House of Silence (22 page)

Marek declined Viv’s offer of another drink
and fastened his cello case, saying, ‘I’ll be getting back home
now, I think. It’ll be a slow walk with the cello.’

‘You didn’t come on your bike?’ Viv
asked.

‘I can’t cycle with the cello. The case is
too big.’

‘Oh, dear, I don’t think anyone’s sober
enough to give you a lift home,’ said Viv, annoyed she hadn’t
foreseen this eventuality.

I am,’ said Gwen. ‘I haven’t had anything to
drink. I don’t think we’ll get the cello in the boot of Alfie’s
Polo, but if someone will lend me a car—’

‘There’s no need! It’s really not far to
walk.’

Deborah, who had parted the curtains to
check on the weather, said, ‘I hate to tell you, Tyler, but it’s
actually snowing quite hard. It looks as if we’re in for a white
Christmas!’

Viv fished in her handbag, withdrew some
keys and handed them to Gwen. ‘Take my car. It’s the Volvo.’

Marek protested again but Viv overruled him.
‘I won’t hear of you walking, not after that wonderful concert. Do
you know, Gwen, they get better every year!’

‘It will only take a few minutes,’ said
Gwen, ‘and I need some air anyway.
And
I want to see the
snow!’ Without waiting for a reply, she headed for the hall where
she pulled on her outdoor shoes and a coat. Turning, she saw Marek
standing ready with his cello case.

‘This is very kind of you, Gwen.’

‘Not at all. It’s my way of thanking you for
the concert. Come on, let’s see how bad the snow is.’

Gwen

The snow wasn’t heavy but the wind was strong and
visibility poor, so we took it very slowly. Fortunately there was
little traffic on the road. Marek said nothing as we drove and I
was concentrating on the bends in the unfamiliar road. When we
finally drew up outside the mill neither of us had spoken for the
duration of the journey.

I turned to Marek and saw his pale profile
and even paler hair outlined against the car window through which I
could see flurries of snow whirling in a mad dance.

‘I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself at
the concert. It’s just that it was... a revelation to me.’

He turned his head to look at me for a
moment, then turned away again and stared through the windscreen.
‘And your response was a revelation to me. It’s a very long time
since I saw anyone respond to music like that. It was worthy of a
Pole,’ he added, with a slow smile.

‘Tell me, do you
feel
Polish?’

‘Only when I play.’

‘Maybe that’s why playing is so important to
you.’

‘Maybe.’

After a moment, I said, ‘You’re different
when you play.’

‘How, different?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You lose your cool.
You’re...
passionate
.’

‘You can tell?’ he said, still looking
through the windscreen.

‘It’s obvious. Blindingly obvious!’ I added,
laughing.

He turned to look at me, regarding me
steadily, unsmiling, his body quite still. I knew then what would
happen. I also knew I could prevent it, by speaking or moving, by
doing anything in fact, other than sitting still and waiting.

I sat still and waited.

Marek leaned across and slipped his fingers
under my hair, around the curve of my neck. He pulled me gently
towards him. His lips brushed mine tentatively and once he was sure
I wasn’t going to pull away, he kissed me properly, lingeringly,
then let me go.

I opened my eyes - I didn’t remember closing
them - to find Marek staring at me.

‘It was your Christmas present.’

‘The kiss?’

‘The concert. I played for you. I wanted to
move you. To touch you. With the music. I was pleased I did. Merry
Christmas, Gwen.’ He turned away and reached for the door
handle.

I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Wait! When will
I see - I mean, will you be coming to the Hall tomorrow?’

‘No. I’m invited for lunch on Boxing Day.’
After a moment he said, ‘If you’d rather I didn’t come, I’d
understand. I can invent some indisposition.’

‘No, I want you to come! I want to see you.’
Silence hung between us as the wind whistled around the car. I
shivered. ‘Will you spend Christmas Day alone then?’

‘I always do. Alone with my ghosts. There’s
plenty of chairs...’

He got out of the car, retrieved the cello
and walked up to the mill without looking back. Snowflakes danced
wildly around him and settled on his silver hair, spectral in the
faint glimmer of moonlight.

