House of Silence (10 page)

The holly had pierced his skin. He’d felt
nothing - his hands were numb with cold, his skin hardened by
manual labour - and he watched with dispassionate interest the slow
seepage of blood, how it formed a scarlet bead on the heel of his
hand, like a holly berry. He made a mental note (which he knew he’d
ignore) to wear his gloves. He should protect his hands. There
would be no work - nor any music - without them. But he liked to
feel the living stuff in his hands: branches, leaves, flowers.
Where was the sense in living and not feeling these things? You
wouldn’t play a cello with gloves on. Your fingers respond to the
feel of the strings, the wood, the varnish. Touch was so important.
It was something
live
. He needed that.

His blood was pooling now and forming a
viscous trail. He stood very still and watched it trickle across
the heel of his hand, felt his heart begin to race. He knew what
was coming. He should move. Wipe away the blood, trim the holly,
keep moving, think of something else, anything, before he saw,
before he remembered...

Too late. There was just red in front of his
eyes. Small, twisted limbs. And somebody screaming for help.
Him
.

He should wear gloves. It just wasn’t worth
it.

As Gwen headed back she looked up towards the house
silhouetted against an improbable apricot sky. Lights were on at an
upstairs window. The joyous reunion of Alfie with his mother, she
supposed. Gwen hoped Alfie would behave, would make an effort to be
kind. She’d been disappointed and puzzled by his performance so
far.

She glanced up at the window again and this
time saw a figure, dark against the warm glow of the bedroom. A
woman. A tall woman. Vivien? No, but similar in bearing and build.
Was this Rae? The figure didn’t move. Gwen was being watched,
evidently. She hesitated, then raised her hand and waved. Still the
woman did not move, then, eventually, as if with an effort, she
lifted her hand and moved it slowly, in regal salute. Gwen
remembered Alfie’s words:
Rae doesn’t really do Christmas. She
rarely emerges from her room. One is given an audience.

Daunted by the prospect, but buoyed up by
curiosity, Gwen decided to request an audience at the earliest
opportunity.

Rae

There’s someone in the garden... Looking up at me. Is
it Frances? No, Frances isn’t tall. She’s thin, but she isn’t tall.
And Frances never comes until Christmas Eve. That’s tomorrow. Today
is the twenty-third. It says so in my diary. The twenty-third is
the day
Alfie
comes. He’s here now. At Creake Hall. He was
in the room a few moments ago. I didn’t imagine it this time. I
didn’t need to. He was here. He took my hand and kissed me on the
cheek. Then he said he loved the smell of my face powder. How it
always reminded him of his childhood. And the bedtime stories.
Stories about Tom...

Alfie was a sweet boy. My
only
boy.
Four daughters, then a son. It was such a long wait...

That woman is still there. In the garden.
She’s waving at someone. Is she waving at me? But I don’t know her.
Should I wave back? I don’t wish to seem rude. Not at Christmas.
Perhaps I
do
know her. I forget so many things nowadays...
Her face doesn’t seem familiar. A pretty face. Very young.

I was never pretty. Not even when I was
young. Just tall. And capable. Like a boy. Like Vivien. She’s no
beauty either. Frances was the beauty, even as a child. She took
after her father and Vivien took after me.

I think I ought to wave at that girl. She
must be something to do with Alfie. He mentioned someone. I
think
he did... A guest. Alfie said I was to come down and
meet her. This evening. I was to come down to dinner and he would
carve the roast. He said it would be beef. Or did he say pork? I
forget now... Alfie said he would introduce me to someone... His
girlfriend
, that was it! And her name was ... Gwyneth. No,
it wasn’t Gwyneth. But it was something like that.

I’m going to wave. There’s no harm in
waving. She looks a nice girl. And if she’s Alfie’s girlfriend, she
must
be a nice girl. I’m sure Alfie would want me to wave...
There! Now she’s smiling! What a lovely face. Poor Frances will be
quite put out. She doesn’t like competition. Never did.

That girl’s gone now. I can hear the front
door... She’s coming indoors. It must have been Alfie’s
girlfriend.

He looked well. Very well. His hair needed
cutting though. He has lovely hair - still soft as a baby’s - but
it was very untidy. Looked as if it hadn’t seen a hairbrush for a
week. She should make him cut it. That girlfriend... She had nice
hair. It swung as she walked. I wish I could remember her
name...

