.

"It is not difficult. You put the 'bullet' in here, the tube on your shoulder and you pull this funny lever here. There is a sort of whooshing sound and quite large and expensive things disappear in smoke."

Rod licked his lips.

Iselle lifted the long tube onto her shoulder. For a woman so small, thought Rod, she was physically strong. Then he realised that the tube was pointing at him.

"I thought that you were not to supposed to point guns at people unless you intend to use them," he said, thickly.

"According to law of this land, we are not supposed to be playing with his gun at all," Iselle said. She lowered the end of the barrel until it touched the zip on Rod's trousers. Rod went white.

"You haven't got anything in that, I hope," he said.

"Or if I have, you don't want me to use it," said Iselle. "Which just about puts us both in the same boat. Let's make an agreement, "I will resist any urge I might have and you will resist yours. Of course, "she said sweetly," I reserve the right to change my mind, if I discover you have hidden depths."

"Let me hold it," said Rod. "I want to hold it."

"You will," said Iselle, "but first you must watch this video."

She stored away the long tube and tossed a video at Rod that he caught clumsily. "There's a video machine in there you can use. When you've got the idea of what to do with it, you can play. But first, I want to get some food. I hope you found somewhere decent."

Rod threaded his way through the narrow and dark country lanes until I small pub came into view. It had oak beams, half-a-dozen different sorts of beer and three different types of cider. Apart from that, it had a faded and dingy appearance. It looked as if the owner had not been caring for it for a long time. Paintwork was faded and there was linoleum on the floor where carpets should have been. In one part of the bar, there were still stone flags.

"I appreciate that your experience is mainly of burger bars but I thought you might have found something better than this," complained Iselle, gazing round in disgust.

"We can go somewhere else if you prefer," said Rod, "but the person I spoke to highly recommended it. They said it gets packed out later in the evening and that the stew was well known for miles around."

"If the stew is as good as the rest of the place, then people for miles around will know to avoid it," said Iselle, without humour. "I'm hungry, so let's just eat." You rubbed her finger along a shelf that balanced several plates with pictorial representations of hunting on them, and was surprised when it came back clean.

The barman / landlord emerged from a cellar opening at the end of the bar.

"You're a bit early, they don't normally turn up to later."

"I don't know to you are referring," said Iselle, tartly, "that we were told that your stew is particularly good here."

"You were told right." The man's soft brogue emphasized each word with an r in it causing his sentences to pause in mid flow as if worried that not enough time had passed and that the sentence was almost at an end. He crossed his arms and leaned his elbows on the bar, gazing at them innocently.

"Will you be wanting some, then?"

Iselle folded her arms and leaned down in front of him so that her face was directly in front of his.

"I think that was the general idea of coming here," she said, letting the sarcasm drip slowly from each word.

"How will you be wanting it, then," he continued, completely unperturbed.

"What you mean?"

Rod, by now, was beginning to feel that he was a bystander in an epic contest of wills. He half thought that he should intervene and do some manly thing. But he wasn't sure what, so he kept quiet.

"I mean, how will you be wanting it? My missus has ten different recipes for stew and five are on the menu tonight. Perhaps it would help if I wrote you out a menu."

Rod saw the corner of Iselle's mouth quiver and so they realised that she was trying not to laugh.

"I'm thrilled at the prospect," she said, "do you think you could do that by tomorrow."

"Better than that, you can have a look at this one that I did yesterday."

He reached below the bar and pulled out a blackboard on which were listed, as promised, the different types of stew. There was game stew, vegetable stew and something called Country Stew. Iselle lifted an eyebrow and pointed.

"It's a bit of everything, he explained, and a bit of a political comment. There are many people around here who think that the whole of this country is in a stew. Too much emphasis on money and so-called 'competition'; whatever happened to co-operation and getting on together. I could tell you some stories that would make your hair curl of people working for years for nothing - self-employed or employed, it all the same. That can't be right. Of course I wouldn't want to make your hair curl because your hair is beautiful the way it is."

