House of Silence (15 page)

‘Indeed it does, my dear. Sometimes it
is
greener.
I
stole somebody else’s man. I did! I
wasn’t a beauty, but I had my admirers! You certainly wouldn’t
think it to look at me now, would you? But Freddie, my second
husband, he was the one for me. I knew the minute I saw him. But I
was already married. And so was he. So Freddie and I had to wait.
Except that we didn’t. We couldn’t! It was
une passion
déchâinée
! That’s French for we couldn’t keep our hands off
each other,’ she explained with a wink. ‘But I stayed married to
Victor and he never knew about Freddie, or if he did, he never let
on. Then when Victor died, Freddie got a divorce and we were free
to marry. And we were very happy, for a while... Hattie was a
disappointment, of course. We were both hoping for a son. But then
I fell pregnant again! We were overjoyed. But afterwards... things
started to go wrong. I was ill. Very ill. It was a woman’s
complaint. I forget now... It was all
so
dreadful.’

‘Were you post-natally depressed? After the
birth?’

‘Perhaps I was... I was very low. And I was
so tired. Tired to
death
. And Freddie just didn’t understand
about the baby. What man would? The baby came between us. So did my
illness. I used to cry and cry. That drove him away. Freddie left
me. Couldn’t stand our miserable life together. He said I wasn’t
right in the head. Told me he was leaving me. Then I
did
go
to pieces! And Freddie went abroad.’

‘Taking Alfie?’

Rae looked startled and peered at me, as if
surprised there was someone else in the room. ‘I beg your
pardon?’

‘Freddie took Alfie abroad?’

‘Oh... Yes. He did. He took Alfie away. I
wasn’t fit, they said. Not a fit mother, so Alfie had to go too.
Abroad. With Freddie. And I was left with the girls. Well, they
weren’t girls any more, they were grown women, apart from Hattie.
Vivien looked after me. And she looked after Hattie. She was very
good with her. She let her help in the garden and taught her to
cook and knit and sew.’ Rae pointed at the sampler above her desk.
‘Hattie made that for me. As a present after Freddie left.’

‘That was kind - to think of making
something for you when she’d been abandoned by her own father.’ I
looked again at the sampler and re-read the little verse. It had
left me cold before, but now, seeing the sampler in its context, I
was moved by a young girl’s efforts to console her mother with a
few trite words and coloured threads, touched by a child’s simple
faith that the sun, though hidden,
is
always shining.

‘Hattie’s clever with her hands, I’ll say
that for her. Her brain isn’t all it might be, but she can wield a
needle. And draw and paint. Left-handers often are artistic, aren’t
they? Freddie certainly was.’

I seized my opportunity. ‘Rae, is Alfie
left-handed?’

The wandering eyes focused. ‘My goodness,
what a question!’ She was alert now, her eyes fixed on me. ‘Why
ever do you ask?’ Her voice sounded quite different. Sharp. Almost
harsh. I felt a shiver go down my spine and experienced a sudden
desire to return to the light and warmth of the sitting room
fireside.

‘I just wondered. As Freddie and Hattie were
left-handed.’ I watched and waited for her reply.

‘I don’t remember, I’m afraid. I only see my
son once a year. And when he was a boy, there were so many years
when he lived with his father. So I don’t remember details. Why
don’t you ask Alfie?‘ There was something cold and flinty about her
eyes now and I felt the tables had been turned. Rae was watching
me
.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll do that. I’ll ask
him.’

When I emerged from Rae’s room, Alfie was standing at
the top of the stairs. I don’t know why, but I thought he looked as
if he’d been there for a while.

‘Alfie! Were you waiting for me?’

‘No, I just came to see if you were OK. If
you needed rescuing.’

‘No, I’m fine. And Rae was fine too. Not
nearly as difficult as I was expecting.’

‘You were in there a long time.’

‘Was I? I suppose I was. We had quite a nice
chat. It was hard keeping up with her, but we covered a lot of
ground. She’s frightened, isn’t she? Frightened of stepping outside
that room. It’s like she’s trying to hold something together.’

‘Her mind, I think.’