Alfie kissed me on the cheek. He said he
loved the smell of my face powder. And he remembered its name!
Coty. I’ve worn Coty face powder for - oh, how many years? Since I
was eighteen. How old am I now?... I don’t remember. I know I’m
old. But I don’t
feel
old. My mind feels old - worn out -
but
I
don’t. Sometimes I feel quite young. Like that young
woman in the garden just now...

Gwen! That was her name -
Gwen
. Yes!
Alfie’s girlfriend is called Gwen. It suits her. She looks like a
Gwen. Not a Gwyneth at all... Alfie doesn’t look like an Alfie, but
that was his father’s name. Alfie’s a
Tom
. That’s a much
better name for him.

Tom Dickon Harry
. That’s our little
joke. A joke we share...

Alfie isn’t Alfie. He’s
Tom
.

~~~

‘Oh, there you are!’ said Hattie, descending the
staircase as Gwen pushed open the front door. She ran down the last
few stairs and helped Gwen with the heavy door. ‘We thought you
must have got lost.’

‘No, I had a wander around and then stopped
to have a chat with... with Tyler.’

‘Chat?’ Hattie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You got
Tyler to
chat
? Congratulations.’

‘Perhaps I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t exactly
a
chat
. More of a verbal reconnaissance.’

‘He can be hard work,’ said Hattie, helping
Gwen off with her coat. ‘But he’s very good at listening,’ she
added, folding Gwen’s coat carefully, then casting it onto the
untidy heap of coats and jackets piled on the settle. ‘And
gardening of course. Though I believe he had to study that. The
listening comes naturally, if you ask me. But you didn’t, did you?
So I’ll shut up. Now, I’ve taken your case upstairs—’

‘Oh, Hattie, you needn’t have done that! It
was very heavy.’

‘You’re telling me! I can’t wait to find out
which of us is getting lead piping for Christmas.’

Gwen laughed. ‘That makes me think of
Cluedo. You know, the board game. Colonel Mustard in the library
with the lead piping.’

‘We play Monopoly, which Fanny always wins.
Watch out - she’s quite ruthless, you know. No, that’s not the
right word...
Tenacious
. That’s what Fanny is. She acquires
things - and people - and she doesn’t like letting them go.’

‘Alfie said he wants me in his team for
Trivial Pursuit,’ said Gwen, bending to remove her damp shoes.

‘Won’t make any difference. He’ll still
lose, unless he’s got Deb. Deborah’s team
always
wins Triv
because she’s a teacher and knows everything about everything.
Except why Bryan left her.’ Hattie took Gwen’s shoes and stowed
them under the settle. ‘Bryan was her husband. Did a bunk,’ she
added, lowering her voice.

‘Yes, Alfie mentioned it. Poor Deborah.’

‘Whenever I feel depressed about being an
ageing spinster, I just have to think about what poor Deb went
through. She cried buckets, even though Bryan was
the
most
boring man in the world... What was it in your case that was so
heavy?’

‘Books and a couple of bottles. Port for
Alfie and sherry for Rae.’

Hattie’s face brightened. ‘What did you buy
me?’

‘I didn’t buy you anything.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh...’

‘But I
have
brought you a present.
It’s a bit unorthodox but I think you might be pleased with it. At
least, I hope you will. I took advice from Alfie, but it was my
idea. And he thought it was a good one.’

‘What is it?’

‘Wait and see!’

‘I hate surprises!’

‘And I love them! The bigger the
better.’

‘Can I eat it?’

‘No.’

‘Drink it?’

‘No.’

‘Can I wear it?’

‘Is Twenty Questions another one of your
parlour games? Stop fishing, Hattie! You haven’t got long to wait
now anyway. Are you going to show me to my room?’

‘Yes, of course!’ she exclaimed, linking her
arm through Gwen’s. ‘Sorry. I’m being a rubbish hostess, aren’t
I?’

‘No, you’re not! I feel perfectly at home
already. Watch out or you’ll have trouble getting rid of me.’

‘No, we won’t, said Hattie, looking glum.
‘Alfie will drag you back to London in a couple of days. He never
stays long. It’s
such
a pity... Right, come with me and I’ll
give you a bit of a tour on the way up.’

The two women climbed the stairs,
arm-in-arm. On the half-landing Gwen stopped to look at a sombre
portrait of an aged Victorian gentleman. She studied it for a
moment, scanning the man’s features for a resemblance to Alfie and
finding none.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Sir Eglamour Slopbucket.’

‘
What
?’

Hattie shrugged. ‘No idea who he is, but
