The Song House
Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
Song
House
Trezza
Azzopardi
PICADOR
She’s hearing things: the noise her skirt makes as she walks, the
low grumble of a distant tractor, a crow laughing in the tree-tops.
There’s a half-remembered melody playing in her head.
She removes her jacket and slings it over her shoulder,
humming the tune out loud, aware of how slight her voice
sounds in the open air. It’s high summer, hot and arid, but the
overgrown hedges on either side of the path cast a welcome
shade; walking between them is like being in a tunnel. A right
bend leads her to a clearing. From here, set back behind a dense
thicket of rhododendron bushes, she sees the upper half of Earl
House, its tall windows mirroring the sky. She is surrounded
by fields of crops; she recognizes the burnt gold of barley, and
the silver feathering of ripe wheat. There is no wire to keep
her out. She takes a detour off the dirt path and steps between
the rows of wheat, feeling hidden and exalted: the only one
here. The heels of her sandals sink slightly into the earth.
Removing them, she picks her way barefoot over the rutted
ground, deep into the centre of the field. Her watch says two-fifteen. All she can see is the wide sky, all she can hear is the
tractor drone, very faint now, and the wheat shushing as she
moves through it. She doesn’t know why she must do this; she
has no reason except that it seems a natural thing, a childhood
act revived. Despite the awkwardness of the ground, she picks
up speed, turning one way, then another. She doesn‘t know
what she’s searching for until she finds it. And now it’s here, as
she knew it had to be all along: the bowl barrow. She lies down
on the mound, splays her arms and legs like a skydiver in free
fall, and then she is still, quietly panting into the blue space
above her.
On the top floor of the house, standing at the window, Kenneth
is watching.
bless the weather
Her hair is darker than he thought. When he first caught sight
of her, it looked like copper wire, but now he sees that it has
an earthy hue, streaks of auburn and chestnut brown. He’s
pleased with this subtle difference; he thinks it more sophisticated.
The woman stands quite still before his desk, her hands
loosely clasped in front of her, the suit jacket back on and
buttoned – one button done up – so if he hadn’t seen her just
half an hour earlier, her body spread out in the field below, he
would never have known.
Maggie Nix? he says, to which she nods and smiles without
showing her teeth, Please, do sit down.
Kenneth Earl does not sit down; he walks to the window again
and looks at the wheatfield, then back into the room at her.
He has interviewed three others this afternoon, has seen them
all walk up the path, has waited while the rhododendrons lining
the drive eclipsed and then revealed them again, counted the
beat of their footsteps on the staircase. All three were unable
to enter the room, to stand or to sit, without first saying something.
What a hot day it was, such a nice walk up to the house,
what a magnificent room. And it
is
beautiful, Kenneth’s office.
Situated on the west side of the building, the two original
windows give a sweeping view of the Berkshire downs; the
interior has plaster crisp as snow, a few discerning antiques, a
thick cream carpet underfoot. Maggie has said nothing about
the room; she does not gaze up in wonder at the intricate
ceiling rose, or admire the painting hanging on the wall behind
Kenneth’s desk. She sits and waits, and watches his movements
with a clear, open expression. In the sunlight, she looks flawless,
a study in oils. Her eyes are completely and unnervingly
fixed on him.
Can I get you a drink? A tea, coffee? he asks. She will have
to say something to that. She begins to shake her head, and
then an intake of breath,
A glass of water, please.
From the closet in the corner of the room, he draws some
water, walking back towards her where he sees a bent stalk of
straw caught in the curls of her hair.
I’m afraid it’s only tap, he says, expecting her to speak again.
Kenneth watches her drink it, in quick gulps, like a child would
drink, and then place the glass on the low table next to her
chair.
Thank you, she says.
He’d advertised in the national papers, not wanting anyone
local, anyone who might know of him. He thought he required
an assistant, but it was an applicant in the last round, an ambitious
young man who had ideas, who heard him out and finally
told Kenneth that what he needed was an amanuensis. Or slave,
the young man added, going on his way. An amanuensis. Immediately,
Kenneth liked the sound of it; it was musical, perfectly
right. He wanted to talk and have someone listen, someone to
note his words, exactly as he spoke them; someone who did
not interject or question or make noise. But he did not specify
these skills in the advertisement. An assortment of women had
come down on the train from London, with their telephone
voices and lacquered fingernails, strident perfume announcing
their arrival. Each thought they were progressing their careers
by becoming a personal secretary, or a PA, as one of them
insisted on calling the job. Maggie, now, he doesn’t know
where she has travelled from; he doesn’t know what she thinks.
As she sits and listens, he outlines the work. She nods and,
once or twice, opens her face with a quick smile. It worries
him, this eagerness; perhaps she hasn’t taken in the scope of
the task he’s proposing.
You mention here in your letter that you have shorthand,
he says, It’s a rare skill, these days.
I have a kind of shorthand of my own, she says, It’s quite
fast, like texting.
Texting, he says, See you later.
Maggie narrows her eyes at him, and Kenneth’s finger draws
a squiggle of hieroglyphics in the air.
