House of Silence (19 page)

‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’

‘Why are you apologising?’

‘Because I think maybe you didn’t realise
that.’ His steady gaze held mine. ‘And because I think it might be
a problem for you.’

I pushed my empty coffee mug away. ‘Does
anyone know you, Alfie? I mean,
really
know you?’

He thought for a moment, then said, ‘No, I
don’t think so. Fanny probably knows me as well as anybody. But I
wouldn’t say she knows me well. Does anyone know you? The real
Gwen?’

The question threw me and I hadn’t realised
until he asked, how I would have to answer. ‘No, I don’t think they
do.’

‘You see. We’re kindred spirits.’

‘But there’s a difference, Alfie. A big
difference. You don’t want to be known. I do.’

‘Why?’

I thought for a while, then said carefully,
‘Because I don’t think you can love someone without knowing
them.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘What about love at
first sight? Do you believe in that?’

‘Yes, I think I do. But it isn’t really
love, is it? It’s a rapport, an intuitive understanding, perhaps
just a strong sexual attraction that quickly becomes love. Until
you know someone, you don’t love them, you just love the
idea
of them. Something you’ve constructed in your head,
like a character in fiction. You could be totally wrong about
them.’

‘You might love the fiction more than the
fact, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there any real harm in that? If the
fiction can be sustained, I mean?’ He drained his coffee cup. ‘We
all have fantasies, don’t we?’

‘I suppose there’s no real harm. So long
as—’

‘What?’

‘So long as people are aware of the
boundaries.’

‘Boundaries?’

‘Where fact stops and fiction starts.’

‘Ah!’ His eyebrows rose in mock surprise.
‘And do you know where
your
boundaries are, Gwen? Are they
clear? Is there a line drawn between the little girl who was
neglected, possibly completely screwed up by her family, and the
calm, capable, socially-skilled career woman who can handle
sexually importunate men with wit and aplomb?’ I didn’t reply,
which was a mistake. He went on. ‘Where do you keep
Little
Gwen
, when she’s not required? What sort of an emotional
lead-lined box do you use to contain her? Because you don’t ever
let her out, do you? She was buried alive years ago, alongside the
rest of your family.’

‘Stop this, Alfie.’

‘Why? Are your boundaries getting
blurred?’

‘Stop it! This isn’t fair!’

‘No, you’re right, it’s not. But I think
I’ve made my point. Real love, Gwen - if such a thing exists - is
when you love someone
despite
what you know about them. Or
don’t
know about them.’ He began to recite.

‘
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’

‘Is that Shakespeare?’

‘Sonnet 116. And what we know about him
wouldn’t fill a small pamphlet. Love is unconditional, Gwen. Or
should be. “Love the sinner, not the sin”, and all those other
worthy clichés.’ He leaned across the table, his head cocked on one
side, and appeared to study me. ‘You think being known increases
your chances of being loved, don’t you? Maybe it does in your case.
It would certainly increase your chances of being admired and
respected. But I don’t think the same can be said of me. I don’t
think you’d like the real me. You’re beginning to see more of the
real me here and you don’t like it much, do you? You prefer the
Alfie Donovan confection I first presented you with. Well, so do I.
Which is why I didn’t want to bring you to Creake Hall. I’m known
here. By my family. And it isn’t possible for me to pretend. Truth
seeps out. Old Alfie bleeds into new. It gets... messy. Because
there aren’t any boundaries. Not here. Not for me. Not in the bosom
of my family. No boundaries between who I am and who I was. Who I
could have been. Should have been. Was I Tom?... Am I Alfie?...
It’s not clear, not for me.’ He ran his fingers through his hair in
a gesture of exasperation. ‘Sorry, I know I’m not making much
sense.’ He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. ‘Gwen, I
want you to love me, but I don’t want you to know me.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s just not possible,
Alfie. Not for me.’

‘No, I know.’ He looked at me, his eyes
defiant. ‘But it’s what I want.’ He released my hand and leaned
back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know. To be trusted, I suppose. To
feel able to trust.’

‘Love comes cheaper.’

