The Music Box Enigma

by R. N. Morris

  Surely, she thought, he would not be so stupid, so crass, as to carry on in front of the children? She didn’t know whether she loathed him more for his behaviour or because he forced her to think in such vulgar clichés.

  Certainly Emma was under no illusions about his feelings for her. Oh, he might still declare his undying love, repeatedly, frequently, his face set into a caricature of anguished contrition after each fresh peccadillo was discovered. He might even go down on bended knee to impress on her his sincerity, although the effect of such a performance was precisely the opposite of what he intended.

  She saw a blurred shape reflected in the glossy white paint of the door. It was her face, but with all the features obliterated, as if erased by a frustrated artist. She stared mutely at this wan image, barely recognizable as human.

  However, she didn’t need a perfect mirror to know that her face no longer held the youthful freshness that had once attracted him, that still attracted him in others.

  Emma was eighteen years her husband’s junior, but that clearly cut no ice with him. Even if she was younger than him, she would always be older than she had been. That seemed to count as some kind of betrayal in his eyes, as if she were growing older only to spite him.

  The galling thing was she considered herself to have kept her looks, and her figure, to a degree that did her credit. Yes, she had put on a little weight after the children, and those extra pounds had proven stubbornly resistant to her efforts to shake them off. To compensate, she had learnt to disguise that comfortable spreading about the waist and hips by a judicious employment of couture. At the same time, she persisted with her occasional fasting and a punishing regime of physical jerks every morning.

  She was doing everything she could to keep her part of the bargain; the least he could do was to refrain from committing his indiscretions right in front of her.

  But no. It seemed that was too much to ask.

  It was so unfair! Why should the balance of power always be with him?

  He was getting older too, wasn’t he? His jowls had begun to sag. His hairline was in retreat, even though he sought to conceal the fact by growing a long foppish fringe. The loop his tailor’s tape measure made around his waist was increasing with each passing year. But somehow none of that seemed to count. In fact, it made it all the more important that he should see himself reflected in the (preferably adoring) gaze of the latest young thing to cross his path.

  The piano started up again, and this time a reedy woman’s voice began to sing. Emma recognized the song, ‘I Can’t Tell Why I Love You But I Do’. His choice, she did not doubt.

  Miss Greene had a not unpleasant soprano voice, if a little weak and faltering, and girlish. Emma sensed a tension there, as if the girl were singing under duress. Or perhaps the tremble in Miss Greene’s voice was excitement not fear? She would not be the first young fool to be flattered by the attentions of a distinguished older man.

  Almost as soon as the singing had begun, it broke off. As did the piano accompaniment. She heard the scrape of furniture, then footsteps, followed by Aidan’s familiar rumble, sotto voce.

  Emma could not make out his words. She recognized the tone, however: intimate, wheedling, insistent. She strained to hear how the girl responded, listening for any signs of encouragement she might give, whether flighty giggle or throaty purr. But to her credit, as far as Emma could tell, Miss Greene remained steadfastly silent. Not that that would discourage him, of course. He would even take a slap across the face as a come-on.

  Emma stepped back decisively from the door, so that the reflection in the paintwork vanished altogether.

  It would not be possible to get rid of Miss Greene so easily. The children adored her. Besides, terminating Miss Greene’s employment would not solve anything. There would always be someone else. She could not isolate her husband from every pretty young member of the female sex.

  The singing started up again. If she was not mistaken, Miss Greene’s voice sounded firmer than it had before, almost defiant. Was that his doing? No doubt he would take credit for it.

  The song was sung through to the end. The girl had carried it off creditably. So much so that Emma almost felt like applauding. Although, of course, her applause would be sarcastic. She would not be applauding Miss Greene’s performance, but her husband’s. She would be telling him that she was on to him.

  But she kept her fists clenched by her side.

  It was too much. He had gone too far this time. The children had to be protected.

  Of course, it would be unpleasant. She hated scenes.

  But he had driven her to this.

  She put her hand on the door handle and felt it turn before she was able to grip it. Someone was coming out.

  He answered the fierce accusation in her eyes with a dignified silence, tilting his head upwards defiantly.

  Emma felt a quivering rage work its way through her body. It climaxed in a violent tensing of her lips that almost robbed her of speech. She felt also that somehow he had already got the better of her. Nevertheless, she did not back down. ‘What were you doing in there?’ She spoke in an urgent, angry whisper.

  Aidan stepped forward, forcing her to back away as he closed the door behind him. He was reinforcing the impression that she was in the wrong, and that the children were to be protected from her. ‘Am I not allowed to pay a visit to my own children as they are engaged in their adorable nursery pastimes? You should try it some time, Emma. I believe it would improve your disposition enormously to have your maternal inclinations re-stimulated.’

  ‘You did not go to see the children. I heard singing.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I took the opportunity to audition Miss Greene for the choir. You know we’re short of voices.’

  ‘We’re short of men. The soprano sections are adequately filled.’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear. Have you forgotten that we never replaced Anna Seddon …?’

