House of Silence (25 page)

‘The blanket box is also full of toys,’ said
Alfie. ‘So’s the cupboard.’

‘They’ve kept
everything
?’

‘Yes. Well, maybe not everything. I’ve never
done a full inventory. But there’s enough here to while away a wet
afternoon or two, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, Alfie, it’s
horrible
... I think
I’m beginning to understand.’

‘Really?’ he replied sharply. ‘I doubt it...
Some of the stuff belonged to my sisters of course, but most of it
was bought for the beloved son and heir.’ He zipped up his
toiletries bag and put it in a holdall. ‘I hope you’ll be all right
on your own. Don’t let Fanny get to you. Just ignore her when she
gets drunk. And she
will
get drunk.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to
come?’

‘Positive. I expect it to be a very painful
experience and, as with all painful experiences, I prefer to go
through it alone. That’s the way I am.’

‘I
do
understand that.’

He looked at her. ‘Yes, maybe you do. I’ll
see you tomorrow, then. Happy Christmas.’ He leaned forward and
kissed her on the cheek, then bent to pick up his bag. As he turned
to leave, Gwen noticed a framed photograph on the bedside table,
behind the clock. It was Alfie as an adult - an Alfie she
recognised - but he was wearing some sort of ragged costume and his
face was smeared with dirt. She picked up the photograph.

‘What’s this?’

‘Me when I was a drama student. Final year.
I was playing Edgar in
King Lear
. That’s the bit where he’s
on the heath, pretending to be Poor Tom, barking mad. It’s a
terrible part. Known as “the actors’ graveyard”. But the critics
were kind to me. Said I was very affecting.’

Gwen stared at the photo, perplexed. ‘It
seems out of place here. It’s the only adult thing in the
room.’

‘That’s because I brought it with me.’

‘Do you always travel with it?’

‘No, only when I come here. It reminds who I
am. Prevents
me
from going barking mad... See you tomorrow.
Look after yourself.’

After he’d gone, Gwen sat down on the bed
and surveyed the room again. A grim-faced Action Man, adorned with
fearsome knives and an ammunition belt, caught her eye. She
couldn’t imagine Alfie playing with it, then remembered that
perhaps he never had. Overcome by a sudden wave of panic, she fled
from the room.

As Vivien carved the turkey, standing in for Alfie at
the head of the table, she averted her eyes from the long faces
beneath tissue paper hats. Hattie sat dejected, fiddling with her
napkin. Frances, her thin face pinched with tension, had already
emptied her wine glass and was helping herself to the bottle of
Merlot that Vivien could have sworn she’d placed far enough down
the table to be out of Frances’ reach. Rae sat slumped in her
chair, gazing into space, apparently unaware of the cheerful
remarks addressed to her by Gwen and Deborah, seated either side,
trying valiantly to compensate for the absence of the guest of
honour. Glancing up, Vivien saw the wreckage of her mother’s hopes
etched in the deep lines of her face and she looked down again
quickly. Carving more turkey, she said, ‘We should have asked Tyler
to join us. There’s a ridiculous amount of meat on this bird. Do
you think it’s too late to give him a ring?’

Gwen avoided Vivien’s eye and offered Rae
the dish of cranberry sauce. Hattie looked round the table at the
glum, silent faces and said, ‘I think he’d have more fun on his
own, don’t you?’

Frances laughed - a brittle, high-pitched
sound, not altogether pleasant. ‘Hattie, really, you are
priceless
!’

‘Oh, come on, everyone!’ said Deborah,
helping herself to roast potatoes. ‘I’m sure if we all make an
effort, we can rise above our disappointment and have a jolly good
Christmas without Alfie. After all, we managed without him for
years.’

As Gwen handed the gravy boat to Deborah,
she noticed Hattie’s quick sidelong look at her sister and her
anxious eyes. Deborah started to speak but Vivien interrupted.
‘Deb’s referring to all the years Alfie lived abroad with his
father, Gwen. She’s quite right - we’re well used to family
Christmases without Alfie. It’s just that we enjoy them so much
more when he’s with us. When
all
the family are assembled.
Come on, Hattie - we haven’t pulled my cracker.’

Vivien flourished the cracker under Hattie’s
nose and they pulled it apart, spilling the contents across the
table. Rae sat up with a start. She looked round the table as if
searching for a face and said, ‘Tom’s gone?’

