House of Silence (23 page)

‘No, of course not.’

‘You were gone a long time.’

‘I had to drive very slowly. It was snowing
and visibility was poor. It was a bit nerve-wracking as I didn’t
know the road or the car... I think if you don’t mind, Alfie, I’d
rather sleep on my own. I need a bit of space.’

‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself this
evening.’

‘I was! I’m just feeling a bit low now,
that’s all. You know what Christmas means to me.’

He took my hand. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry,
I should have thought. We can’t really leave before Boxing Day, I’m
afraid.’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it! I’ll be fine,
honestly. I just need to get to bed. I’m sorry for being such a
bore.’

‘That’s OK. I’m pretty knackered too. I
should probably conserve energy for the Christmas Day onslaught.
Maybe we could think about leaving on Boxing Day. Make up some
excuse.’

I immediately thought of Marek’s invitation
to lunch at Creake Hall. Before I could stop myself, I said, ‘No,
really, I’ll be fine. We can’t leave before Boxing Day’s over. Viv
and Hattie would be so disappointed. And I’ve said I’ll help Hattie
finish off one of her quilts. We must stay for Boxing Day.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I lied, sure of nothing and
nobody, trusting no one, aware that this was a dark and familiar
place for me, the place where I’d spent all my childhood, hoping,
even praying for certainties, for something I could navigate by,
someone I could trust. Then, as now, I chose silence rather than
confrontation. Then, as now, I chose solitude and the lonely
comfort of unheard tears.

What I hated about my mother was all the
lies. The lies about drugs, the lies about money, the lies about
losing things that she’d sold, the lies about buying stuff she’d
stolen, the lies about the lies. In the end she lied when she
didn’t even need to, just because she could, because she thought
maybe she
should
. Defensive, tactical lying. My mother lied
about her habit and out of habit, so it became my habit never to
believe anything she said - especially not anything I wanted to
believe.

Aunt Sam wasn’t much better, promising me,
as she upended the bottle, that this really was
it
, she was
never, ever going to touch the stuff again. Uncle Frank at least
never lied to me, only to himself, about his age, his looks, his
pulling power and about the boys he said he loved, but whose names
he had trouble remembering.

What was real and true in my childhood?

Me. I was real. My thoughts, my words, my
feelings. I trusted those. And my trusty crap detector. I didn’t
lie to anyone, not even my mother when I told her I loved her. I
meant it. It was true then. I loved her when she was alive. I must
have, I was so terrified of losing her. It was only after she died
that things changed, that my feelings changed. Suddenly there was
something bigger than love that I felt towards my mother.

Marek was right. It was anger.

On the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s
accidental death by drug overdose, I took stock.

Alfie was lying to me.

He didn’t write those letters and he wasn’t
the boy playing cricket.

Was he Alfie? If he wasn’t, who the hell was
he? Did his sisters
know
he wasn’t Alfie? Did his mother?
Or, if he
was
Alfie, who was the boy playing cricket? Who
had written those letters home from school? Had a lonely Hattie
written them as some sort of game of make-believe? If she had, why
had Alfie pretended to have the friend I’d invented for him? If
Laurie wasn’t his boyhood chum, why should Alfie pretend that
“Oliver”
was
?

That surely was the most damning piece of
evidence. If I could bring myself to accept Alfie’s story of the
broken arm, then the cricketing photo could be explained away, but
why would he pretend to have a friend called Oliver, even make up a
bogus university career for him?

There could be only one explanation.

Alfie believed that was what was written in
the letters.

Because he didn’t
know
what was
written in the letters.

Because he hadn’t written them.

But he wanted me to believe that he
had
.

Because he wanted me to believe that he was
Alfie...

