Everyoneâs family is weird, but some are weirder than others.
When Peter Dawes, ageing music journalist, receives an anonymously sent cassette tape in the post inviting him to Rottnest, an isolated mansion in the north of England, he believes this is his last chance to make a name for himself in the industry. And possibly win back his ex-lover. Peter has a gently cynical view about the condition of his older body and finds himself acutely aware of it when he meets the residents of the decrepit Rottnest.
Musicians with extraordinary talent and an extraordinary facility for consuming marijuana, they respond to Peterâs request with reticence and a little hostility. Determined to get a signed contract, Peter doggedly pursues each member in turn in an attempt to win them over. In the process, he uncovers secrets and uncomfortable truths.
Peter discovers the musicians have some strange habits and beliefs; they are a family stuck in the past. In Rottnest, it is forever the 1970sâŚ
Everyoneâs family is weird, but some are weirder than others.
When Peter Dawes, ageing music journalist, receives an anonymously sent cassette tape in the post inviting him to Rottnest, an isolated mansion in the north of England, he believes this is his last chance to make a name for himself in the industry. And possibly win back his ex-lover. Peter has a gently cynical view about the condition of his older body and finds himself acutely aware of it when he meets the residents of the decrepit Rottnest.
Musicians with extraordinary talent and an extraordinary facility for consuming marijuana, they respond to Peterâs request with reticence and a little hostility. Determined to get a signed contract, Peter doggedly pursues each member in turn in an attempt to win them over. In the process, he uncovers secrets and uncomfortable truths.
Peter discovers the musicians have some strange habits and beliefs; they are a family stuck in the past. In Rottnest, it is forever the 1970sâŚ
ONE
Rottnest lived up to its name. The house appeared to have tried emulating a grand manor but had covered itself in an explosion of rampant vegetation. Seemingly out of embarrassment at its overall lack of style. It boasted ornate chimneys, some of which appeared to be in a state of semi-collapse, half-empty sacks of grain slouching at precarious angles, and innumerable windows, small and large, giving it a rather schizophrenic appearance. There was an inconsistency of forms that made it quite impossible for the untrained eye to fathom which century it had been constructed, and Peter Dawes would have sworn it was a recent folly of some altogether fantastical imagination - had it not been for the ornaments eroded shapeless like soap too long in water, and tangles of ages dead wisteria that appeared to be all that held the crumbling dwelling together. But it wasn't an unpleasant combination. The facade was the palest honey blonde in the early evening autumnal sunlight.Â
The pathway though, what a nightmare. Nettles, thistles, that bloody hogweed stuff, and huge too. He was going to end up covered in scratches and stings. âThank God for denim jeans.â He had given up dragging his small case on wheels and now lugged it in both arms. He was hot and sweaty and desperate for a drink. The lower portion of his trousers was damp and chaffed against his shins; it must have rained earlier as the route had been punctuated with moisture â the walk across moorland had consisted of soggy patches of bog or marsh, he didnât know which. But it was, he assured himself, going to be worth it. Closer to, the house looked as though someone had begun weeding, but become bored and wandered off.Â
âSomeone doesnât enjoy gardening.âÂ
Struggling the rest of the way; the whole journey had been damned laborious, he put his valise down. His fingers went to the left pocket of his M&S peacoat and pulled out a cassette tape. The case was scuffed and cracked, the word âKarsten 115â scrawled in fat, black lettering on the inside card. Heâd had to buy a cassette player to listen to the damn thing - who listened to tapes these days? He hadnât been aware that they still made them. But heâd heard nothing like it before in his life, it was glorious. If he failed, then that was the end of his unremarkable career. He kissed the cassette, âCâmon you beauty,â and shoved it back in his pocket.Â
The front door flew open and a young man - looked to be in his early twenties, bounded down the steps.
"Hoy. Grab that shovel. C'mon, don't dawdle."
âEr, hello?â
But the fellow was off around the corner already. Peter picked up the mentioned shovel. He grabbed his overnight case but abandoned it again as the vegetation grew thick. Stooping between overhanging branches and rampant ferns poking from the brickwork; a kind of tunnel made by an animal, he emerged at the back of the house. Not as weedy here, but wild nonetheless, the plant life had encroached quite some way, and the trees loomed. Hadnât he read somewhere that oak can live for hundreds of years? The first thing that caught his eye was the many mounds of piled earth.
âHere,â instructed the young man, who began digging furiously. âCâmon, put your back into it.â
Dawes's requests for a cuppa were ignored, and so removed his jacket and joined in the dig.
What on earth was he doing? What would Antonia think if she could see him now? Antonia. He wondered what she was doing right at this moment. Not that sheâd be giving him a secondâs thought, of that he was quite sure.
