The Song House (9 page)

Would you like to choose something? he asks, turning away.

Nope, she says, turning him back to her, tugging on the
sleeve of his shirt so that he almost stumbles over her feet, I
think this is pretty near perfect. Pretty much right for now.

The summer mornings were the worst: endless hours, the
endless day, drinks ticked out by the clock. No alcohol before
eleven, that was his rule, but eleven seemed an eternity away
when you were awake at 4 a.m. In the wintertime, Kenneth
could put on his bedside lamp, take up his book, and read. Or
he’d find the World Service, some tedious discussion about
global warming, and fall back to sleep again. But as soon as
the clocks went forward, he’d be sharp awake; the blackbirds
startling him with their police sirens, and the wood pigeons
mocking:
get up you fool, get up you fool.
It hurt the most then,
when he’d forgotten how old he was, only to be reminded too
quickly, staggering from his bed with a dead leg, bursting for
the lavatory. Then there were simply too many hours to wait
until the clock struck eleven.

Since Maggie has arrived, Kenneth hears the dawn chorus
differently. These days the blackbirds sing fabulous, intricate
jewellery songs; a shower of emeralds, a cascade of silver. The
pigeons in the trees woo each other with throbbing purrs. He
lies in his bed, fondling the sleepy damp nest of his penis, and
thinks of the day ahead: what he will play her, what he might
cook for supper. The air tingling, the light so fresh he could
bite it. He takes his time showering: hot, a bit hotter, then cool,
cooler; and he shaves carefully, using the magnifying mirror
Will bought him one birthday, the one that shows him how
hideous he is close up, but minimizes the nicks and rough estimates
that result from shaving blurred. A dab of cologne on
his jaw and wrists – another gift from his son, another birthday
ago. Kenneth cleans his teeth twice over, first with paste, and
then with bicarbonate of soda, dabbing the toothbrush in the
powder and trying not to taste the grit of it. He would like to
gleam as bright as the birdsong.

That’s why, Maggie, it’s incredible, that you something unforgettable,
something something unforgettable too.

She hears him singing; she hears him forgetting the words.
Maggie pauses in the slatted shadowlight of the wrought-iron
stairway, waiting for his footsteps on the other staircase to
recede; imagines him walking through the hallway, jaunty, a
pocket of cologne trapped on the still air. She sees it start to
move, slowly, like a vapour, then more urgently, wending its
way up the stairs, seeking her out. Come and find me, it says,
Come and be with me.

Nine-thirty. Another hot promise of a day. She finds Kenneth
with his eyes closed, his head nodding faintly in time to the
music: solo piano, a tune she doesn’t know. He looks quite
relaxed, sitting in his wing-backed chair near the stereo, hands
in his lap. The scent of him, like a bridge, carries her over to
his side.

Maggie, he smiles, You slept well?

Yes, she says, taking her seat.

Another beautiful you, he says, so she looks up sharp and
checks him.

Another beautiful
day
.

Is there an echo in here? he asks, cupping his hand round
his ear and opening his mouth in a silent laugh. And so, they
resume. Kenneth takes the record off the turntable and replaces
it with another: again the click, again, the hiss.

It begins with a single sustained note, like an idea being
formed, gradually developing into a certainty. Over the sound,
a distant horn, calling. Then a darker note: the reply, weaving
through the forest. Maggie sees two people climbing down a
steep set of stairs, hesitant and careful, as if they don’t know
what they will find at the bottom. One person drawing the
other on, telling her to be careful and – Shh! Be quiet! – then
a sound like a door opening. They are moving through the
garden now, past the dead bonfire and the shed, through the
long grass at the river’s edge. A plucked violin string, like raindrops
falling from the trees. It is very early in the morning. On
the record, a cuckoo cries. Maggie sees the black earth, spongy
underfoot, sees her slippers soaking up the moisture. She would
like to tell the boy about it but she’s afraid he’ll shout at her
again. Her legs are cold, her feet are getting wet.

Kenneth throws his head back as the first movement ends, as
if to drink the air.

Fifteen minutes of wonder. Don’t you think, Maggie? Spring
and no end to it, Mahler said. Can’t you just smell that morning
dew?

Her body jerks in shock.

How did you know? she cries, How did you know that?

He opens his eyes, smiling, but stops when he sees the stricken
look on her face.

Maggie, the First . . . it’s a symphony about the glory of
nature. This movement is the awakening. Everybody knows
that.

Not everybody, she says, Would you like me to get that down,
about nature and all its glories? About
awakening
?

He hears rage in her tone, can’t imagine where it’s come from.
Getting up, Kenneth takes the needle from the record, and
moves to the window.

Let’s just have a minute to reflect, shall we? he says, over his
shoulder. And he thought they were getting on so well.

He’d spent yesterday evening alone, had deliberately left her
alone – kept out of her way, in fact, after the strange intimacy
of the afternoon. He was conscious of his desire to spend time
with her, more conscious still of the position she was in: he
must let her have some privacy. Trying to find a distraction, he
took refuge in the garage. He would polish the car; it would
occupy an hour. With Borodin on the stereo, in the soft, dusty
light, he could imagine he was driving through the open countryside,
top down, greenery shooting past him and the glide
of the steering wheel under his fingers. Not Maggie’s hair
falling into his palm, not tracing the smooth line of her jaw
with his knuckle, not looking to his left and seeing her sitting
next to him, one arm bent across her head, trying to keep her
fringe out of her eyes.

