Take Me With You

By Henry Milner

A graduate, a hippy, and a beautiful French woman embark on a heady road trip. Fuelled by passion and jealousy, it takes them all to quite different destinations...
Take Me With You is a work of mainstream fiction, a crossover between a coming of age, a romance, and an on the road book. The story revolves around a small group of friends who undertake a dissolute journey through England, Wales and France. As the journey proceeds, romance, deceits and intrigues begin to unravel and propel the friends towards a surprising and dramatic conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291921779

Henry Milner

Henry Milner has been one of the UK’s top criminal defence solicitors for more than forty years, during which time he has defended some of the most infamous names in recent criminal history. He founded Henry Milner & Company Solicitors, which is described by Chambers and Partners as a ‘Rolls-Royce outfit’.

Book preview

Take Me With You

Take Me With You

Take Me With You

By Henry John Milner

Edited By Bethan Morgan

Published By Henry Milner

Year of Publication: 2014

Copyright © 2014 Henry John Milner

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

Second Edition: 2014

ISBN: 978-1-291-92177-9

Dedication

For Kath and Harry

Introduction

For a moment I felt a calm sense of belonging as I walked into my favourite old coffee shop. Without any fuss, though, I quietly bought a black coffee and sat down to face the main window. Unknowingly, I was looking for distraction, however meaningless, and looking at the bakery on the other side of the street, I remembered that I used to buy a sandwich and a cake there most days when I was a teenage schoolboy. I was now nearly thirty and was vaguely surprised to see how little the bakery had changed.  The coffee shop had not really changed either; even the badly painted red chairs were still in service.  I let out a sigh and turned my stare downwards to the inside of my coffee cup. I did not care about the bakery or that I was back in my old hometown because I had much weightier things on my mind, including the unattractive prospect of a full blown guilt trip.

I did want to free up my mind and move forward but I was caught in a sort of mental funk; where you can only look backwards, where you try to retrace your footsteps to make sense of what has happened, but inevitably things go back further than you want to and the actions of others seem to trace back to something you maybe started, where chance too plays its part and confuses your intentions with those of others. Yes, I was in the very awkward process of trying to accept what I thought to be the truth, and for a long time I was not sure I had been very truthful, even to myself. You can only try to be honest with yourself and hope that others do the same, I used to tell myself. But as with most things of virtue, honesty and truth are far easier to define than to realise and to live with.

My name is Julian Barnes, I am a single white male, slim, six foot tall, blue eyes and mousey brown hair. Women often say I have a friendly and kind face, I think I just look normal, though a couple of people have likened me to a sort of scruffy Willem Defoe type. I was born in the Green Lanes area of North London and I have no brothers or sisters. My parents did the hippy thing of leaving London when I was about eight and moving to Wales for the good life. They reneged on this dream when my father took a high-powered engineering job in Australia. I was not sure if it was the Welsh weather or the poor job prospects but they actually emigrated when I was about nineteen. It was a big wrench, but I did make the conscious decision to stay put and I still do not regret it.

I recently graduated from one of the lesser London universities where I majored in Geography, I was not the oldest graduate but I suppose I was pushing it at twenty-nine years of age. A late developer you might think, perhaps so. I did not go to University until my mid-twenties because I thought I was reluctant to tread the well-trodden path of conformity, where doing one’s best to survive and prosper was the right thing to do.  I might add it was hardly as if I achieved anything by not going to University when I ought to have, and my tired-sounding argument was admittedly more invented to hide my laziness and general lack of direction, than to illustrate any bohemian pretensions or romantic or artistic convictions. Laziness, not surprisingly, had not taken me very far, and realistically speaking, actually going to university was at least fifty per cent prolonged escapism, and fifty per cent preparation for getting a job.

My father would often say to me when I was a teenager, shaking his head as he did so, You know what, Julian? You live in dream world, you do. Naturally, I would tend to ignore him, as I was too busy lost in my own thoughts, but as with most opinions transmitted from my father's mouth, he was right. Less generous friends, observers and detractors would also say I was a sort of respectable kind of loser. You see, I thought that even those who conform the most had dreams of not conforming, and really escaping the rat race.  Did that make not conforming any more attractive?  That is not for me to say, but I would imagine practicalities such as money often come into the argument somewhere down the line. Anyway, dreamer, idealist, utopian or realist, I believed that most of us dream of something extraordinary happening to us, something that will mark our lives, something that will make us different from everyone else; an adventure, a discovery, an epiphany, an act of bravery or greatness, or becoming the President of The United States of America or even turning out to be Jesus II.