C, U – you know, I do know what texting is.
Good, says Maggie, Well, it’s just like that.
He glances again at her letter, turning the single sheet over in
his hand.
What was your last post? he says, I can’t seem to find your
references.
The blush growing on Maggie’s face tells him she hasn’t got
any.
I was a carer, for a relative, she says, But then – she looks
down into her lap – I wasn’t needed any more.
I don’t suppose they’re in a position to write you a reference?
Kenneth asks, not unkindly. Maggie answers with a shake
of the head.
Actually, she says, raising her eyes to his, Before that I used
to manage my stepfather’s shop in Dorset. Charmouth. Do you
know it?
Can’t say I do. Nice part of the world, I believe.
It has lots of fossils, she says stupidly.
Kenneth bares his teeth in a pained grin.
Well, there’s your qualification for the job, he says. He gives
her a quick look to see how the joke is taken, is gratified to
see her smiling again.
Maybe I should show you the library. It’ll give you a better
idea of what’s in store.
Kenneth’s plan is simple enough; he wants to catalogue all
the music in his collection. Not details of artists or labels or
conductors; most of these he already knows, and the ones he’s
forgotten he can read from the cover. His idea is to insert inside
each sleeve a page of notes; memories, associations, what the
piece means to him, when he’d obtained it, and why. He wants
to be able to draw out a record and say: this is why I love this,
or: this is what listening to it does to me. He wants to remind
himself of his life – episodes of joy, romance, desire – and so
relive it. Kenneth is nearly sixty-eight. Apart from Freya, who
comes in once a week to clean the rooms still in use, he sees
few people. And lately, he’s felt his days merge seamlessly into
each other, felt how quickly time can pass; how quickly, and
how slowly.
Taking her elbow – a light touch, barely that – he leads
Maggie down the stairs. Close up, she’s not as tall as he thought,
and older; not a girl at all. She must be in her thirties. Under
the curls of her fringe he glimpses a scar, pale against the
suntanned skin, a thin strike from hairline to eyebrow. He is
delighted with this flaw, the most perfect imperfection; and is
as quickly mortified by his urge to stroke it. He ushers her in
front of him so that she can’t read his face, and sees the back
of her head again, the piece of straw clinging to her hair. In
the light from the landing window, he thinks he also sees a
small red mark on the collar of her blouse. From a crushed insect,
perhaps, a spider mite or beetle.
The library, down a long painted corridor on the ground
floor, is shuttered from the light. Kenneth opens one of its two
doors, standing aside to let Maggie pass through. Adjusting his
eyes to the dimness, it takes a moment for him to realize that
she hasn’t moved.
What? he asks.
Like a library in a book, she says, her face flushed with delight. She puts out a hand in front of her, but still doesn’t venture into
the room. The darkness inside is so brown and stained that she
can’t possibly see how not like an ordinary library this is. He
feels disappointment nip at him, and doesn’t hear the playfulness
of her remark. He strides ahead of her, crosses to the
window shutters and folds one back:
now
she will see.
Any particular novel? he asks. Maggie steps into a bar of
sunlight on the floor.
The Great Gatsby
, she says, gesturing to the far wall, The
scene where Owl Eyes talks about the books being real.
And then she laughs, as if the idea of having actual books in
a library is a peculiar thing. Kenneth laughs too.
Can you hold a silence? he asks.
Do you mean, can I keep quiet?
That’s right, says Kenneth. He edges nearer, trying to place
her accent.
Because some of the things you’ll hear, he says, making his
large hands into fists and holding them in the air between
them, Some of these things will be quite . . . intimate.
I can keep quiet, she says, And I can keep a secret. But words
on a page, they’re going to be read, aren’t they?
Kenneth nods in agreement.
They’ll be read by me. And when I’m dead, they’ll be burnt.
Not the recordings, just the notes. I’ve left instructions.
Maggie looks at him keenly now; he sees in her eyes something
like recognition.
How many records?
Three thousand five hundred and counting, he says, But we
won’t be cataloguing all of them, of course.
Green, her eyes are green.
What kind of music?
Blues, jazz, classical, rock, he says, swaying slightly on his
heels. To cover his embarrassment, he leads off along the windows,
folding back the shutters one by one until the room is
sparkling with light.
And rather a lot of Frank Sinatra, Ella, Satchmo. Look, here,
I’ll show you what there is.
There are no books. Lining the walls, from floor to ceiling, are
rows of records, each row divided into columns by a thin strip
of wood. In the dimness, it had looked like a design on wallpaper.
He hears her catch her breath.
It’s amazing, she says, So much to choose from.
So you do
like
music, Maggie? Because, as you say, there’s a
lot to choose from – a lot to hear.
She turns from the wall, an incredulous look on her face.
Do I like music? she asks, What a bizarre question. Do I like
music?
Kenneth is now properly embarrassed. He feels as though he’s
managed to insult her, but can’t think how.
It’s just that I’ve interviewed quite a few applicants. None
of them seemed very interested in the actual music. Salary, conditions
of employment – he flicks his fingers out in a count –
Holiday leave, sick leave, maternity leave—