The Song House (4 page)

If Nell imagines the river as an infiltrator, sidling its way up
the path to spy on her, then she sees the house as her protector.
It is her shield, repelling the invasion with its thick stone walls.
The world outside can do what it wants; safe inside the house,
Nell is queen.

When she first saw Weaver’s Cottage, she thought it idyllic.
Set low behind a thicket of trees, you could miss it entirely.
The only visible part was the roof, half-covered in ivy. Up close,
there were tall white hollyhocks in front of the windows and
a short cobbled path to the door. The place looked so perfect,
so unspoiled: a house a child might draw; a house in a fairy
tale. The occupant was Ed, and this was where she first met
him, just two years before.

She heard him before she saw him: a steady rhythm of
thumping, which sounded to her like giant steps. As she opened
the gate, Nell felt the ground tremble underfoot, and paused,
almost trembling herself.

What’s going on? she asked, looking to her friend.

Go on, urged Cindy, waving her towards the door, You’ll
see.

Inside, the air was choked with dust, like an explosion of flour.
Ed emerged from a cloud, separating himself from the background
in two strides. He had a mallet crooked in his arm, and
was completely white from head to foot, except where the
sweat ran down his bare chest in shiny brown tramlines. He
released the mallet with a clunk onto the threshold.

You must be Nell, he said, dipping his head to accept Cindy’s
kiss. He held open a grimy palm,

Won’t shake hands.

He led them down the side of the cottage, through the long
grass to the trees at the far end. Cindy, smiling, was wiping the
dust from her cheek, picking her way through the rash of nettles
at the edge of the riverbank. She turned to look at Nell,
but Nell was craning her head, her eyes fixed on Ed’s retreating
form. Without stopping, he strode up to the bank and leapt
into the water. He was under for such a long time, Nell began
to worry. When he resurfaced, he had his shorts in his hand
and was scrubbing them over his head. He pulled out the elastic
from his ponytail and dived back into the depths.

What do you think? asked Cindy, wanting approval.

I’ll let you know when I can actually see him, Nell said,
relieved, waiting for Ed to reappear.

My mother loved this story; she’d tell it to me over and
again. The odd detail might be added, a memory modified.
Sometimes, Ed looked like a ghost coming out of a haunted
house, sometimes like Windy Miller. Once, he was a bronzed
prince; only once. But always, after he’d washed himself off in
the water and pulled himself naked and dripping onto the bank,
she’d end the story with her happy-ever-after: And that was it,
my Bird, love at first sight, seeing as that was when I first actually
clapped eyes on him, properly, I mean, without all the
plaster dust and filth. Cindy wasn’t best pleased, of course. But
I’d made my mind up: I was there to stay.

Maggie hears footsteps, quick, almost military in their rhythm,
coming along the corridor. She turns the notebook over and
closes it, just as Kenneth enters the library.

Ah, Maggie, there you are, all ready with your pen poised,
he says brightly, I trust you slept well?

Yes, thank you, she says, and to cover her guilt, holds the
book up for him to see, I was just wondering about this badge.

Veritate et Virtute
, says Kenneth, The old school motto. Truth
and courage. Quite apt, I think, for the journey we’re about
to embark upon. Didn’t you study Latin at school?

I didn’t really go to school, she says, and seeing the surprise
on his face, adds quickly, My mother taught me at home. But
I went to the comp for my O levels. No Latin, though. It was
quite . . . progressive. I don’t think we had a school motto,
unless it was ‘Wake up, you at the back!’

Kenneth rewards her with a quick laugh. He moves to the
window, fumbling at the shutters until he manages to open
them; light spills over her and across the floor.

You know, you’ve given me an idea, he says, Because I was
wondering where to start. Well, of course, we should begin at
the beginning.

Lesson one, says Maggie, but Kenneth’s not listening.

He scrutinizes the wall of vinyl, drumming his lips with his
fingers.