Iselle cut into his monologue.

"I have a question, it's quite simple, and one you might be able to understand. It goes like this."

She leaned back to take a deep breath before bringing her face up close to the barmans again.

"Are you going to get us some stew or am I going to hit you," she said, calmly, but she was smiling.

"Now we understand each other," said the proprietor, and went off to the kitchen laughing.

"I could do with a drink too," said Rod. "We've been here ten minutes and there are all these interesting looking drinks and we haven't tasted any of them."

"You want a drink, you negotiate it," said Iselle. "I wish you good luck. And after I've eaten this legendary stew I'll come back and see how you are getting on."

She was interrupted by the proprietor coming back with a large tray with two very large steaming bowls of stew and two flagons of a clear yellow liquid.

"There's only one sort or cider that goes with this stew and that's the one that's made locally," he said, jovially, "so I've drawn you off some rather than listen to you making a fuss about it. Knowing what a hurry you are in." He nodded reprovingly.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take you through to the dining room."

The dining room was cosy with a huge fire with round stone surround and a few tables with an incredible variety of assorted chairs. Over the fireplace was a large hunting gun with twin bores that caught Rod eye.

They sat down at a table by the window. Iselle took a sip of the stew and then a much larger spoonful.

"Mr Barman," she called, "my compliments to your wife, she's a wonderful cook."

Rod gulped at his stew greedily and took a long drink of the cider.

He saw Iselle was watching his reactions.

"It's good," he said, and then continued to spoon the stew down his throat as fast as he could.

Iselle watched him for a couple of minutes and then tossed him a napkin.

"If you put that on your lap, your trousers won't get splashed."

She smiled as Rod put the napkin in place without interrupting the flow of food to mouth and then she started to do the same.

In-between mouthfuls they talked a little but when Rod tried to ask for more information about what they were doing, she put her finger to her lips to indicate that it was not an appropriate place. She would also not tell him about herself. When the live music struck up in the bar next-door, it was a welcome distraction.

At first, it was just two or three instruments but then others started joining in.

"They should all start together, shouldn't they," said Rod.

"Its folk music," said Iselle. "In my country, it's the same. We sit in a circle and when one person thinks of a tune, they start to play it. As soon as the others recognise a tune, they join in. If they don't know the tune, they listen to at for a few times through and then join in after that."

"It sounds a bit strange to me," said Rod, "don't they have bits of paper with the music on?"

"With the speed at which they are changing tunes, it would be impossible to find the right bit of paper. Anyway the tunes are quite simple and have a lot in common with each other. Very easy to learn what you get the hang of it and the freedom is there to improvise and to combine different instruments."

Rod noticed a sudden passion came into her voice.

"You seem to know what about it," he said.

"In my country, the folk music is more than just music it's an expression of national identity." A distant look came into her eyes.

"Music's for wimps," said Rod, flatly.

"In my country we have a saying. People who do not love music do not love life." Now there was contempt in Iselle his voice and Rod suddenly wondered where to put himself.

They followed the music and found themselves pushing through a room packed with people spread around informally, some sitting on stools, some on tables and some on the floor. Some were playing piano accordions; there were flutes and harmonicas, violins and hand-held drums that created a thudding, pulsating sound.

The room had a natural focus, an empty space but nobody was sitting in it. There was no organiser. When somebody wanted to play a tune, they waited until the current tune had ended and then stood up to catch attention. Within minutes of them starting their a tune, the rest would be joining in.

A lady stood up with a guitar and sang a song. Everyone stopped playing and listen to her until she got to the chorus and then they've joined in. It was a song about people banding together and succeeding against adversity. With surprise, Rod noticed that Iselle was singing too. The tune was catchy but Rod felt too embarrassed to join in.

As suddenly as it had started, the music stopped and there was a babble of conversation. Iselle pushed forward and made for the woman with the guitar.