Forgive me, Uncle Frank, wherever you are,
for my harsh, self-righteous, teenage judgement. I too have been
sleeping with a man whose name I don’t know.

~~~

There was a light tap at the bedroom door. In their
respective dog baskets Harris and Lewis raised shaggy heads in
unison and regarded first the door, then their mistress. Vivien sat
up in bed and said, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Alfie. Can I have a word?’

She laid aside her paperback and reading
glasses and got out of bed, ordering the dogs to stay. Sliding her
feet into slippers, she took a dressing gown from a hook on the
back of the door, put it on, belted it firmly, then opened the
door.

‘What’s the matter? Is something wrong with
Rae?’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with Rae. Would you
mind if I came in? I don’t want to be overheard. Gwen has only just
gone upstairs.’

‘No, of course not. Come in.’ Vivien turned
away, gathered up a pile of gardening books and magazines from an
armchair, dumped them on the floor and indicated to Alfie that he
should sit. She perched on the edge of the bed, her brown eyes wide
with anxiety.

Alfie sat down. After a moment he said,
‘There’s a problem with Gwen.’

‘What sort of problem?’

‘I think she suspects.
Might
suspect.’

Vivien stared at him, her lips parted in
surprise, then she bowed her head. Clasping her large, bony hands,
she said, ‘Well, we knew it was a big risk letting her come. What’s
happened?’

‘Nothing much, but she’s asking a lot of
questions. And I don’t know all the answers. Were there letters
home? From boarding school?’

‘Yes, one a month for a few years.’

‘Do they still exist?’

‘I’ve no idea. I lost track of them years
ago. I imagine Rae would have kept them. They were addressed to
her. But she might have lost them. Or destroyed them when she had
the last breakdown.’

‘I think Hattie’s been talking to Gwen about
them.’

Vivien frowned. ‘Why on earth would she do
that?’

Alfie spread his hands. ‘Why does Hattie do
anything? She’s taken a shine to Gwen and they’re spending a lot of
time together. You know how Hattie prattles on.’

Vivien shook her head. ‘I can’t believe
Hattie would be that stupid! Even if the letters still existed,
she’d know you wouldn’t be familiar with the contents. What on
earth is she playing at?’

‘Maybe she hasn’t talked about them. But
maybe Gwen has seen them.’

Vivien thought for a moment, then said,
‘Even if she’d found them, she doesn’t strike me as the sort of
girl who’d read other people’s letters. Surely the most likely
explanation is that Rae has talked about them.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, but Gwen said
it was you or Hattie, she couldn’t remember which. I knew it
wouldn’t be you.’

‘Did you manage to talk your way out of
it?’

‘I think so. She mentioned some of the
content of the letters, so I just improvised. Convincingly, I
hope.’

Vivien was silent and appeared to study her
hands folded in her lap. After a few moments she looked up into
Alfie’s face and said, ‘You know, you
could
tell Gwen the
truth. I think she could be trusted.’

‘I’m sure she could. But I care enough about
Gwen not to want to lose her. So I’d rather she didn’t know. In any
case, the fewer people who know, the better.’

‘Well, obviously. But you’re entitled to a
life. Your own, I mean.’

‘Thanks. But I think we have to accept that,
to all intents and purposes, I gave that up years ago.’

Vivien flinched and her hand flew to her
mouth. ‘I’m so sorry... It was never meant to be like this! It was
only ever meant to be a temporary measure.’

‘I know. I entered into this with my eyes
open, Viv. It’s my own fault for bringing Gwen here. I did it
against my better judgement and it was a big mistake. We’ll leave
on Boxing Day. We can’t decently leave any sooner.’

‘Rae will be quite happy with that.’

‘She’ll have to be.’ Alfie shifted in his
chair and said, ‘There’s something else, I’m afraid. Something you
need to know... Fanny made a mistake with the photos.’

‘A mistake? What do you mean?’

‘The cricketing photo. In the sitting room.
The boy is left-handed.’

‘Surely not! Someone would have
noticed!’

‘Someone did. Gwen.’

‘What on earth did you say?’

‘I made up some rigmarole about having
broken my arm. Having to play left-handed to save face with the
other boys.’

‘Did she believe you?’

‘I’m not sure. She appeared to, but she’s
been a bit odd ever since. And then there was the inquisition about
the letters home. It could just be coincidence. Or she could
suspect. So I thought I’d better warn you.’

‘Should I tell the others, do you
think?’

‘Can’t see the point. Hattie’s the one most
likely to blow it now, but if you warn her something’s up, she’ll
blab out of sheer anxiety. Leave it for now. I
think
Gwen