Schooldays, he says, to himself, Music lessons.

His fingers track the row, stop, go back, until he finds the record
he’s seeking, slipping it out of the sleeve and holding it by the
edges. He places it carefully on the turntable of the record
player. It’s a slow benediction, him bending over, mouth slightly
open, dropping the needle onto the edge. In the stillness of the
room, Maggie waits.

Lesson one begins with a click and a hiss. Kenneth, standing
in shadow at the far end of the room, bends slightly at the
knees, holding his arms out at either side of his body. He looks
as if he’s about to jump into the abyss. Nothing happens, neither
of them moves; but Maggie listens hard for a sound. As he lifts
his arms up high, it begins. To Maggie, the music sounds as if
it starts in the middle, building too quickly to a crescendo.

‘Jerusalem’! cries Kenneth, breaking into song:
And did those
feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green!

Maggie writes it down, the shout that comes over like a war
cry, and the breathless reminiscences that follow. The next – ‘I
Vow To Thee My Country’ – is accompanied by more of
Kenneth’s full-throated singing, until he finally gives up, overwhelmed,
and beats a teary retreat to a darkened corner of the
library. Maggie makes notes, trying not to be distracted by the
way he paces the room; he’s not so much listening to the music
as parading it in front of her. There’s a sudden break in this
activity. She pauses, waiting for the next stream of talk, a white
noise whine in her ears. Kenneth stands with his broad back
to her. He’s muttering something about apple scrumping
which she struggles to decipher.

Can you repeat that? she asks, but he waves away her request.

Never mind that now; listen to this.

He places the record on the turntable, turns up the volume.
Maggie hears a few simple opening bars, the asthmatic wheeze
of an organ. Church music, she thinks. Kenneth slips behind
her chair just as the choir starts to sing. The voices rise high,
fall low: it is the singing of children. He’s near enough for her
to hear him, and speaking quite clearly, but Maggie can’t put
pen to paper. Her hand is stunned on the page.

Something wrong, Maggie? he says, seeing her rigid posture.

This song, she says, tilting her head like a bird, What is it?
Kenneth moves back over to the record player and plucks the
stylus off the record. He looks aggrieved at her interruption.
The silence that follows is thick as wool.

‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, he says, I was put in mind
of it – if you’ll forgive me for saying so – when I first saw you.
He sees her again, down in the field, spread on the barrow.
Despite the knowledge that she can’t read his thoughts, his face
reddens at the memory.

And I was saying, he continues, That this was a hymn we
used to sing at school. Harvest festival time, I think. It’s got
such an innocent theme, so full of optimism. Don’t you agree?
Maggie holds her right hand with her left to steady it. She
feels last night’s supper repeat in her throat: bitter courgette,
acid onion. Perhaps his cooking has given her food poisoning.

Did they sing it here, she asks, The children?

What? he says, frowning now, Oh. You mean when they
came to practise. Quite possibly; I wouldn’t know. It’s a popular
hymn; this version’s by the Winchester Cathedral choir.

Would you like me to write that down? she asks, tasting
bile.

Kenneth closes his eyes and sighs, as if dealing with a recalcitrant
child.

Only, I can’t actually hear you over the music, Maggie adds,
quick with the lie.

Kenneth hadn’t thought of this; she can see it in his eyes. His
response is tense, commanding:

I will speak now. Please write down exactly what I say.

It was quite an amazing experience, made all
the more amazing by the fact – extraordinary
– that everyone brought something; fruit in
baskets and what else was there – um – there
was fruit, and vegetables. The day boys only
brought tinned stuff, tinned stuff, of
course. Mr Vaughan at the piano. He erm,
anyway, the singing was the thing. All things
so very bright and so very beautiful in those
days, the colours and the church—

Kenneth stops reading. They are in his office on the top floor,
a late sun slanting through the room. Outside, the fields are
nearly in shadow; the barley burning copper, wheat the colour
of pewter. Maggie has presented him with her afternoon’s
work: two closely typed pages of his words. He stands at the
window, holding the papers in his hand, while she sits on the
sofa behind his desk. Kenneth can barely bring himself to look
at her, with her face lifted, and that expression she has; so
solemn, so eager to please. She has done well, he should praise
her efforts: she has given him precisely what he’s asked for.
Except he can’t get beyond the first page.