The Year was 1999 and computers, the Internet and mobile phones had not yet entirely taken over people’s ways of doing many things. The glowing embers of the industrial age were, though, very nearly spent and the monumental twentieth century was on the edge of disappearing forever. The year 2000 seemed like a big deal, as if every man and woman suddenly was reassessing what the future meant to them both in positive and negative terms, and in ways that had never occurred to them before.  To some the sky was the limit and to others the end was nigh. Yes, it was the end of many an era, an era where it was easy to not hear from someone for years and to even forget what they looked like, an era where you did not know what everyone else was doing, and you did not feel like you needed to know, you did not even think about it, it was the end of an era where you had more personal freedom and much less need for constant communication; you could just agree to meet someone somewhere and that was it, a constant stream of banal and pointless SMS text messages were not required. If someone did a no-show it was not the end of the world.

Sitting there with my empty cup of coffee I had the feeling that the summer I had just spent would change my life forever, no matter what the twenty first century held in store for me. As a whole I knew I was not proud or happy of my experience, but that is not to say there were not some proud or happy moments, and if I was asked if it had been memorable the answer would be a resounding yes. I suppose, bizarrely, this is a story of what happens to dreamers who go looking for their dreams, who try to reconnect their past with their present in the hope it might help shape their future.  

Chapter One

I was trapped in traffic on a motorway somewhere past Oxford, heading towards the heart of the Midlands, Birmingham, but my actual destination was a small housing co-operative hidden away in the hills of Mid Wales. I made a worried glance at my car’s temperature gauge, and decided to stop the engine as we were not moving, and it was very warm for the end of May.  The gentleman who sold me the car had told me she was prone to overheating when stuck in traffic on a hot day.  I did not feel stressed, far from it, I had just finished my finals and I felt on top of the world.  I had taken lunch with some college friends who were getting ready to party.  I declined their invitation, and once lunch was over I hurried back to my flat, packed my few belongings into the back of my car, then handed over my house keys to the landlord and recovered my deposit; the princely sum of two hundred and fifty pounds. The road was beckoning, and before I knew it I was cruising up the motorway out of London.

I gazed out of the window of my car while rolling a cigarette, and marvelled at the view.  We were at the top of a hill, and I could see for miles and miles to the west.  The landscape looked so green, the occasional church spire punctured the blue sky, hedgerows bustled with life and the air had a luring sweet smell. Summer was coming, and I felt great. I began to freewheel down the hill at about five miles an hour, smoking my cigarette and listening to an old Joseph Arthur tape that a German student had given me in my first year. I could not for the life of me remember her name at that moment in time, and nonchalantly spat a piece of tobacco out of the window that had strayed into my mouth.  We had almost became lovers, or that is how I saw it, but I was not the quickest to read the signs, of which there were several, and with her being German they had not been completely discreet, but they had flown over my head and sadly she became just another fish that got away, and of those, as fisherman often muse, there had been plenty. Carina? No, Serena? No, she was Verena.

University, from the start to the finish, had been a pretty good experience for me; the lectures, the reading, the essays, the craic, the parties, the experience of women and the friends.  The lecturers had told me I was close to getting a first, but after all the effort I was not sure what I was going to do with ‘it’ in any case. For now I just wanted to feel free. I puffed on my roll-up with pleasure, and smiled as the traffic started to thin out ahead of me. I still had at least three hours of road ahead of me, but was glad to be on the move, because as much as I loved London I had definitely had my fill of the place for now.

My main reason for heading up to Mid Wales was to try and hook up with my old friend Adrian, and then try to persuade him to drop everything and head off for a few months into mainland Europe. It was an old pipe dream, not as old as the still yet to be realised canoeing expedition in the Rockies, but still pretty old.  It was a naive and romantic idea, and I was probably old enough to know better, I guess some things you just have to get out of your system. I had, though, lost touch with Adrian, and in fact I had not seen him for at least three or four years, it was a long, long, shot but I wanted to give it a go and see if he was up for it.

Years back, we used to plan trips all the time, though nothing ever came off bar a few hippy festivals, and climbing trips in the UK. None of which were what you would call epic adventures. This time though I felt the timing might just be right.  It was all a bit vague, that I knew, but I was not the kind of person to plan too much, I much preferred to think on my feet, and be able to improvise at a moment’s notice.  If Adrian could not make it then I had some volunteer research work lined up in Bulgaria through one of my lecturers, and I knew for sure that it would be worth the effort. So, I could not lose.