‘Maybe it does. I’ve known love. I never
doubted for a moment that my family loved me. But I didn’t trust
them. Any of them! I couldn’t. I daren’t. If you gave me a choice,
Alfie, between love and trust, I’d choose trust, every time. Love
you can get in the bargain basement, on special offer. Trust is
much more expensive. And harder to find.’

‘So...’ He folded his arms and wouldn’t meet
my eye. ‘Will you go back to shopping around?’

‘I don’t know. I need to think. I’m so
confused by what I feel—’

‘Gwen, if you knew how difficult all this
was for me—’

‘Exactly! If I knew how difficult it was...
Tell me, Alfie! Explain! Take me into your confidence. I’m not
difficult to talk to! I listen. And I don’t judge. Trust me.’

‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

‘No, I don’t. But I am asking.’

‘Not here, Gwen. Not now. When we’re back in
London, maybe. I hear what you’re saying and I understand. I do
want to make our relationship work. I mean that, I really do. But
it can’t work here. And maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you
why.’

‘And until then?’

‘Until then, I think we just have to... play
the game.’

‘What game, Alfie?’

His grin was lopsided and quite mirthless.
‘Charades.’

Gwen

It was a morning for revelations.

I left Alfie clearing up the kitchen and
went to find Hattie. She’d finished wrapping her presents and
agreed to come up to the attic where we took out the
Thousand
Pyramids
quilt, spread it over our knees and set to with a
seam-ripper each. Soon the floor was littered with threads and
paper triangles.

I suppose there’s something about sitting in
close proximity to someone, yet having no eye contact, that
encourages the sharing of confidences. Friends tell you they’re
gay/having an affair/leaving their spouse while staring woodenly at
the motorway through their car windscreen. There’s something about
not having to look someone in the eye that makes you brave.