Something wrong? Maggie asks, fighting the urge to get up
and go and stand at his shoulder, Only, you tend to speak quite
quickly.

Everything’s wrong, he says, It’s terrible.

He sees her head twitch, her hair fall over her face.

Not you, he cries, Me! It’s so . . . God. I sound so
awful. ‘The day boys only brought tinned stuff.’ Did I really
say that?

I couldn’t make it up, says Maggie.

And I go on and on, two pages of . . . utter tripe.

Kenneth removes his glasses and runs a hand over his eyes.
Maggie sees the age in his face, the lines and creases magnified by the low sunlight.

Well, this won’t do. We’ll have to have a rethink, he says,
Change of plan.

It’s just for you to read, she says, feeling a rush of pity at his
crestfallen look, That’s what you said, didn’t you? It’s only for
your eyes?

Kenneth’s voice is very faint,

I suppose, he says.

Then what does it matter how it sounds? Maybe you just
need a few words, you know, to get the feeling again.

Maggie looks keenly at him, her green eyes cool as glass.
Kenneth flips the papers, moving towards her so quickly, for
a second she thinks he’s going to hit her with them. He
scrunches the pages into a ball.

Maggie, I don’t know what the prompt is. They came back
to life, you know, those moments? But it wasn’t just hearing
the hymn again, it was—

It was telling me, she says, finishing the sentence he can’t
bring himself to utter, Telling me about your past brought it
right back.

And why should that be? he asks, You don’t know me, or
my past. Why should I care about that?

He throws the ball of papers at the waste-paper bin, misses, picks
it up again and dashes it into the basket. Maggie is silent for a
second, waiting for his anger to subside before she continues.
She weighs her words; she wants to make them count.

Because what’s the point of memories, if there’s no one else
to share them with? You might just as well use a Dictaphone
if that’s what you believe.

Kenneth drops himself heavily into his chair, smoothes his
hands across the blotter on his desk. He finds the truth of her
words baffling.

But you don’t believe that, do you? she adds, You want to
share them.

Kenneth’s laugh is cynical.

Oh yes, Maggie, I want to share them all right. I want to
share them with
me
.

The pause that follows is a kind of reckoning. Kenneth’s gaze
wanders over the blotter, the leather-topped desk, his knuckles
and his blunt fingernails. He won’t look at Maggie. In the
waiting, a shiver of fright courses through her, as if she has
been found out, as if he’s known right from the start who she
is and why she’s here. Her mind races back over the past two
days; she’s given nothing away. She could be anybody, nobody.
He can’t know, and he mustn’t know, and she must keep
courage. Truth from courage, she thinks, misremembering the
motto. She jumps when he speaks again.

Why I hit on this scheme . . . I was standing down there in
the library, a few months back, and I was watching the blackbirds
bouncing over the lawn, and there was the morning, the
sharp air, and the light, everything rinsed and – it was brand
new, you know, the way only an early spring morning can be
– and I was listening to a flute sonata. It’s by Poulenc. Some
of his stuff is quite austere, but this is—

Kenneth throws his hands up,

The piece, for me, is how spring feels.

Maggie is nodding, calm enough to find her voice, Sounds
good, she says, I’d like to hear it.

But I wanted to record the moment
exactly
, so that I could
remember it again properly, without any . . . interference. So
other thoughts won’t sneak up on me, catch me off guard.
Because that was when I realized. There are fewer spring days
left now, for me. Who knows, maybe I won’t ever see another
spring day like that. So in the gloomy winter, I’d like to relive
it. Properly.