I turned on the ignition and drove back to
Creake Hall.

Gwen

When I got back, there was no sign of any of the
women. Alfie was sitting dozing by the dying embers of the fire,
his head propped on his hand, his fingers buried in his tousled
hair. I knew he’d waited up for me and I had a good idea why.
Convinced guilt must be written all over my face, I was relieved
his eyes were closed. As I stood in the open doorway, looking at
him bathed in the glow of the fire and the Christmas tree lights, I
felt an urge to turn tail and creep upstairs, avoiding questions,
explanations and most of all Alfie’s big brown eyes, always
irresistible when sleepy, framed as they were by long, drooping
eyelashes. I knew what would be on Alfie’s mind if he woke: bed,
but not sleep. And I wished to avoid that. With guilty, sinking
heart, I realised I wished to avoid Alfie.

Seeking justification, my eyes turned to the
childhood photos on the side table and I examined the boy cricketer
again. The damned child was still left-handed. My stomach turned
over. Instinct told me I was involved in something I didn’t like,
something I couldn’t handle. I liked to keep things simple, or if
not simple, then at least straightforward. I didn’t do casual sex.
I didn’t (as a rule) even do casual kissing. Buttoned-up I may be,
and that’s how I prefer to keep my clothes as a rule. The person I
became with Marek wasn’t a Gwen that I recognised. She wasn’t even
someone I approved of. What murky depths had Marek stirred? And
what murky depths were there to Alfie that I didn’t know about,
didn’t even
want
to know about?

Alfie opened his eyes and I jumped. I saw it
then, what I’d seen so many times before, but not registered
consciously. The shutters coming down. For an instant Alfie’s eyes
were wide, a little confused, even vulnerable. Then they changed. A
light went out, a guarded look replaced the one of openness.
Prepared
. That’s how he looked. His face was prepared.
Here’s one I made earlier...

‘You know,’ he said, sitting up in his
armchair and stretching cramped limbs, ‘I could never tire of
looking at a face like yours.’

‘A face like mine? What sort of face is
that?’

He paused and seemed to choose his words
carefully. ‘Old-fashioned. Characterful. Ever so slightly
androgynous. You’re my idea of a Shakespearean heroine. Beautiful,
but not girly.’

My mouth was working but words wouldn’t
come. Eventually I managed to say, ‘You’ve never called me
beautiful
before.’

‘Haven’t I? How remiss of me. Well, there
you are. You’ve had your Christmas present early.’

So now I’d received two early Christmas
presents. Alfie’s would have seemed quite wonderful had I not
already been presented with the gift of Marek’s playing. One man
was trying to seduce me with words, the other with music, and both
were succeeding. (Shakespearean heroine or slapper? You
choose.)

With blithe disregard for Alfie’s
compliment, I changed the subject. ‘You love Shakespeare, don’t
you?’

‘Yes. With a passion. I find him bloody
difficult, but I love his words. I love the sound of them, even
when I don’t get all the meaning. It penetrates at some gut level.
Shakespeare was why I became an actor.’

I went and sat on the sofa, glad of the
residual warmth from the fire. ‘How old were you when you decided
you wanted to be an actor?’

‘I don’t remember... I was in my teens. It
was a school trip to Stratford and I’d never seen live theatre
before. I must have been about fourteen. Maybe fifteen.’

‘As old as that? I’d imagined actors grew up
wanting to play kids’ make-believe for the rest of their lives.
Weren’t you stage-struck when they cast you as the lead in school
plays? I imagine that sort of thing could go to your head,
especially when you’re young.’

‘I dare say it could, but it never happened
to me.’

An alarm bell went off in my head, distant
but distinct. I ignored it. (A
stupid
slapper too.)

‘What didn’t happen? Wanting to be an
actor?’

‘No, being cast in starring rôles. I wasn’t
exactly leading man material. Star parts went to taller, more
glamorous boys than me. ’Twas ever thus.’

I could feel the triangular pieces of paper
between my fingers, crisp and crackling; I could see the round
childish hand; the phrases “I am playing Toad” and “they all think
I am very funny.” So I persevered. (
Scheming
, stupid
slapper.)