I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. It
only occurred to me afterwards, when I thought about the
conversation I’d had with Hattie, whom I’d known for just over
twenty-four hours.

~~~

Without looking up from the quilt, Gwen said, ‘Are
you looking forward to the concert tonight?’

‘Yes. Well, yes and no. I’m looking forward
to it being over and everyone saying how much they enjoyed it,’
said Hattie, her curly head bowed over her work.

‘Will you be nervous? I’d be petrified.’

‘I’m a bit nervous now, but I won’t be once
I start playing. There’s isn’t room. I shall be totally focussed on
the music. And Tyler. He’s a very calming influence.’

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? I’ve noticed that.
He’s very
solid
somehow.’ Gwen discarded a paper triangle.
‘Have you always played the piano? Since you were small?’

‘Always. Apparently I climbed on to the
piano stool at three and demanded that someone teach me how to
play.’

‘You must be very good then.’

‘I was. I’m not now. I don’t practise. To be
good you have to do hours of practice every day. I used to, but I
don’t now.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I went to music college for a year, got
pregnant, had an abortion, then decided I didn’t want to be a
musician any more.’ Gwen looked up, astonished, but Hattie’s head
remained bent over the quilt, her face hidden by an abundance of
unruly hair. She continued to cut stitches and remove papers at
speed and Gwen watched as they fluttered to the floor. Hattie
continued. ‘I realised I just wasn’t
strong
enough, you see.
I wanted to be the best, but I realised I wasn’t and never would
be. So I stopped
striving
. Now I just play music when I want
and how I want.’

Gwen bowed her head and resumed her
unpicking. ‘Do you feel sad about that? Disappointed?’

‘Oh, no, it was a tremendous relief! I
reverted to my other love, which was sewing. All the hours I used
to spend at the piano I now spend making things. I’m much happier.
I’m still being creative, you see, and sewing is much less
repetitive than music-making. Mind you, there’s no real outlet for
passion
. Or despair, for that matter. Though I did once see
a nineteenth-century widow’s quilt. It was heart-breaking! It was
called
Darts of Death
. There were big black arrows on a
white background. Single bed size, of course. Imagine making
that!... Anyway, when I feel
tumultuous
, I play Schubert. Or
I go and listen to Tyler play his cello. You perhaps wouldn’t think
it to look at him, but that man knows about passion. I think it’s
his Polish blood. Well, and his Celtic blood too, I suppose. A
double dose. Watch Tyler playing Bach! He bares his soul. I think
that’s terribly brave. I wouldn’t do it, never could, and they
hammered me for that at music college. Said I was
twee
.
Well, I was only nineteen - what did I know of passion? Enough to
get pregnant, that’s all.’

Gwen was aware of the presence of a lump in
her throat that made it difficult to speak. She swallowed and said,
‘Do you have any other career plans? You’re still quite young. Are
you much older than Alfie?’

‘Six years. So I’m no spring chicken,’
Hattie said with a sigh. ‘I teach a patchwork class locally and Viv
says I could develop that. I’ve got City and Guilds, you see, and
there’s certainly the demand. But I’m not sure if I could cope with
all the people, several days a week. But I’m thinking about
it.’

‘I think you should do it if you can. You
have so much enthusiasm to share. And skill.’

‘That’s what Viv and Tyler say. Tyler says
it would be like playing the piano. I’d be scared until I started,
then I’d get so involved in the projects, I wouldn’t have time to
be nervous.’

‘I’m sure he’s right.’

‘I
know
he’s right. Tyler always is.
He’s the oracle we all consult. If ever Viv has a problem, she
consults Tyler. Not just gardening problems. Things to do with the
house. And Rae.’

‘Viv and Tyler... they aren’t an item, are
they?’

‘Good Lord, no!’ Hattie snorted. ‘I don’t
think Viv’s interested in men
at all
, if you know what I
mean. She’s never talked to me about it, but she had a very close
friend in the village for some years, until she died of breast
cancer. Viv took it badly, so I did wonder about them.’

‘Has Tyler ever been married?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘Well, if he does, neither Viv nor I have
ever heard a word about her.’

‘That seems surprising, doesn’t it? I mean,
he’s quite an attractive man, wouldn’t you say? And he seems very
nice. I wonder why he isn’t in a relationship?’

‘Well, who knows what he gets up to in his
spare time? Perhaps he goes clubbing in Kings Lynn. And the Young
Farmers have a disco twice a year. Perhaps he goes there to
pull.’

‘Do you?’

Hattie looked up sharply, then her face
crumpled as she burst into giggles. ‘I think I’d do better with the
Saga louts at the local day centre. You know, I’ve always fancied
learning to play bowls. But they say it’s viciously competitive.
Not sure I’ve got the requisite killer instinct.’ She sat up
straight and surveyed the floor. ‘Oh, look at the mess we’ve made!
You pick up the papers, I’ll pick up the threads. I brought an
envelope to store the templates in. It’s on the bed.’

Gwen stacked the papers neatly. The
templates cut from letters appeared to be from two people, one of
them Alfie. Gwen could discern only two hands and she noticed
Alfie’s name signing off a letter, the boy’s clear, bold signature
nothing like his writing now.

Hattie was scraping away at the rug, trying
to pick up the threads. ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Gwen. ‘I know a
better way.’ She opened her sewing box, pulled out a gadget with a
revolving sticky cylinder and rolled it over the rug, catching all
the threads.

‘What a good idea! I must get one of
those.’

‘It’s the wardrobe mistress’ standby.
Removes fluff, hairs, threads and dandruff from actors’ costumes.
We get through reels and reels of the sticky tape.’

‘Right, I’m going down to heat up some soup.
We’d better have some lunch before my sisters arrive. Are you all
right clearing up?’

‘Yes, I’ve almost finished. I’ll be down in
a minute.’

As Hattie left the room, the draught from
the door lifted the templates stacked neatly on the bed. As she
kneeled on the floor, Gwen was showered with the enigmatic confetti
of the past.

Gwen

I know I probably shouldn’t have examined the
templates. It only happened because I had to gather up the paper
triangles again. I found a
Dear Ma
and a
Love from
Alfie
, so there was no doubt what some of the letters were. I
couldn’t resist reading snippets of what I took to be Alfie’s
letters home from boarding school, sent to the mother from whom
he’d been parted. I assumed the letters were neither particularly
private nor cherished as they’d been recycled for patchwork, but I
did wonder at the cold heart of a mother who could treat family
letters as so much scrap paper. But then I’d never received a
letter from any member of my family, apart from one from Uncle
Frank when he was doing time in Wormwood Scrubs. Evidently some
people didn’t revere hand-written missives the way I did.