  ‘How dare you mention that name to me.’

  ‘Well, whatever may or may not be said against Miss Seddon, she was a stalwart of the first sops. And we have sorely felt her loss.’

  ‘In that matter, you have no one to blame but yourself.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s fair, my darling. It is always a complicated business apportioning blame. Was it not you who insisted on her leaving the choir?’

  The quivering rage returned, if indeed it had ever gone away. Now she felt it in her trembling jaw. ‘This has to stop!’ She forced the words out through her clashing teeth, the final word exploding in a screech that she instantly regretted. She had wanted to stay calm. For the children’s sake as much as for her own.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Do you think she welcomes your advances? Do you think any of them do?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘You don’t have time for what? For me?’

  ‘This is ridiculous. You’re making a fool of yourself, Emma.’

  ‘I am not the fool in this marriage.’

  ‘Oh dear. This is … embarrassing. Let us at least move away from the nursery if you will not keep your voice down.’

  ‘You went there! In front of the children! Do you have no sense of propriety?’

  ‘You are making this out to be something that it is not! Nothing transpired. Nothing of the nature you are insinuating.’

  ‘Let us ask Miss Greene. Let us see what she thinks transpired.’

  ‘No, no, no. I cannot allow that. That is preposterous. Have you lost your senses? We do not involve the staff in our marital arrangements.’

  ‘You went in there! You involved her!’

  ‘I went to see the children.’

  ‘Liar! And by the way, there are no arrangements in our marriage. What arrangements do you think we have?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Emma.’

  There was something so insufferably dismissive in that come on, Emma. So much assumed in it. She could not help herself. Her right hand whippe
d out to strike him across the cheek.

  The blow forced his head to one side, his ridiculously overgrown fringe bouncing and flopping like the wing of a startled bird. He took a moment to brush it out of his eyes. ‘Feel better now?’ His face was flushed, though whether with emotion or the impact of her slap, she could not say.

  ‘Get her out here.’

  ‘I cannot permit that.’

  ‘Then I will take it that you are unwilling to allow her to speak because you are afraid she will contradict you.’

  ‘No, it’s just … one simply doesn’t … Good God, Emma, what has got into you?’

  ‘I am going to stop your money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Until you start showing me the respect I am due as your wife.’

  ‘Of course I respect you!’ The emphasis he gave the word could only be insulting. ‘Besides, I have my own money.’

  ‘No, you don’t. There’s nothing left.’

  ‘You don’t know that. You have no idea.’

  ‘Very well. In that case, it won’t hurt you if you have no more of mine.’

  ‘But this is silly. It’s so unnecessary. There is nothing between myself and Miss Greene. I tell you, nothing transpired.’

  ‘Then what objection can you have to my asking her?’

  ‘You dear old thing …’ He made to lay a hand on her shoulder. She flinched away from his touch. ‘I merely wish to save you from further embarrassment.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper, his eyes flashing side to side as if on the lookout for eavesdroppers. ‘You know how servants talk. This has gone too far already. Let us draw a veil over this whole unfortunate episode.’

  ‘Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Let us put it behind us and move on. We have the concert to prepare for, after all. Or have you forgotten that?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn about your precious concert.’

  A flash of alarm showed in his eyes. He resumed in a more conciliatory tone: ‘I admit I was wrong to bring up Miss Seddon in the way that I did. Your judgement was quite correct on that matter. We could not permit her to remain in the choir, no matter how excellent a musician she is.’ His voice had taken on a sanctimonious tone.

  This was how he did it. How he defeated her. Not by cruelty, or even brutality, not by blatant lies or unreasonable demands, just by eliding the truth, omitting it, belittling it. Which was to belittle her.

  She felt her rage dissipate. It left her unspeakably weary. ‘I only want you to be honest, Aidan.’

  This seemed to strike him as an astonishing idea. His eyebrows rose as if they would take flight. What good would honesty do them? he seemed to be asking.

  ‘You speak about her, about that girl, as if you had nothing to do with what happened to her.’

  Aidan glanced behind him at the closed nursery door. Then he fixed her with a steady gaze and repeated, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ There was a steely quality to the words now, which made them sound like a warning.

  FOUR

  The baby was crying. His noise filled the small flat, along with the permanent dankness of his laundered nappies as they hung to dry on the clothes horse.

  Anna was sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly at the wall. The door was closed but it did not seem to mute the sound at all.

  When she grew tired of looking at the wall, she would look down at her hands. They were bright red, the skin cracked and broken from eczema.

  How had she got such hands?

  She would chop them off at the wrist and throw them in the dustbin. Or perhaps she should wrap them up in brown paper and string and send them to him.

  But how could she tie the ends without fingers?

  She did not like to look at the baby when he was crying. She had done so once and his face was so tightly clenched into a tiny knot of rage that it had frightened her.

  She became aware of another noise that was strangely in time with the waves of the baby’s crying. Was it the neighbours pounding on the wall again?