‘Yes, Ma,’ said Viv, donning her paper hat.
‘He had to go back to London. To the flat. Don’t you remember? I
explained before lunch. He’s been burgled and he has to deal with
the police.’

‘Alfie’s gone too,’ Rae said, her expression
tragic.

Gwen saw the old woman’s eyes fill with
tears and took her hand. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. As soon as he
can.’

‘Alfie?’ Rae shook her head and her hat slid
over her eyes at a rakish angle. ‘No, he’s gone. Gone for
good.’

‘
No
, Ma,’ Vivien said, barely able to
suppress her irritation. ‘He’ll be back for lunch tomorrow. He
promised.’

‘And you know he always keeps his promises,’
Deborah added.

Rae brightened a little and straightened her
hat. ‘Tom’s a good boy... He’ll come back, won’t he? Tomorrow, did
you say?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Not long to wait.’

‘And he’ll have a present for you,’ Gwen
added, smiling.

‘Won’t that be exciting?’ Vivien said, with
forced gaiety. ‘Now eat your dinner, Ma, before it gets cold. Who’s
for more stuffing?’

Deborah lifted her plate eagerly. ‘Yes
please!’

Rae looked down at her plate and murmured,
‘I’m not hungry.’ She turned to Gwen and inclining her head, she
peered at her face and said, ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I’ve
forgotten your name. Is it... Gwyneth?’

‘It’s Gwen.’

‘
Gwen!
Yes, of course... Well, don’t
worry, Gwen. Alfie will be back tomorrow. He’s a good boy. He keeps
his promises.’ Rae lifted her knife and fork, cut herself a small
piece of turkey and lifted it to her mouth. She chewed slowly and
began to dissect a potato, then, suddenly defeated, laid down her
cutlery with a clatter. She lifted her napkin and held it to her
mouth. A faint mewing sound indicated that she’d started to
cry.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ hissed Frances. ‘Do
you think Tyler would mind if we descended on him for the
afternoon? A troop of Polish ghosts playing Musical Chairs would be
more fun than this!’ She stood up, tossed her napkin on to the
table and left the room, taking her wine glass with her.

It was some time before anyone spoke.
Deborah picked up the slip of paper that had fallen from Vivien’s
cracker and unrolled it. She read it and dissolved into giggles.
‘Oh, Hattie, where did you get this one? It’s a cracker! Oh, I
mean—’ She became incoherent with laughter again and Hattie,
smiling reluctantly, took the paper from her and read aloud,
‘What is Santa’s favourite pizza?... Deep pan, crisp and
even.’

Gwen joined in with the general laughter,
glad of a moment’s relaxation. Composed now, Rae looked at her
daughters, smiling vaguely, unsure of the meaning of the joke. She
looked down at her plate and speared a piece of potato. ‘Alfie
will
come back,’ she said firmly. ‘Because it’s
Christmas.’

‘Yes, Ma,’ Vivien replied, her voice as
frayed as her nerves. ‘That’s right. Alfie will be back.’

After lunch, Gwen was banished to the
sitting room while the sisters cleared away. She found Frances
curled up on the sofa, staring into the fire, her empty wine glass
on a side table.

‘They still won’t let me help,’ said Gwen,
bending down to the log basket. ‘I’ve been sent to tend the
fire.’

Frances didn’t look up. ‘There’s a
dishwasher. Viv and Hattie will be arguing over how it should be
loaded. Deb will be making an enormous pot of tea and wondering how
soon she can plunder the turkey carcase for a sandwich... It’s the
same every Christmas. It was only ever the men who made it
bearable.’

‘Men?’

‘Alfie. Daniel. There used to be husbands in
the old days. Mine and Deborah’s. Then there were lovers...’ She
looked up and added, with an attempt at a smile, ‘
Mine
, not
Deborah’s. Now it’s just Alfie and a lot of lonely old women...
Sorry, I didn’t mean to include you in that. I still haven’t quite
adjusted to the idea of Alfie bringing a girlfriend home for
Christmas. It’s never happened before. He must think a lot of you.
Or alternatively, he doesn’t, since he’s prepared to inflict his
awful family on you.’

Gwen settled down on the hearthrug and
watched flames stir around the new log. ‘Oh, I’m used to awful
families. Not that I think this one
is
awful. But I used to
have one of my own. Really awful. I miss it now.’

‘Did you have a black sheep?’

‘We
only
had black sheep. House
rules.’