‘Did you
never
play a lead then? Not
even when you were young? Maybe you’ve forgotten?’

Please, Alfie, say you’ve forgotten. Please
don’t say what I know you’re going to say. Lie.
Please
...

‘I’d hardly forget something like that,
would I? I can remember auditioning for parts and not getting them.
And being broken-hearted.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you want to
know about all this anyway?’

‘Oh, no particular reason. It was just
something Viv said. Or maybe it was Hattie. I must have
misunderstood. I thought she said you’d had the lead in a school
play.’

‘How would
she
know?’

‘Your letters home?’

There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Have they
kept them?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But I understood that
you’d written home about being in a play. I must have got hold of
the wrong end of the stick.’

‘More likely Hattie did. She said I’d
written about being in a school play? Maybe I was lying. I wasn’t
the most truthful of children. When your parents divorce, you learn
pretty fast to say what you think they want to hear. It’s a
survival mechanism.’

‘Yes, I can understand that.’

‘I was brought up to believe that honesty
was important, but I could never really see the virtue in being
honest if it hurt people. And truth always seemed so
relative
to me. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that I chose to
make a career out of being a fake.’ Alfie stared at me in silence
for a moment, then said, ‘What else did Hattie have to say about my
childhood?’

I could have stopped there. I could have
accepted that the letter home was a lie, just a child’s wishful
thinking, something to impress the folks back home. I could have
accepted that Alfie used to lie as a boy, in the past. But not
now
. And so I continued. With my own lies.

‘She was telling me about your special
friend at school.’

‘Oh?’

Did I imagine it? Did Alfie’s nonchalant,
amused look slip for a moment? There was no sign of panic, nothing
so obvious, just a sense of his being suddenly alert, watching me.
As I dug a verbal pit for him to fall into, I felt sick to my
stomach.

‘She said you had a friend. A best friend. I
think she said he was called... Oliver?’

Alfie didn’t miss a beat. ‘She remembered
old Ollie?
Amazing!
I’d almost forgotten about him! Yes,
Ollie was my best mate throughout school.’ Then he chuckled in the
most charming and natural way. (You’re good, Alfie. I had no idea
how
good.) ‘We got into a lot of trouble together.’

I could almost see him trawling through the
childhood memories, memories that, according to his letters,
involved a boy called Laurie.

‘What happened to Oliver?’ I asked,
casually.

‘No idea. He went to university - read
History at Durham, I think - and I went to RADA. We went our
separate ways and lost touch.’

‘What a shame.’

‘Yes. He was a good bloke, old Ollie. A
loyal friend. We were quite close. Fancy Hattie remembering
him.’

‘Your letters home must have made quite an
impression on her. On everyone. They must have looked forward to
hearing baby brother’s news.’

‘I suppose so. I didn’t realise... But you
say they didn’t actually
keep
them?’

‘No. I think they were cut up for
patchwork.’

Alfie smiled. With relief? ‘They would have
just been duty letters to me, nothing special. I’ve no memory of
writing them. And it would never have occurred to me there was a
family hanging on my every word.’

Or a scheming slapper of a girlfriend.

Sick with fear and disgust, wanting nothing
more than to sob into my pillow, I stood up and, the words almost
choking me, said, ‘It’s late. I’m off to bed. Goodnight,
Alfie.’

He was on his feet in seconds, standing too
close, the big brown eyes pleading. ‘Can I join you?’ His hand
cupped my face and he stroked my cheek with his thumb. ‘The others
have all gone to bed. Not that anyone really cares where I sleep.
The niceties have been observed.’ He grinned. I used to think it
was a sexy smile.

‘I’m shattered, Alfie. And not really in the
mood.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I don’t know. I’m finding it all a bit
much, I suppose. Being here. All the family stuff. Frances is a bit
of a cow, isn’t she? She’s taken an instant dislike to me, I can
tell.’

‘Fan disapproves of all my girlfriends, on
principle. Take no notice. Look, if you’re tired we could just
sleep together. Have a cuddle. That would be nice... Wouldn’t
it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, thinking, ‘No.’

It must have shown. He looked into my eyes.
‘What’s wrong, Gwen? Has something happened? Did Tyler say
something to upset you?’