Wylding Hall Read Online Free PDF

rehearsing.
    Eventually he found a piece of white paper, drew something on it and folded it, like a fan.
    “Now look at this.” He held it up: a narrow, folded rectangle of blank paper. “This is us, now. Profane time.”
    I felt a bit of a stab at that. Because we’d just spent the night together, and for me, that had been sacred time. But I only nodded.
    “Okay then. Taa daa—”
    He unfolded the paper so I could see what he’d drawn—a simple landscape: hills and trees, sun coming up on the horizon. “Here’s what’s inside—a whole other world! Well, it’s a bit bigger than this,” he added, and laughed. “But that’s what it’s like …”
    For the next few minutes, he sat and slowly folded and unfolded the paper, staring at it intently: almost as though he were meditating or seeing something there that I couldn’t. At the time, I thought he probably was just stoned: grabbed a few hits while I was in the loo. Now I’m not so sure.

Chapter 4
     
    Ashton
     
    The village pub was called The Wren. It’s still there; I think Windhollow’s fans have given it a good business over the years. Tom gave us a group allowance for food, most of which went for booze. Jon was always trying out some special way of eating: horrible miso soup and brown rice. Just about made me puke every time I saw him digging into it. The rest of us survived on bacon and eggs, the occasional lamb stew. It was all very Withnail and I , only without Uncle Monty. Only I wasn’t up to drinking the paint thinner. Not yet, anyway.
    There was a local farmer who we bought from: Silas Thomas, a wretched old man like a character from a Hardy novel. He was always warning us off wandering the Downs after dark or getting lost in the woods. Warning Julian, mostly; he was the only one who did things like that. Tom must’ve paid him off, Silas, as he brought food round a couple days a week. Milk and eggs and rashers, brown bread he must have made himself. I don’t think he had a wife. If he did, I never saw her.
    But sometimes, you know, the body needs something more. Different food, different faces. Les and I were the ones first ventured down to the Wren. She was a good girl for holding her drink, and I quite fancied her. Not as thin as she’s gotten since the cancer.
    In those days, she cut a striking figure. Crazy blond hair and those big blue eyes. She dressed sharp, too—long skirts and dresses, lace-up boots and flowy scarves, all kinds of shiny bits and bobs. Hippie royalty, we were. Not like you wankers with your black hoodies and earbuds.
    Probably Tom should have thought it out better. Four blokes and Les the only girl—you could see how that might become a troublesome equation. I was furious when I realized Les and Julian were doing more than practice up in their bedrooms—murderously jealous, but only for a few weeks. Once the girl came on the scene, that put an end to Les and Julian’s great romance.
    It was a Friday night when we first went down there, Les and me. We decided we were going to busk at the pub and make a bit of dosh. We were skint, all of us, we’d run through whatever money Tom had left us. If Old Man Silas hadn’t been coming by, we would’ve starved. Tom was supposed to drive down for a weekend to fill our coffers, but that hadn’t happened yet. The whole point of us being at Wylding Hall was not to have visitors, even our manager.
    And we didn’t really want any. Odd as that sounds to you—really, can you imagine being totally cut off, no mobiles, no interwebs? We couldn’t even use the phone except in emergencies—it cost the earth.
    So did petrol. We’d filled the van’s tank before we first arrived, but it was half-empty by now, and we were very cautious about taking it anyplace. It was held together with bits of string and old tin cans, and I was always terrified it would die and that would be it: we’d be stranded in darkest fucking Hampshire. As far as I know, Julian’s car never moved the