House of Silence (13 page)

There had to be an explanation.

There
had
to be.

I sat in my room brooding uselessly.
Eventually I decided to go and find someone to talk to. I changed
my slippers for shoes, brushed my hair and headed downstairs. As I
passed the sitting room I could hear Hattie and Alfie talking -
arguing, in fact, their conversation interrupted now and again by
snatches of jaunty piano music. My spirits sank further.

I walked on and put my head round the dining
room door. I saw a dark room, crammed with mahogany furniture, cut
glass and velvet, all of it dusty-looking, as if the room was
rarely used. The table was laid for five, with festive red napkins
and what looked like home-made Christmas crackers. Hattie’s work,
no doubt. Wooden linenfold panelling surrounded an imposing stone
fireplace that housed only a two-bar electric fire. Above the
mantel was a dreary oil painting, dark with varnish, of a Norfolk
landscape, complete with windmill.

There was a movement behind the door and I
turned to see Marek in a corner of the room, shutting his cello
case. My spirits lifted. He stood the case on its side in a corner,
then turned and saw me. He smiled briefly and, indicating the
cello, said, ‘I’m leaving it here tonight. It’s not worth taking it
home.’

‘How did your rehearsal go?’ I asked, coming
into the room.

‘Very well. Hattie has been practising hard.
Can I get you a drink?’

‘Is there something non-alcoholic? I can’t
drink, it makes me ill.’

He went over to a sideboard and shuffled a
few bottles. ‘Orange juice? Tomato? There’s various mixers.’ He
lifted the lid of a hideous plastic ice bucket, shaped like a
pineapple. ‘And ice.’

‘I’ll have an orange juice, please.’

He made my drink, then poured himself a
vodka and tonic. He handed me a glass and raised his.

‘Your good health,’ I said and sipped my
juice. There was an awkward silence, so I asked, ‘What do they say
in Poland?’

‘
Na zdrowie!
’’

This brought the conversation to a complete
standstill, but Marek appeared unperturbed. Rallying, I asked, ‘Do
you speak Polish?’

‘Yes. Though it’s getting a bit rusty as all
the old relatives die off. I have less reason to speak it now. Less
reason to speak generally.’

I smiled at this odd remark. ‘How do you
mean?’

‘I live alone. And I’ve never been much of a
talker.’

He demonstrated the fact by allowing the
conversation to languish again but I wasn’t prepared to give up
yet. I said, ‘Have you always been a gardener?’

‘No... But I’ve always been a listener.’

I was beginning to feel like Alice
interviewing Humpty Dumpty. In fact I had the distinct impression
that perhaps Marek was interviewing
me
. I decided to treat
it as a panel game - conversational
Call my Bluff
- and
struck out wildly. ‘Did you listen for a living?’

He gave me a quick, shrewd look. ‘Yes.’ Then
- reluctantly? - he added, ‘I was a psychiatrist.’

‘Oh...’ I replied. ‘I
see
.’ But of
course I didn’t. I was so astonished, curiosity got the better of
good manners. ‘Why did you give it up? If you don’t mind my asking,
that is.’

‘I think psychiatry gave up on me.’ There
was the brief smile again, which I was beginning to realise wasn’t
so much a smile, as a re-arrangement of facial muscles.

I couldn’t think of an appropriate response
to that, so I steered the conversation in a more general direction.
‘To become a psychiatrist, you have to train as a doctor first,
don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you felt drawn towards psychiatry?’

‘Yes.’ He studied the contents of his glass,
swallowed another mouthful and said, ‘At the time it seemed like a
good way to heal people. Relieve their pain. And I suppose I
thought a psychiatrist would have less to do with death and dying.’
He gave a faint but eloquent shrug of his shoulders. ‘I was
wrong.’

‘You mean, because people don’t get over
their loss? Their grief?’

He shot me another look, of surprise this
time. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I meant. They carry it around with
them. Grief. Guilt. Remorse... It becomes part of them. Like a
cancerous growth. And it colours everything. I used to wonder if
the most humane thing would be to wipe these patients’ memories.
Give them a clean slate.’ He turned away and appeared to study the
painting over the fireplace. ‘But you can never make a fresh start.
Not really. Memory prevents you. Perhaps that’s the only blessing
of old age. A failing memory.’

‘Is that why you gave up psychiatry? All the
grief?’