bought my stories. If she didn’t, then she’s playing her own little
game of deception.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘I don’t know. I hope because she likes the
family. Because she’s already fond of you and Hattie. I hope it
might also be because she doesn’t want to lose me.’

‘Why should she have to lose you?’

Alfie shook his head. ‘You don’t know Gwen.
She doesn’t demand a lot from life, but she does insist that what
she has is
real
. Her family strung her along for sixteen
years. She has no time for fantasy. Or delusion. Or deceit. If I
told her the truth, I’d be taking away everything I’ve given her.
Everything I am. There would be nothing left. Nothing real
anyway.’

Vivien gazed at Alfie’s face, his features
sharpened by strain. ‘When I think how all this started, what our
motives
were—’

‘There’s no point feeling guilty, Viv. You
couldn’t have known what you were getting into. Nor could I.’

‘I just hope you and Gwen manage to sort
things out. I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t. She’s a lovely
girl.’

‘Yes, she is.’ Alfie’s smile was wan. ‘More
than I deserve, probably. And I’m certainly less than she
deserves.’ He stood up and said, ‘I’ll let you get to sleep. It’s
long past midnight.’

‘Is it? It’s Christmas Day, then.’

‘Happy Christmas, Viv.’

‘Happy Christmas, Alfie.’

He walked slowly to the door, opened and
closed it silently behind him. After he’d gone, Vivien sat staring
at the door for some minutes, then she covered her face with her
hands.

Gwen

I can’t say Alfie didn’t warn me. He promised me the
second-worse Christmas of my life and that’s what I got.

I spent a restless night. After I’d left a
disappointed Alfie to sleep alone, I lay awake turning over in my
mind what I now knew - and didn’t know - about the man I called
Alfie. I asked myself why I hadn’t confronted him with what I
knew.

I hadn’t challenged Alfie because I didn’t
want to listen to more lies; because I would have had to admit that
I’d
told lies; because even if I’d known who and what Alfie
was, I wouldn’t have slept with him because my lips were still
conscious of Marek’s. I could still feel his long fingers on the
back of my neck.

I admit I hadn’t exactly occupied the moral
high ground in my dealings with Alfie - the man who claimed to be
Alfie - but I wasn’t about to leap from one man’s arms into
another’s. Although, come to think of it, wasn’t that
precisely
what I’d done? I fell asleep wondering if I’d
inherited nymphomaniac tendencies from my late lamented mother. Or
uncle.

When I woke after a fitful sleep, there was
a curious, cold deadness in the air and a complete absence of
sound. I got out of bed and looked out on to the garden. It was
only just beginning to get light but I could see the snow had
settled, obscuring the features of the garden. Paths had
disappeared and there were now no boundaries between lawn and
flowerbed, just an undulating, white expanse broken up by the dark
skeletons of trees.

The garden looked beautiful. Stark, but
peaceful. I decided I would like to walk in it. It was Christmas
Day, after all. I showered and dressed in my warmest clothes and
went quietly downstairs. As I passed the sitting room door I heard
someone clearing the grate and laying a fire. Viv, probably. I
hesitated, then decided to move on without making my presence
known.

As I passed through the kitchen, Harris and
Lewis roused themselves from their customary stupor in front of the
Aga and wove around my ankles, jumping up to be petted. I grabbed a
couple of dog biscuits from a packet Viv kept on the worktop and
tossed them on to the floor as a decoy. In the moment’s grace they
gave me, I managed to get out into the lobby. I changed into
wellingtons and let myself out the back door.

It was lighter now but the cold stunned like
a blow. As I trod, the snow resisted my boots and crunched
underfoot. I walked briskly, following the garden path I’d taken
when I’d left Marek the first time and found my way back to the
house. Was that only the day before yesterday? So much had
happened. I’d met so many new people and, with the exception of
Frances, I’d liked them all. Hattie, Viv and Marek felt like
friends already, although what I felt for Marek was surely
something more than friendship.

What was it? A sexual attraction
undoubtedly. There was no point trying to delude myself about that.
I’d sat in the car, waiting to be kissed. I’d studied him all
evening at the concert, watched his hands, his eyes, the way the
illuminated Christmas tree cast gaudy lights on his white hair. At
the mill I’d let him take me in his arms and press me to his chest
and I hadn’t wanted to be released. I could still remember the
graze of stubble as I’d stood on tiptoe and, thinking of his mouth,
had kissed his cheek.