‘Yes. And she thinks if she stays in that
room, just thinking about the past, she’ll be able to do it. It’s
like a kind of mental agoraphobia.’ I moved away from Rae’s door
towards the window. Peering into the darkness, I could see nothing
outside apart from the moon and one or two bright stars. I wondered
if I was looking in the right direction for Marek’s windmill. ‘Rae
talked a lot about the garden. She was quite lucid about that. I
think she misses it terribly. It’s so sad.’ I turned back to face
Alfie. ‘What does Marek have to say about Rae?’

‘
Marek
? Who’s Marek?’

‘Tyler. Marek is his real name.’

‘Really? Sounds foreign. I thought he was
vaguely Scots.’

‘He’s half Polish. Haven’t you ever talked
to him?’

‘Can’t say I have, other than to pass the
time of day. Men don’t ask each other questions, Gwen, they just
compare notes. Anyway, how come you know so much about him? You
only just met.’

I moved away from the window where I was
getting cold and leaned against a radiator, warming my hands. ‘We
chatted in the garden. And while you were rehearsing with Hattie.
He used to be a psychiatrist apparently. I wondered what he made of
Rae.’

‘No idea, I’m afraid. Does Viv know he was a
psychiatrist?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told
you. He might have been speaking to me in confidence. He didn’t say
he was. I assumed everyone else knew.’

‘Why would he confide in you?’

‘He didn’t confide in me! I just asked him
if he’d always been a gardener. I had a feeling he hadn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There was something about
him that said, “Colourful Past”. You can tell, can’t you? Well,
I
can. Some people seem... fragile. I don’t know how to
describe it, really. He just didn’t seem like a gardener to me. Far
too deep. So I asked him what he used to do. And he told me.’

‘Why did he chuck psychiatry? That must have
been a good living.’

‘I don’t know. He was a bit vague.
Disillusionment. Burnout, maybe. I didn’t like to enquire... How
were things downstairs?’

‘We played Scrabble. One of our many ways of
spending time together without actually having to communicate.’

‘Who won?’

‘Viv. Hattie makes up words and tries to
pass them off as Anglo-Saxon and I wasn’t really concentrating.’ He
yawned. ‘I’m knackered, so I thought I’d have an early night. Two
more sisters arriving tomorrow, plus this bloody concert, so I’m
off to bed.’ He leaned forward to kiss me. ‘We’ll observe the
social niceties tonight, shall we? I’ll sleep in the nursery and
you can sleep in your romantic garret. Maybe tomorrow night?’ He
lifted a hand - his right - and stroked my cheek.

I decided it was now or never. Taking hold
of his hand, I said, ‘Alfie, you’re right-handed aren’t you?’

He looked surprised. ‘Yes. Why do you
ask?’

‘I just wondered. Are you ambidextrous at
all?’

He laughed and said, ‘No, I’m not! Why on
earth do you want to know? Have you got some athletic Kama Sutra
routine lined up for tomorrow night?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘How disappointing. So why do you want to
know?’ He folded his arms, leaned back against the banister and
grinned. ‘Now you’re looking distinctly shifty! Come on, Gwen,
spill the beans. What’s all this about?’

I took a deep breath. ‘There’s a photograph.
Downstairs. In the sitting room.’

The light wasn’t good on the landing so I
couldn’t swear to it, but I thought Alfie turned pale. Certainly
his features froze and his broad smile became fixed.

‘What photograph? What are you talking
about?’

‘The photo of you playing cricket. You’re
about twelve, I think. Eleven or twelve. And you’re holding a
cricket bat. Left-handed.’

‘
Am
I?’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘I wonder why? I don’t remember. There must
have been a reason I suppose.’

‘You aren’t just holding the bat, you’re
actually playing. You’re standing in front of the wicket, waiting
for the bowler.’

‘Really? And I’m holding the bat
left-handed?’ He was silent, his head bowed in thought, then
suddenly he looked up. ‘Ah! That was the summer of ’91. I was
twelve, you’re quite right. I’d broken my arm - my
right
arm
- playing rugby. I fell very heavily on frozen ground - might as
well have landed on concrete. While I was in plaster, I started to
play some sports left-handed - table tennis, badminton. I was crap,
but it meant I could run around a bit, do
some
sport. And
the playing of sport was more or less a religious observance at my
school. The only way you could be excused games was if you produced
a death certificate - your own or a family member’s.’

‘So you played cricket left-handed?’