He turned back to face me, his dark eyes
considering, then they seemed to cloud. ‘I gave up because I no
longer felt able to help the people who came to see me. I had a
string of letters after my name, but the longer I practised as a
psychiatrist, the more I realised how much I didn’t know, would
never know. It seemed...
presumptuous
to try to heal these
people when I myself was... was such a mess.’

‘ “Physician heal thyself”, you mean?’

‘I tried. And I failed.’ He finished his
drink and replaced the glass on the sideboard. ‘I make a much
better gardener than psychiatrist. Death and disease are much
easier to handle in the natural world. You have lower
expectations.’

‘And I suppose you see the bigger picture.
Not the individual.’

‘Yes. And there’s always something or
somebody to take the blame. The weather. The nursery that sold you
the plant. The pest that destroyed it. The dead and dying can be
grubbed up, burned, composted. Forgotten. They don’t sit there as a
constant reminder of failure. You can just dig over a bed and make
a fresh start. Every spring.’

‘You make it sound wonderfully
therapeutic.’

‘I came to gardening via horticultural
therapy. It’s a natural anti-depressant. It gives you a stake in
the future.’

‘Like children. I always think looking at
babies is anti-depressant. Even the ugly ones. It’s hard to look at
a baby -
any
small child - and not smile.’ I suddenly
remembered the photographs in the sitting room and despite what I’d
just said, I didn’t feel like smiling. Marek had subsided into
silence again but I’d got the hang of this limping conversation
now. I said, ‘Are you staying for dinner tonight?’

‘No. I was invited, but I think Viv and
Hattie deserve some family time with Alfie.’

‘So you’re off home? To the windmill?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it far?’

‘No. I cycle.’ He indicated the painting
over the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a picture of Creake Hall.’

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed. You wouldn’t
believe I had an art school training, would you? Tax payers’ money
completely wasted.’

I approached the fireplace, stood beside
Marek and peered up at the painting. ‘That,’ he said, pointing with
a long index finger, ‘is the old mill. The sails are gone now.’ He
turned to me and said, ‘Has Viv put you in the attic bedroom?’

I was thrown by the question. I may even
have blushed. ‘Yes, she has,’ I replied briskly. Blushing for the
second time today, and in this man’s presence. I was losing my
grip. Either that or he’d spiked the orange juice.

‘You can see the mill from up there. Look to
the right. If you look beyond the mill, you can see the sea on a
clear day.’

‘You must have wonderful views then.’

‘I do.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘You
must come and see them. If you have time.’

‘I’ll make time. I love the sea and I’d love
to see inside your windmill.’

Hattie’s head appeared round the door. ‘Oh,
good! You found someone to talk to. Dinner in ten minutes, Viv
says. Help yourselves to drinks. Things are reaching a critical
stage in the kitchen and I’ve been summoned. Is Tyler looking after
you?’

‘Yes, he is, thanks, Hattie. Don’t worry
about me. I feel quite at home.’

‘Oh, Alfie said, would someone
please
pour him a large whisky. I’ve driven him to drink apparently.’ A
door banged. ‘Oops - here he comes. I’m off.’

And with that she was gone, her figure
replaced almost immediately by Alfie’s, like a Punch and Judy show.
I hurried over to the sideboard to mix him a drink.

Alfie came into the room and asked wearily,
‘What’s the female version of fratricide?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ I replied, pouring a
generous measure.

‘It’s still fratricide,’ Marek said.
‘Sisters aren’t deemed worthy of their own term, even when
murdered.’

‘I agree
entirely
,’ Alfie drawled.
‘It’s a crime I’ve been contemplating, but, as they used to say in
the good old days, she’s not worth swinging for.’ I held out the
whisky glass, offering it to his left hand. ‘Thank you, Gwen.
You’ve saved my life. And probably Hattie’s.’