Frances laughed, showing even white teeth.
Gwen could see she’d once been a beauty, perhaps would be still, if
her features weren’t so tainted with scorn and bitterness. The
cold, grey eyes were focussed now, alight with interest. ‘Do tell.
What did your black sheep do?’

‘You name it. Drink. Drugs. Lots of sex. My
aunt used to say, “If you can’t have success, there’s always
excess.” They lived life to the hilt.’

‘Well, good for them!’

‘Yes... They’re all dead now,
unfortunately.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK. They died a long time ago.’

‘Were they happy? Living lives of
excess?’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Briefly, perhaps.
My uncle Frank was perpetually in love. Well, what he
called
love. I can’t say it ever seemed to make him happy. But then he
fell for some pretty unsavoury types. Male,’ Gwen added. ‘But I
think he preferred excitement to happiness anyway. If he was ever
in danger of achieving a state of contentment, Uncle Frank would
sabotage himself.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, screwing around. Fits of obsessive
jealousy. Getting himself beaten up. Messy stuff.’

‘How sad... Who drank?’

‘My aunt Samantha. I think there was
probably an underlying mental health problem - she suffered
terribly with depression - and she managed it with alcohol. Or
thought she did. But it killed her in the end.’

‘And who did drugs?’

‘My mother. She did quite a lot of sex too.
She was very beautiful and found it hard to say no. She didn’t have
loving parents, you see, so when she grew up and got a lot of
attention from men, she didn’t really know how to handle it. That’s
what my aunt said, anyway. Beauty was a burden for my mother and it
attracted the wrong sort of men. So she lived life in the fast
lane. Until she crashed.’

Frances studied the profile of the young
woman who had catalogued her family tragedies calmly, without
bitterness, with even a touch of irony. Despite herself, Frances
was impressed. She’d wondered why Alfie had made an exception and
brought Gwen to Creake Hall. When she’d met her, she’d assumed from
the pretty face and figure that Alfie must be infatuated, but
talking to Gwen, sensing the steel beneath the easy-going surface,
Frances was forced to ask herself if, finally, at nearly thirty,
Alfie had fallen in love.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought. Frances
didn’t begrudge Alfie his happiness, it was just the sobering
realisation that Alfie was no longer a boy, wasn’t even really a
young man any more. Alfie had grown up and moved on. Found himself
a lovely girl, with brains, beauty and a kind heart. And
Frances?... Frances was forty-four and about to be divorced for the
third time.

If you can’t have success, there’s always
excess.

She began to experience the gnawing hunger
that was nothing to do with food; a hunger that was assuaged -
briefly - by sex; a hunger that booze, in sufficient quantities,
would dull for a few hours. And if she couldn’t get laid, why the
hell shouldn’t she get drunk?

Reaching for her wine glass, Frances was
about to go in search of the bottle of Merlot, when her eyes fell
on Gwen, sitting on the rug, gazing into the fire, her arms looped
around her knees. Frances experienced a pang of something like pity
as she remembered the girl was here because she had nowhere else to
spend Christmas. Eyeing her empty glass with irritation, Frances
said, ‘You don’t drink, do you?’

‘No. I tried a little social drinking at
college but I was horribly ill. The doctor said it was an allergy,
but I’ve always wondered if it was some sort of DIY aversion
therapy. My system rejecting booze because I’d seen what it did to
my aunt.’

‘What was your aunt like when she was
sober?’

‘She was lovely! So much fun! But she lacked
self-confidence. I think she was quite shy, actually. She was a
singer. Used to play clubs and pubs. And sometimes she worked in
the theatre, singing in the chorus.
Phantom of the Opera
,
that sort of thing. She wasn’t famous, just a jobbing singer. She
used to have a drink to calm her nerves before a gig. Then she’d
have two. Then there’d be drinks after the show. Other people would
buy them for her and she couldn’t really say no. Eventually she got
it into her head that she needed booze to perform.’

‘Maybe that was just her excuse. For
drinking.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Alcoholics are so bloody devious,’ Frances
muttered. ‘Sorry, Gwen. I didn’t mean to speak ill of your aunt. I
was talking generally.’

‘That’s OK, I quite agree. Alcoholics
are
bloody devious. They’re also bloody boring. But my Aunt
Sam
liked
the person she became after she’d had a few. She
said, when she had a bottle of wine inside her, she became the
person she’d always wanted to be.’