‘Well, I
tried
. My arm still wasn’t
strong enough to play right-handed, so I gave it a go. I expect
that’s why someone took the photo. Plucky little Donovan making a
complete prat of himself, trying to be a sporting hero. It’s all
coming back to me now... I was out for a duck and the games master
thumped me on the back and said, “Nice try, Donovan. Nothing
ventured, nothing gained.” God, he was an arsehole.’

‘Who took the photo?’

‘Don’t remember. Maybe someone took it for
the school mag. Or the school brochure. The Head liked to brag
about his celebrity kids and I was one of them. Rae was already
well known by ’91. The first two TDHs were out by then. She donated
copies to the school library. Boys used to read them by torch-light
in the dorm.’

‘Oh... I see.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t sound very convinced!
What did you think? That I was some sort of impostor or something?
An evil twin?’

‘No, of course not! I was just puzzled,
that’s all. It seemed... a bit odd. But I knew there must be an
explanation. I just wondered what it was.’

‘You need to get to bed. My bloody mother
has tired you out.’

‘Do you think I should go down and say
goodnight to Viv and Hattie?’

‘No, don’t bother. Viv was asleep on the
sofa when I left and Hattie was talking about turning in soon.
They’ll realise Rae has taken it out of you. Go on up to bed. Big
day tomorrow.’

‘All right, I will then. Good night.’

‘Good night.’ He kissed me gently and
stroked my hair. ‘Just try to relax and enjoy yourself
tomorrow.’

‘I
am
enjoying myself. Everyone has
been so kind to me. So welcoming. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be
really excited about having a proper family Christmas.’

‘Is that what this is?’

‘Yes! I wish you could appreciate it. It’s
special, Alfie! A special family time, for your mother and your
sisters. Do try to see things from their point of view. You’re an
event on their calendar.’

‘A class act, in fact. Three nights only.
All performances sold out.’

‘Alfie, I was being serious!’

‘So was I. Get to bed, Gwen. I’ll see you
for breakfast. Oh - don’t touch the porridge if Hattie’s made
it.’

‘How will I know if she has?’

‘Stick a spoon in it. If the spoon stands
up, Hattie’s had a hand in its making. She has a special recipe. I
believe the ingredients include eye of newt and toe of frog.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘You’re welcome. Sweet dreams.’ He squeezed
my hand, then turned away. I watched him amble along the corridor,
his hands in his pockets. He opened a door, looked back at me and
raised his hand to blow me a kiss, then disappeared.

I climbed the stairs to the attic, my heart
scarcely less heavy for my conversation with Alfie. Everything he’d
said was thoroughly convincing. He’d made no attempt to avoid my
eye as he regaled me with his story and there was no reason to
doubt anything he’d said. But I’d spent my childhood and teens
sifting truth from lies, as the unholy trinity of my feckless
family tried to protect me, themselves and each other from the
harsh realities of life. I’d developed one hell of a
crap-detector.

So as I climbed into bed and snuggled down
under Hattie’s patchwork quilt, I had to face the fact that I
didn’t believe Alfie’s story.

Not a word.

~~~

Around midnight, Viv woke from her doze on the sofa,
stiff and cold. She got to her feet, poked what remained of the
fire until it was nothing but hot ash, then settled the fireguard
in front of it. She turned out the lights and went upstairs.

Stopping at Rae’s door, she listened for a
moment, then knocked gently. There was no answer. She turned the
handle slowly and entered. By the light of a bedside lamp she could
see Rae sleeping, propped up in bed, her head on one side, her
mouth slightly open. Her large, ugly hands lay on top of the quilt
and twitched now and then.

Viv approached the bedside table and lifted
the tea tray her mother had shared with Gwen. Rae’s eyes opened and
swivelled wildly round the room.

‘Sorry, Ma. Did I wake you? I just came to
check on you.’

‘Has she gone? That girl?’

‘Gwen? Yes, she went to bed. Everyone’s gone
to bed. It’s late.’

‘“Gwen”, did you say?’

‘Yes. That’s her name.’

‘I thought she told me it was Gwyneth.’

‘No, it’s Gwen.’

Rae made an exasperated sound and waved her
hand. ‘Oh, I shall never remember! I’m no good with names.’

‘Gwen won’t mind what you call her, Ma.
People understand. We all get forgetful as we grow older.’

‘Apparently Frances calls all her men
“Darling”!’ Rae chuckled at the memory. ‘Clever girl, Frances...’
Rae lowered her voice and said, ‘
She’s
clever too.’