  Or could it be? Had he come at last?

  Her heart rippled, as if a hand had got hold of it and was kneading it. It was a hand with long cold fingers.

  She had looked forward to this moment for so long. Fantasized about it. Each time she played the scene in her imagination it came out differently.

  In one scenario, she was obdurate and unforgiving, steeling her heart to his entreaties. In another, she wept her own bitter tears and threw just recriminations in his face. In yet another, she welcomed him with open arms. Her tears were tears of joy – she never doubted him, her love never wavered.

  In this scenario, she closed her eyes as he kissed away her tears and fell swooning into his arms.

  But then she had to remind herself of her anger, focus on it, nurture it. Or rather, stir it and prod it, like the glowing coals of a dying fire, until it flamed again. Her anger would chase out the chill of her dread.

  No, she could not forgive him, at least not so easily.

  The way she imagined the denouement of this little playlet was like one of those scenes depicted in a moralistic painting, perhaps by Holman Hunt. It might have been called ‘The Corruptor Penitent’ or some such. His head would be bowed, too ashamed to meet her eye. She would be shown holding the baby, of course, her gaze fiery and unforgiving. One arm might even be extended as she pointed for him to go back whence he came. The artist would not shrink from showing the state of her hand, stripped raw by the unfamiliar contact with washing soda. Around them would be clothes horses (artistic licence multiplying the number) hung with wet baby clothes and nappies.

  The whole history of their relationship would be told in the configuration of objects and human figures.

  Only after she had sent him away, only after she had been the one to reject him, only after he had come crawling back to her on his hands and knees a second time. Only when she had ruined him and had the chance to rescue him.

  Only then would she even consider having him back.

  The banging was still going on, intermittently. The baby seemed to be screaming even louder to compete.

  She would have to face him.

  ‘At last.’

  For a moment, she did not recognize the man standing there before her. She had so expected it to be him that her brain could not process the image that was presented to it, even though he was her own brother.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Paul stomped past her unceremoniously into the flat. His shoulders were hunched into an aggressive posture. He looked like a man who had come to ‘have things out’. The subject of a Punch cartoon, rather than a Pre-Raphaelite painting. ‘Who the Devil did you think it was?’

  Paul was ten years her senior, but he had always behaved towards her as if a whole generation separated them, more like her father than older brother. At thirty-five he was prematurely balding, for which he sought to compensate by growing an immense black beard. Anna rarely saw him without a disapproving – or at least querulous – scowl upon his face.

  She followed him into the main room of the flat, mumbling ‘Never mind’ at his back.

  Paul settled himself with an air of entitlement on the small, artificial leather sofa that provided the only seating in the room.

  He took over her flat like this whenever he came. She supposed he had a right to do so, as he was paying the rent. But did he need to make her feel her dependence on him so keenly?

  Paul was something in banking, having been inducted into the same bank where their father had held a senior position. He understood about money and finance and investments. She assumed he was successful, at the very least comfortably off. He never gave her any reason to think otherwise. He was also a bachelor, with simple habits, and a small household in Highgate. He bicycled everywhere, as the clip around one trouser leg hinted.

  His only indulgence, as far as Anna was aware, was his pipe, which he took out now and fussed over, stuffing the bowl with tobacco.

 
Their parents were both dead. Mother from a sudden illness that had turned out to be liver cancer, Father – well, they did not like to talk about the circumstances of their father’s death.

  Paul, being the elder child and male, had naturally inherited the lion’s share of the estate, apart from a small private income left to Anna, which she came into on her majority.

  ‘I was knocking for ages, you know.’

  ‘I thought you were the neighbours. Banging on the walls.’

  ‘Poor blighters! What must they think? You ought to be careful, Anna. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had you evicted.’

  ‘They couldn’t do that!’

  ‘It’s the moral aspect as much as anything. This was a respectable mansion block before … well, I don’t need to say it, do I.’ Paul’s constitutionally sour face crimped into an expression of exceptional peevishness. ‘You have to stop it making that din. It only draws attention to your situation. It will turn them against you, if they’re not already. What’s wrong with it, anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby! It sounds like it’s going to choke.’

  ‘It always sounds like that when it cries. And it’s always crying. It’s a baby. That’s what they do.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound right to me.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can hear yourself think.’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to see what’s the matter with it? Maybe it’s sick. Or hungry. Or needs its nappy changing. It certainly smells like it.’

  ‘What’s the use? As soon as I change the nappy it fills it up again. I can’t make it stop. It just keeps on doing it.’

  Paul’s mouth dropped open in an expression of incredulity. ‘Good God, Anna. He’s your son. I mean, it’s one thing me calling it it … but you’re its mother.’

  She was aware of her hands itching. She willed herself not to scratch them, not only because that would make them worse, but also because she did not wish to draw attention to their condition. It would only provoke further criticism from Paul. But the effort of holding herself back caused her whole body to twitch.

  Her brother stared at her in appalled disbelief. ‘What’s wrong with you?’