The traffic jam was easing, and after a sluggish few miles the road really opened up and within an hour I was past Birmingham and rolling into Shropshire, where I could see the modest foothills of Mid Wales presenting themselves in the western skyline. Through them I would travel to the southern foot of the Snowdonia National Park, where Adrian officially lived with his housing co-operative friends. Collectively they had bought a farmhouse; its outbuildings and several acres of adjoining land, with the aim of establishing a permaculture settlement and agricultural system. This collective, to those who cared, became known as Bowen’s Barnyard, Cal Bowen being the co-operative's founder. I had not been back in a long time, so I was not sure of their progress, but as with most things I imagined permaculture was not something you could grow in a toilet roll and some cotton wool overnight.  They were good people, close to the earth, interesting, and most of all they were my friends. I was really looking forward to seeing them, and being in the mountains with the fresh air, clean water and open space.

I began to recognise every bend in the road as I covered the last twenty miles or so of my journey. My old car seemed happy enough, but I was keen to give it a service at Bowen’s Barnyard. I knew a guy maybe a mile or two from there who might lend me a few tools if there was nothing suitable in the barn. It was getting on for six o’clock when I drove into Bowen’s Barnyard, and apart from an old hippy truck that had not moved for as long as I had known, there was not a vehicle in sight, which meant there was probably no one around. Nothing seemed to have changed, but the trees and bushes seemed bigger and bushier. I wondered if that was to do with the permaculture. The barn door was open, so I went in and quickly looked at the tools available. Mmm... not a lot of much use here, and I knew Adrian’s would be locked up in his room, as he was notoriously precious with his possessions. I walked out into the yard and over to his front door; it was locked. I looked through his window into his living room-type bedroom, and it looked as if no one had been in there in months. I considered for a moment that he might have gone off travelling or working somewhere, though the latter seemed less likely, but there was no point in drawing any conclusions until I saw someone who could tell me more.  Adrian was poor at keeping in touch, and mobile phones were certainly not yet part of either of our worlds.

I needed to stretch my legs, and there was not much point in hanging around, so I decided to walk over to my friend Dave’s house, and see if I could borrow a socket set. I set off straight away down the lane, blissfully taking in the evening atmosphere. Lambs were playing in the fields, while the song from all the different birds perched in the trees and bushes seemed to render into some fleeting magical symphony. Dave was an old school friend, who had a habit of droning on about old motorbikes and cars. I was hoping we could avoid any unnecessary trivial chatter, but as I wanted to borrow some tools, the odds seemed high that I might get waylaid. Within twenty minutes, I arrived at Dave’s place. It was called Blue Stone Cottage and it stood lonely and proud at the top of a small hill. I had always liked this cottage because it commanded a decent view down the valley and out westwards to Cardigan Bay. The gate was open, but the front door was shut, so I went round the back to the kitchen door, which was open.

The damp of the mid spring evening gave off a dewy aroma, that turned to the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke as I entered. I called out Hello but the room was empty. The light was low, and mainly coming from a lamp hanging from the centre of the room.  The rectangular oak table below the light had a well-lived surface; the edges worn and rounded. Funny I did not remember that oak table being there.

I moved towards the stone sink where an old chipped teapot lay on its side amongst several tea stained china cups, all branded with the same Picasso-esque coloured shapes. I felt as if I had come into the wrong house, and I reflected for a moment, as I placed the teapot on the stone draining board, because I could not bear to see a teapot stranded on its side in a sink. I suddenly heard footsteps, and then the hallway door creaked, and a woman entered the kitchen. She flashed a grin at me, and from the depths of my memory her face found a match.  I quickly defended my uninvited entrance.  I’m terribly sorry, I should’ve knocked.  The door was ajar and I’ve never been very good at knocking on doors, I smiled, but also squirmed at such a pathetic explanation.

Er, is Dave here? I added sincerely. Where the hell was Dave’s wife? I thought to myself that this woman seemed well out of his league.

Oh that’s okay, she said, I saw someone come over the brow of the hill where the only street lamp for a mile resides. I couldn’t make out who it was but you didn’t look too dangerous. Dave, do you mean Dave Simmons? He moved out last year, got a job fixing wind turbines in the Isle of Skye. Would you like some tea? She spoke in a matter of fact way, with a hint of playfulness, and I sensed she recognised quite a bit more of me than I did of her.

I felt slightly embarrassed by my obvious interference in the pot washing area, but felt that not going into a half-witted explanation was the best course of action. Dave was gone and she looked familiar.  She also seemed to be playing the game of ‘you guess my name and I’ll guess yours’.

Yes, that would be lovely. I responded after what felt like a pregnant pause.  I studied her as her elegant hand gently pushed me aside so she could prepare the tea. Her hair was different but I knew her face; she hadn’t changed much, I thought. Hell, I did not even know her name…

I think it was the summer of nineteen ninety-five, a group of us were all sat in a field by a large campfire, tripping the night away, and it must have been about three or four in the morning.  Strong acid was being delivered to each reveller by our host Cal, from a little tiny plastic bottle with ‘Minty Fresh’ written on the label.  Believe me; you would not want to take it for halitosis.  He delicately administered several drops onto the tip of my left index finger: Oops, that’s a lot, ah well, never mind.