"You sing very well," she said.

"It's just a hobby. We just do it for enjoyment that around here there are a lot of people who like music and especially making music." She had the same country brogue as the proprietor.

"It doesn't matter how bad life gets, when you know, when the weekend comes, you can get together with your friends, sing a few songs and play a few tunes."

"In my country, when they repress the resistance, they start by trying to stop the music."

"That's because music is always free. When it is released from the instrument it is there for everybody to hear. It's about emotions and the real things in life, not profit and loss accounts and balance sheets. It is about people getting on together and building a better life. It's not about organisations and machines. It's not about power, taxes and control. Its anarchic."

"You talk like people I know in my own country, but here is a democracy," said Iselle.

"It may be but our democracy is held together with an economic system that these days has become more important than the people it's supposed to represent. Nobody questions these days whether it is better to make or do something. All they question is whether it can make a marginal profit. Demand is created through advertising and marketing not by people's wants and desires. The Holy Grail of a life away from the stress and strain of survival in the rat race is held out as an incentive to join it. The government welcomes a level of poverty and encourages it through higher taxes because it enables them to keep control. If everybody had enough money, the government wouldn't have a lever over them and therefore no power. So the government will never allow everybody to have enough money to do more than survive."

The woman was prevented from saying any more by the music which started up again with a fast and whirling tune that mutated and changed, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, sometimes it was carried in the flutes then passed to the violins and then back to accordions. As quickly as it had started, it faded away. Rod noticed that the woman Iselle had been talking to was now standing.

"Tonight," she said, "we have a visitor with us who has been telling me a little bit about her country. She didn't say so but I have a feeling that she might have a song in her for us."

She turned and faced Iselle, her blue eyes flashing the challenge and her long curly blonde hair swept back off her face.

"Will you sing for us," she said.

Iselle made her way over to the woman who has now standing at the centre of the group. She reached out for the guitar and met the eyes of the woman. "If I can borrow your instrument," she said.

A jovial voice came from the side of the group. "It's not often that Rose gives up a guitar. It's usually kept under lock and key. You are privileged." A good-natured chuckle rippled around the group.

Iselle pulled up a chair to put her foot on and rested the guitar across her raised knee.

"I have not played for many years. Too much has been going on in my country; too many terrible things. And since leaving my country, the music didn't seem to me to be relevant any more. But I have been talking to your lady, Rose, and she has been explaining some things to me and I now see more similarities between our countries than differences. So I would like to sing you this song. It has a special meaning for me and for many in my country."

Iselle struck the strings with the back of her fingers. It was a dramatic and violent stroke. Rod saw Rose shrink back in fear for her instrument. Before the chord had died away Iselle's right hand picked out a simple tune on the strings, then her right hand slashed down again to create a further strong chord before an answering gentler tune was picked out again. She struck the chord again and with a clear voice that seemed to rise from the depths of the chord itself, she started the song.

Rod looked around the group and could see that they were completely absorbed. One woman wiped away a tear from her eye. Even Rod, who had little belief in anything, could see that Iselle was instantly communicating with them on a level that was about feelings not understanding.

The song was about hope. The hope of a young woman starting out of life that she would find her love, the hope of a woman with a family that they would stay safe and, then finally, the hope in old age that her people would endure after she was gone. The chorus was simple and hypnotic. "Live long with love." It was repeated four times at the end of each verse in a long musical phrase that rose and fell around the group.

By the end, there were more tears but Rod could see that Iselle's eyes were clear. With her long flowing jet black hair streaming back from her face, she finished the song her face set in stone and her eyes looking away into the distance. What she saw there, Rod was afraid to guess, and knew somehow that the world would grow to fear.

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Unwelcome Paradise by Rob Hopcott is copyright   2001, All rights are reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

I hope you enjoy 'Unwelcome Paradise'.      Rob

- a free online novel Rob Hopcott