Antonia Brierly, she of long hair, longer limbs, and sweet smile. She who had stolen his heart. Then bloody well stole his one chance at making it big in the industry. He still pined over the lost opportunity. He could be the one working for Mojo. He could be having after-party drinks with Gerard Way, Adele, Radiohead, or Simon Cowell. Actually, you could cross that last one off the list, heâd never been a fan of Cowellâs gargantuan influence on an industry perpetuating mediocre pop music for mass consumption. Opportunities like that didnât come along every year and one needed to strike whilst the proverbial iron was hot. Peter never was much of a striker, always on the verge of something, always tantalisingly close. Last night he had looked up Antoniaâs profile on social media. Sheâd aged well, better than he had. If only, Peter thought as he shovelled dirt for some reason unknown to him, he hadnât been so naĂŻve. If only he had run with the story as soon as it had been suggested. Heâd spent his whole life lunging for the story, only to find it out of reach. Or some bastard came along and whipped it from under him.
âLifeâs just one big fucking carpet being pulled out from under you. Repeatedly.âÂ
Realising heâd said it out loud, he looked up at the youth, who hadnât heard, or was being polite and letting him wallow.
âRight,â his excavation companion straightened, rubbing a forearm across his brow, smearing dirt through a flop of tangled hair. âIn you get.â
âI beg your pardon?â Peter stared at the hole, now about three feet wide and three deep, then at the young man.Â
âI need to see how much further we need to dig. Climb in.â
âYou climb in. This is a Paul Smith shirt Iâll have you know.â
The young man looked at him blankly. A female voice broke the impasse.
âHoy, Magni! What are you doing with him out here?â
Oh, thank God, thought Peter and dropped the shovel. His hands were sore. He regarded the pink palms. Writing, thatâs what they do, not physical labour.Â
âHey,â the young woman advanced with her hand extended. She walked like one of those jolly, but strident women in a Wodehouse novel. Long hair flapping behind. âNamaste. This way. I expect you want to wash your hands first.âÂ
She made her way back the way she came. The one named Magni didnât object, just scowled. Peterâs pleasantries were deflected by a flow of words containing jargon like heavy, downer, and far out, he only half caught what she was saying but was too polite to ask her to repeat herself. Besides, he reasoned, I need to keep on the good side of prospective clients. She kept up a constant stream of babble about the alignment of stars, or some such gibberish, but, he reminded himself, these artist types do have their little oddities and mannerisms that the untalented mortals accepted as though they were dealing with precocious children at a party, and everyone was obliged to smile and nod. Through a side door, along a short, tight passage of flaky paint and blackened ceilings. He was slightly out of breath by the time they stopped.
âSheâs had them for about a fortnight. Not sure what they are.â
The place smelt damp and musky, and something else, but he couldnât put his finger on what the peculiar odour was at this moment.
âWait here.â
And she turned and left.
Rottnest is a psychological novel that will keep the reader hooked through and through. Part of its success might lie in building a firm and functional narrative driven by the main character, as well as consciously centering the plot in a single location in the isolated rural area (the book is also titled after), and then drawing inspiration from its peculiarities to enhance the atmosphere and unravel the character traits. Rottnest is not just an old mansion somewhere in northern England but also a materialized symbol of a forgotten era and a worldview, it is a bridge between the present and the past, one being walked on by Peter Dawes, a music journalist who seems to have neither too much luck in love or career (or so he thinks of himself, the novel is written from a third-person but the narrator leaves plenty of room for Pete's occasional train-of-thoughts and internalized insights). Peter is in his sixties, while the residents of Rottnest (mentally, spiritually, and emotionally trapped in the 70s era) are in their twenties and thirties, and this age gap (as well as their mutual interest in music, as it is often said that music, when done properly, transcends time) was necessary to create the link between the fatherly figure of Pete and the reclusive distrustful band members whose music he was hoping to present to the world. Pete's profession, one of a journalist, works well for the storyline and its development, the reader instantly learns Pete is curious, with an inquisitive mind, and as such the perfectly active protagonist, indirectly announcing some sort of mystery or a secret to be revealed. When it comes to the genre, the narrative depicts the story of what was initially imagined as a utopian and idealistic community by the Karsten siblings' parents, turning into a cult-like dystopian reality based on one-mindedness, cruelty, and isolation. The side of the bridge Pete is coming from is not perfect either, as does his state of mind reflect upon his arrival to Rottnest, and it is in this point of space and time that both the dialogue and the conflicting worldviews are weaved in by the writer E. V. Faulkner. The novel also seems to explore the various aspects of technological advancement in everyday life, as well as the side effects of trauma. A book well-written, both technically and creatively, with a sympathetic and quirky protagonist, and (considering the setting and the character building) the text would work well on the stage as well.