that’s what we’ve always called him. Don’t you think it suits him?
Rae named all the paintings years ago when my sisters were small,
long before Alfie and I were born.’

‘These are not family portraits then?’

‘Oh, no! Rae bought them to furnish the
house. Portraits by the pound, Alfie said, for those with more
money than taste. Actually she got them in auctions and flea
markets. I’ve always thought it was a nice idea - giving a home to
unloved, unwanted portraits. We created a sort of artistic
Battersea Dogs’ Home, taking in other people’s rejects.’

Gwen smiled and peered at another portrait:
an attenuated flapper with a glazed expression, wielding a
cigarette holder. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Henrietta T.T.D’

‘T.T.D?’

‘Too-Too-Divine. Isn’t she lovely? I wish I
looked like that. Slim and elegant. Like you.’

‘Well, thank you! I may be slim, but I don’t
think I’m elegant.’

‘You are compared to
me
,’ Hattie said
firmly. ‘This one’s my favourite.’ She dragged Gwen across the
landing to stand before a painting of a Highland soldier with a
jutting chin and dark, tragic eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘When I
was a girl I dreamed of marrying him. Isn’t he handsome?’

‘Yes, very. But he has something of a doomed
look about him, doesn’t he? As if he knows he won’t be coming
home... What did Rae call him?’

‘Captain Donald McDashing.’

‘Perfect!’

‘Isn’t it? Rae was very clever in the old
days. She was always making up stories and characters. She was more
interested in her made-up people than us.’

‘Really? But she must have been proud of her
family, surely? I noticed there were a lot of family photos in the
sitting room. I put my head round the corner when I went to get my
coat.’

‘There are loads of Alfie. Almost none of
me. And the few of me were taken by Viv. She was sixteen when I was
born and interested in photography, until she realised Fanny was
better at it than her. Well, that’s what Fan says. Viv loved babies
and didn’t mind that I was yet another girl. My parents did.
Terribly
,’ she added, gazing up at the portrait.

‘That must have been hard for you. I mean,
as a child you couldn’t have understood—’

‘Oh, but I did! I understood very well!
Children do. I desperately,
desperately
wanted a Barbie doll
when I was little. I wanted to play with the other girls,
be
like other girls. But Rae didn’t approve of Barbies. And I had
hundreds of dolls to play with anyway - all my sisters’ cast-offs.
But when Christmas came round each year, I still asked for a Barbie
doll. I never got one, so I knew what it was like to wish for
something and not get it.’

‘Did you ever buy one for yourself? With
your pocket money?’

‘Yes, I did!’ Hattie’s eyes lit up with
mischief. ‘I found one in a jumble sale when I was six and I got
Viv to buy it for me. Someone had cut off most of her hair - some
evil brother I expect - but I dyed what was left with ink and made
her into Punk Barbie. I cut up an old pair of black leather gloves
and made her an outfit held together with tiny gold safety pins.
She looked terrific! But I had to keep her a secret. If Rae had
found Punk Barbie, she might have thrown her away.’

Gwen sighed. ‘Childhood is so painful, isn’t
it? People talk about it as a carefree time, but I think they just
forget all the agonies and disappointments, the way women seem to
forget the pain of childbirth.’

Hattie nodded. ‘But some things are best
forgotten. They’re just too terrible to remember.’ She stopped
suddenly and pointed at a door. ‘That’s the nursery, where Alfie
sleeps. Or is
supposed
to sleep,’ she added, with a
meaningful look at Gwen. ‘And up here,’ she said turning off the
main passageway and ascending a narrow, winding staircase, ‘is the
attic, where we’ve put you. It’s quite cosy. Not at all spooky.
It’s where I like to sit and sew. The light’s not brilliant, but I
can leave my projects spread out and come back to them whenever I
want, without Viv nagging me to tidy up all the time. But don’t
worry - I’ve tidied up in your honour.’

‘You really needn’t have bothered, you know.
I’d have loved to see some of your work. You must show me
tomorrow.’

Hattie came to a halt outside a door,
reached for the handle, then turned abruptly to face Gwen. ‘Would
you
really
like to see? Or are you just being polite? I may
not be the brightest bunny in the warren, but I do know how boring
and
messy
all my projects seem to other people.’