I took it anyway, and continued in my party quest to imbibe more alcohol than Adrian, a feat in which I usually had to concede defeat.  From the direction of the house she appeared like a vision, mind you, most things were appearing like visions by then.  We were really on it, high as kites and away with the fairies at that point, but the hippy in her, though she looked a lot classier than a hippy, managed to facilitate her inclusion into our little crowd without freaking anyone out.  She was stoned, maybe a little drunk.  I was rolling in the grass trying to size up the universe, and not really joining in the cosmic discussions that were taking place.  I followed them, though, with something bordering on interest, but was unable to contribute verbally.  I descended from my peak a little and pulled hard on my rolled up cigarette.  Christ, it had taken me an age to roll, but the payoff seemed amazing… good old Walter Raleigh, I joked. The nicotine helped me zone in a little bit, though no one seemed particularly bothered about my shambolic state.

I stood up dizzily and approached Johnny, who had, peculiarly enough, a double bass lying at his knees. There was also a Spanish guitar, and a few percussion pieces lying around.  Johnny was a kind of carpenter, traveller type, short and stocky with dark gypsy features.  He was very friendly with me, I’m not sure why, but I always felt we had something good in common – we just did not know what it was – or at least I didn’t.  I picked up the guitar that, crucially, was missing a D string and played a few chords, though I was not sure what they were, or how I managed to play them. Johnny, always game for a laugh, joined in on the contrabass.  What came out was weird, I don’t know what it was, it seemed as if we were playing all the wrong notes, at the wrong time, in an unknown time signature.  Johnny laughed and said we’re in serious danger of descending into jazz here.  We played around for a bit, as people’s ears pricked up either in sheer wonder or disgust.  But we both let it go after five minutes, uninterested and too out of it to take it any further. A few others picked up the guitar after me, but it was so unplayable it soon lay discarded in the grass.

The group gathered now with more focus, or perhaps it was just that I felt more involved.  Someone introduced me to her, that much I remember, though her name escaped me straight away.  She was all Hey, really nice to meet you, where are you from? Yeah, we got down here last night, it’s so beautiful here. I responded the best I could; sensing that now wasn’t the best time for me to befriend a middle class Surrey wannabe flower girl.  Adrian, or Ade as I often refer to him, was perennially on the prowl and moved in fast, but I didn’t mind, I was too far-gone to be thinking of getting off with a chick. I wandered off into the courtyard to find some tequila.

Something was going on in the yard, apart from a DJ spinning some dodgy nineties techno, and the few monged-out ravers digging his tunes. Some townies had rolled up earlier, and were cocktailed up to the eyeballs, but in a cocksure and aggressive way.  I knew a few of them but I did not think they had spotted me.  They were roughing up some stranger, who was pretty out of it too.  Cal stepped in before things got heavy, the stranger with a bleeding lip looked a real Jekyll and Hyde type, like a well stacked Patrick Swayze with piercing blue eyes… if that means much.  He staggered about, having taken little heed of his scuffle, and looked just as likely to start on Cal, or anyone who might mistakenly look in his general direction.  The townies laughed between themselves, and wandered off into the field probably in search of more drugs.

The Swayze character was flirting badly with Karen, the hostess, who was taking it all in her stride as he tried to strut his stuff in front of her.  He had taken to dancing in front of her in an ape-like fashion, beating his fists on his chest and glaring wildly into her eyes. Her friend fought hard to hide her laughter, but Karen did her own thing, keeping in the groove of the music. Somehow I managed to realise I was standing around like an oaf, staring at other people with a stupid look on my face, and I decided to return to the field where all the other space cadets seemed to be. It might not sound like much of an effort, but believe me, going from the field to the yard and back, all one hundred yards, was about all I could manage. Johnny hadn’t moved much, but the double bass had become an impromptu spliff-rolling table, and the townies seemed to be striking up friendly, stoned conversation with him.  Ade had shepherded his young lady friend over to the big old oak tree, where some lanterns were providing soft light, and he seemed to telling her how the world could be, if only people would see sense, and do things his way.  Of course, anyone looks good in that light, but she looked like she had been imported from a Hollywood film set; all warm smiles and long, wavy auburn hair.  She walked off as I approached Ade, I’ll get some drinks, do you want one? she asked. Yeah, that’d be great, I mustered, from the depths of my semi-conscious mind, while feeling a sense