I said you should have brought a scarf, he shouts, turning
his face back to the road. And in this fantasy, his voice is young
and full of strength, his hands on the steering wheel are firm.
She pulls at a strand of hair caught on her lips, she laughs, and
leans in – he’s noticed how she does that, as if to whisper a
secret – Can we get one in Winchester? she asks, Will there be
time? and he nods, yes, because in this life there will always be
time.

He’d worked the wax into the bonnet and buffed with the
chamois until he was coated in a melting sweat. He didn’t
notice her at first, over the swoon and thunder of the Dances,
but as the finale reached its crescendo, he heard his name called,
once, twice. She was standing at the door.

Come in, he’d said, wiping his forehead with his wrist. But
she just stood there. He couldn’t read her face in silhouette.

Why don’t you come out?

The sun was low, but the air was warm; fresh sweat broke open
on his brow.

Just polishing the car, he said.

Obviously, she said, and he saw her trying to hide a smile,
It’s beautiful, what is it?

Kenneth stared at the cloth, saw himself folding and unfolding
it; felt the greasiness of wax on his fingers.

It’s a Mercedes.

He was going to elaborate, but then she surprised him.
Crouching slightly, she peered into the shade of the lock-up.

Would you let me have a go? she asked.

She hadn’t struck him as the type of person who would ask
that. It baffled him; for a moment, he felt insulted.

Of course not, he said, What an idea!

Just round here, on the estate. I do have a driving licence,
you know.

He had never let anyone else drive his car; not Rusty, certainly
not Will. He wanted to say so, and heard how he would sound:
like an
old fart
. Will had called him that when he flatly refused
to loan him the car; it was how he’d felt seeing Maggie’s face,
her eyes full of hurt.

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it meant so much to you, she said,
Or I wouldn’t have asked.

And that was how he’d got behind the wheel again. He drove
her only a short distance, past the rhododendrons, turning
round at the top of the drive and falling back down through
it, getting some speed up, just enough of a breeze to trouble
her hair. And it made her laugh: he knew it would. Afterwards,
he’d retreated to the garage on the pretence of fixing a rear
light, but he couldn’t remove the image of her from his
mind. The canopy of leaves above them, her luminous face, her
hand in his as he helped her out of the passenger seat. It had
taken all his willpower not to try to kiss her again. Later, sitting
on the terrace, he felt his blood quicken when he thought of
her; pictured her lying in the field. Pictured her lying in his
arms.

Well? Have you reflected? she says now, pen held like a
scalpel over the page.

Maggie, have I upset you? he says, Was it something I said?

She shakes her head, and shakes it again more emphatically, as
if the first attempt to clear it didn’t work.

No, Kenneth, of course not. Come on. When did you first
hear this piece? Maybe we can make some notes before the
next bit.

I would have been about fourteen. All the boys at school
were into jazz and some rather arcane music – Delta blues,
Stockhausen – it was deemed very
radical
to find the most
esoteric stuff and pretend to like it – except for this one boy.
He had a funny way of talking, sort of whistled when he spoke,
made odd tweeting sounds.

Tell me his name, says Maggie, writing quickly.

His name was Philip, but of course, we called him Trill.

How very sympathetic, she says, under her breath.

And this boy Trill had tickets for the Mahler concert at the
Philharmonic, but he was such a strange little cove, no one
would go with him.

And you felt sorry for him? Maggie interjects.

Yes I did, says Kenneth, matter-of-fact, And I said I’d be
happy to go with him. Turns out it was the Philharmonic in
Liverpool. Ha-ha. Had to spend hours on the train listening
to Trill tweeting and whistling. In those days, you had separate
compartments, which was always a mixed blessing. No one sat
in ours for too long.

And the concert?

Divine. It’s not often you feel your pulse racing these days,
he says, looking at her bent head with appreciation, But when
you find something special, something seemingly simple and
yet difficult, intricate – he pauses, enjoying the sound of the
words flowing so easily from his lips – When you discover
something for the first time and you think you’re the
only
being
on earth to truly understand it, that no one else can possibly
feel the way you do . . . it’s – Maggie – it’s divine.

In the afternoon, in the quiet semi-darkness of the prefect’s
office, Maggie is struggling.

It’s not enough, Kenneth, she says, ripping out a page from
the typewriter and balling it up, Divine is not enough. Divine
will not do for this spring awakening. No – bloody – end –
to – it, she says, snatching up her pen.

Here’s me and my mother in the lane outside our house.
This is what I know: I’m wearing a red raincoat with a woolly
collar, and a pair of wellies because it’s been so wet. It’s
1975, and the first Christmas I can remember, although I have
recollections of other things around this time: an orange and
white dog that swims in the river, Geoffrey and Bungle, Leon
and Nell teaching me how to do the Bump. I’m only three
and a half, but I know it’s dangerous to go too near to the fire
and that the stairs in the cottage are very steep and that I’m a
lucky girl because I can play with nearly anything I want, even
Leon’s drums. This is because I am a wise head on little shoulders.
What I don’t know is that people will want things that
don’t belong to them, or that they will take those things without
asking. In our house, everything is free and everyone is
happy.