He took it with his right.

~~~

The black sky was tinselly with stars and Capella,
the brightest winter star, hung like a gold bauble. Marek buttoned
up his jacket, wound a scarf round his neck and wheeled his bike
down the gravel path towards the road.

He’d said too much. Far too much. She was
pretty, possibly attracted to him, and he’d fallen into a trap she
hadn’t even set. He would be on his guard next time. It would be
easy to avoid being alone with her over Christmas. He just needed
to remember that, however great the temptation to talk, it just
wasn’t worth it. No one had ever understood,
could
ever
understand, and those who’d tried fell by the wayside
eventually.

He knew why he’d slipped up. She was
intelligent. Sensitive. She’d taken some knocks herself, evidently.
He couldn’t see what a woman like her was doing with a waste of
space like Alfie, but that was no reason to get involved. There was
no point, even though he knew from years of embarrassing, sometimes
painful experience, that all he needed to do was ask a few
searching questions, listen attentively to the answers and offer
the odd insightful remark. That was enough. Insight wasn’t even
essential. Women thought you were God’s gift if you simply
listened. But the bright ones (and she
was
bright) could
tell the difference between listening because you were interested
and listening as a way of getting into their bed - a distinction
that had become blurred for him once he’d given up his practice.
But he did want to listen to her. And get her into bed? Yes,
probably, if he was honest. And when was he not? Self-deception was
a luxury long foregone.

He switched on his lights and set off. The
road was icy and he cycled carefully. He looked up at the yellow
beacon of Capella and wondered idly which star the three Wise Men
had followed to Bethlehem.

He knew why he wanted to talk to her. It was
because he’d thought she might understand. His grin was sardonic,
savage in the cold moonlight. Self-deception wasn’t totally a thing
of the past, then. He was still more or less human.

Gwen

I barely tasted dinner. My eyes were fixed on
Alfie seated opposite me, carving the joint right-handed, passing
the gravy right-handed, pouring wine right-handed. Despite the
festive occasion and Viv’s competence as a hostess, the dinner was
blighted for the others by Rae’s absence and for me by my
preoccupation with family snapshots. Alfie caught me staring at him
and mouthed, ‘You OK?’ I nodded, forced a smile and turned my
attention to Viv, seated by my side.

‘Alfie suggested I take Rae’s tea up to her
after dinner. Do you think that would be a good idea? Apparently
she told him she’d like me to go and see her.’

Viv’s face lit up. ‘Did she? Oh, that’s
splendid! I’m so pleased she’s taking an interest. I thought she
probably would, but you never can tell with Rae. We’ll make up a
tray for her after dinner and I’ll take you up. I’ll sit with you
if you like - share the conversational burden. Talking to my mother
can be a bit like negotiating a maze!’

‘Oh, you don’t need to come. I’m sure I’ll
manage.’

For a moment, Viv looked disappointed, or
perhaps she was worried. Whatever her feelings, she soon masked
them with her warm smile. ‘Have some more beef, Gwen - there’s
loads left. And I’m sure you could manage another potato.’ She
served me without waiting for a reply and I remembered my mother
loading my plate with food she knew I couldn’t or wouldn’t eat. It
was how she expressed her love for me: giving me things I didn’t
want or need, sometimes things she’d stolen. All I actually ever
wanted was for her to hold me, just sit still for a moment and hold
me, but I couldn’t remember her doing that. Aunt Sam gave me
drunken bear hugs and Uncle Frank would sit me on his knee, but I
couldn’t remember Sasha holding me, couldn’t remember
anyone
holding me, holding me as if I was precious, as if they never
wanted to let me go. Even Alfie liked his own space in the beds we
shared. He’d make enthusiastic love, cuddle and kiss me afterwards,
but he’d always turn away to go to sleep.

Viv deposited another Yorkshire pudding on
my plate. As I stared down at a puddle of congealing gravy, I
fought back a wave of nausea and decided that I would
ask
Alfie. There was no way round it.

I had to know.

Gwen

After dinner Viv made up a tray with a pot of
camomile tea and two cups. As I mounted the stairs with the tray I
felt a little nervous, but mainly curious. Viv preceded me, knocked
gently on her mother’s door and ushered me in.

‘Ma, you’ve got a visitor! It’s Gwen,
Alfie’s girlfriend. Do you remember? She’s brought you your tea.’
Viv moved over to the bed and started to plump pillows, obscuring
my view of Rae, so I had a moment to take in the room, dimly lit
apart from a pool of light around the bed.

Everywhere I looked I saw flowers. Some were
on the curtains and wallpaper, some were in vases. Others turned
out to be pot plants. The air was scented with something heady and
floral - jasmine, or perhaps gardenia - and the overall effect was
like being in a conservatory. There were family photos framed on
the floral walls, as well as paintings and needlework samplers,
some old and faded, one of them obviously Hattie’s handiwork. I
glanced up and read: