Young people Peter only recognized from photos were suddenly in the house. A baby with a bald head cried loudly. A toddler sat under the piano while Eleanor played. Three children kicked a ball through the garden, smashing plants. A couple argued in the rose garden, thinking that no one could hear them. There were flowers on the window sills and mantelpieces. Pictures were removed from walls, leaving clean squares on the grubby paintwork; Peter helped fold them in bubble wrap and carry them to cars. The rocking horse was put in the hall. The piano would stay for the new owners, and all the beds. Someone found the puppet theatre, in its constituent parts, and took it reverently to Samuel who stared at it for several long moments, his eyes bright. Thea took the copper bowl and the biscuit tin she coveted into the room she was sharing with her sisters. The skip that Leon had arranged filled up: so much was being thrown away. Everyone crowded into the junk room and rifled through the piles of books, exclaiming over the ones they’d known as children, arguing about who should have what. They divided up photographs; Peter thought of the three he had pilfered, but he didn’t return them. They went through Eleanor’s clothes and jewellery, trying things on, standing before the mirror in Indian shawls and velvet coats with unravelling hems. They made numerous pots of tea and toasted crumpets at the fire. Late arrivals came in with damp hair and cold cheeks and everyone hugged everyone else and there were groups in corners exchanging news, whispering secrets and warnings. Jonah came. His beard was gone; he brought a bottle of whisky and a bag of figs. Sometimes a fault line cracked; voices were raised, doors slammed. Polly was no longer Peter’s faithful shadow. She ambled peacefully from person to person.
‘Where will she go?’ Peter asked Rose.
‘Polly? With Quentin. He like dogs and he lives in the country.’
‘What about the cats?’
‘Mum’s taking them.’
Quentin’s son David arrived with Merry. Someone had dressed her in a pink skirt and a lavender jersey, like a sweet pea. She was vague, flustered, patchily vivacious. She clutched at people as they passed, and she asked for her father. ‘Daddy,’ she kept saying. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Marianne sat her by the fire in the living room and put a cat on her lap and she bent over it, pressing her face into its neck and murmuring words no one could hear. Sometimes she gave her unnerving laugh.
It started to snow, thinly at first, small separate flakes that dissolved on the hard earth, then with a thick, blinding certainty. The world became obscure. The shabby garden, the fruit cage and the unpruned roses were beautiful and strange. In the swirling distance, the bare trees stood like ghosts. Peter walked towards them, hearing the creak of his feet, the muffled sounds.
Inside, everything was disappearing. The house was being stripped. Rooms began to echo. Dust balls swirled and cracks were exposed. Cobwebs hung in corners. Eleanor walked to the hornbeam, leaning on Samuel’s arm. She stood there for several minutes in the flurries of snow, her white hair catching the white flakes. Peter, heaving armfuls of twigs and old leaves on to the bonfire, watched her. What was she thinking? Who was she thinking of?
He helped Rose and Tamsin carry a second table into the kitchen, and then they set places for twenty-eight. The best china (they’d pack it away the following morning) augmented with chipped plates that would be put on the skip, silver candlesticks, glasses of all shapes and sizes, paper napkins, flowers along the tables, in jam-jars because the vases had all been put in boxes. Mismatched chairs along the sides. Eleanor would be at the head of the table, of course. The fire was lit. It felt snug and safe, snow outside and inside the fire, the smell of baking. Someone had brought Christmas crackers. Samuel and Esther prepared the food: they were very serious about it, their faces shiny with sweat. They were to have a vast fattee, layers of flat bread, cinnamon rice, chickpeas and aubergines, studded with walnuts and pomegranate seeds, daubed with yoghurt. Rose assembled smoked salmon blinis. Steam filled the room.
The snow stopped falling. At six o’clock, the bonfire was lit and sparks flew up into the black sky. Grandchildren pulled bin bags full of papers outside and started to feed the flames, slowly at first but then a kind of wildness took hold. Peter stood to one side and watched as the blaze gobbled up letters, photographs, drawings, bills, school essays and university dissertations, certificates, notebooks, doodles, first drafts, architectural plans, contracts, qualifications, proofs, queries. The air was filled now with swirling petals of ash. Sticks of unwanted, broken furniture were thrown in. Firelight fell strangely on faces. Rockets and Roman candles were lit and with soft splutters and sharp cracks they exploded into the night. Flowers opening, dying, falling.
Peter looked at Eleanor and she stared into the leaping flames. Her skirt blew round her legs and her shawl flapped. Her face gave nothing away.
Merry sat on one side of him, Gail’s son Jamie on the other, fidgeting – Peter remembered that the last time he’d seen him, he’d been climbing the kitchen stool over and over again. His small body squirmed with impatient energy. Merry determinedly held Peter’s hand so that he could only use his fork. He kept dropping chunks of aubergine and pieces of walnut into his lap. She herself ate with her fingers, rather expertly he thought, lifting slushy balls of rice and chickpea into her mouth; her lips were greasy and her cheeks had spots of excited pink on them. Sometimes she called him Clive and sometimes she called him Gordon. She told him that she was getting married soon. When she laughed, her little cracked peal, like a damaged bell valiantly ringing out, he thought she might be about to cry. She was wearing a lopsided yellow crown from her cracker. Peter’s was purple. He’d got two large dice from his cracker as well.
‘Can I have those?’ asked Jamie.
‘Sure.’ He pushed them over.
‘Is your hair gold or orange?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Mummy says orange and I say golden brown.’
‘A mixture then.’
‘Do you like football?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ The boy looked at him. ‘Do you like Tiny Wings?’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Do you like chocolate then?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What’s your favourite colour?’
‘Green. What’s yours?’
‘Blue, I think,’ Jamie replied seriously. ‘Or red.’
‘Mine’s yellow,’ chimed Merry. ‘Like my hair. Daddy says it’s my crowning glory.’
Jamie nudged Peter with his sharp elbow and said in a loud hiss: ‘What’s she on about? Her hair’s dead grey.’ He frowned. ‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Um. Brie, cherries, brown shrimps. What about you?’
‘I like cucumber and pies and eels.’
‘Eels?’
‘Strawberries,’ said Merry into Peter’s ear. ‘Sweet red strawberries. Hmm?’
‘This is horrible.’ Jamie prodded his food. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Here in this house you mean?’
‘Why are you sleeping here?’
‘I’ve been working for Mrs Lee.’
‘Is she going to die soon?’
‘She’s very old,’ said Peter. ‘She’s ninety-five today. But I don’t think she’s going to die very soon. She’s strong.’
‘Her face is ploughed up.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Can you do headstands?
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Or cartwheels.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘What can you do?’
‘That’s a good question.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’
‘I’m glad you’ve come back,’ said Merry to his left. ‘Very glad indeed, my dear. Have you missed me?’
‘Well,’ said Peter, playing for time, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘Where have I been?’
‘Where indeed? Some people don’t know which side their bread is buttered.’
Opposite, he could hear Leon talking
about drones. Further up the table, Rose was saying in her soft carrying voice that making bread was a form of therapy and Eleanor said something about how Virginia Woolf loved to bake. Out of sight on his side of the table, Thea gave a loud and dirty laugh.
‘Were you shot in the face?’ asked Merry. She touched his scattering of freckles with her greasy fingers.
‘No.’ Then before he could stop himself he said, ‘Do you remember Michael?’
‘Michael? Michael?’ Her eyes were suddenly blue and hard. Her mouth pursed. ‘You don’t deserve me,’ she said. She pointed at Jamie. ‘And you should stand in the corner.’
Jamie’s eyes grew round. Then he stuck his tongue out at her and turned back to Peter.
‘I rode on the back of a motorbike. A thousand miles an hour.’ And he slithered from his seat and disappeared under the table. There was a yelp.
Leon chinked a knife against the side of his glass and slowly the room fell into silence.
‘Eleanor said no speeches, so this is really just going to be a toast,’ he said, looking round the room. He was clearly used to this kind of thing. ‘We are gathered together to celebrate the—’
‘Please Leon,’ said Eleanor, ‘that sounds suspiciously like the start of a speech.’
‘All right.’ He smiled, disappointed. ‘Please raise your glasses to our mother, mother-in-law, sister, grandmother, great-grandmother; to our wonderful Eleanor.’
Everyone drank. Someone called out for a speech from her. She rose, grasping her cane.
‘I just want to say this.’ Her voice was thin and clear. ‘This is a house of memories. Memories of childhood and of growing up; happy times I hope, but also difficult and painful ones. But memories which I believe make us who we are. Even when we have left here and new owners have moved in and put their own mark upon the place, pulled up the trees we loved, knocked down walls, painted over cracks and blemishes, the memories will remain. Do not drink to me. Drink to our memories; our house of memories.’
27
Peter pushed Merry to Quentin’s car in her wheelchair. She was kicking her legs with their swollen ankles and little slippered feet out in front of her girlishly, and every so often she laughed politely as if someone had told her a joke she didn’t entirely understand. Under her thick coat she wore last night’s lavender outfit, which she had spilt food down. Her hair had been brushed and tied into a loose plait: that would be Rose, thought Peter. She had put her great aunt to bed last night and probably got her up this morning. He felt a moment of pity and affection for the young woman with the chestnut hair whom everyone turned to.
Quentin wasn’t there but the car was unlocked. Merry, smiling, lifted up her arms like a child to be picked up. Peter hesitated then bent down and picked Merry up in his arms and she held him round the neck, tightly. She was surprisingly light, as if her bones were made of balsa wood. Her cheek was pressed against his and he smelt talcum powder and soap. Her breath was on his skin.
‘My dear,’ she said tenderly and contentedly as he placed her in the passenger seat. ‘How handsome you are.’
‘Thank you!’ He leant across her for the safety belt.
‘What about me?’
Peter looked at her, then glanced behind him to make sure they were alone.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he said.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I the prettiest of them all?’
Her face, surprisingly unlined, was plump and soft like dough. She took his hand. Her mouth was slightly askew and her teeth yellow and even. Her blue eyes were scared and imploring. Peter thought of Eleanor, gravely mysterious, lustrous and strong. Pretty wasn’t the word for her.
‘You’ll always be the prettiest,’ he said seriously. ‘You should know that. Don’t be sad.’
‘I have been sad. I have,’ she said wonderingly.
‘I know. But it’s all right now. Everything’s all right.’
‘What about Ellie?’
‘Don’t worry about that any more.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Everyone leaves in the end,’ he said.
‘Everyone leaves,’ she repeated in her thin silver voice. A single tear ran down her cheek, fat and round, and then dissolved. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
He thought of these two old women, bashed and scarred by life, rolled over by it, and yet in whom the torrents of the past still ran so clear and strong. In their nineties and both still bound together and still haunted by a young man who had died over seventy years ago.
He bent down and kissed her on the top of her head, then stood back.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, Peter,’ Eleanor said.
He took her crabbed and liver-spotted hand, with its thin silky skin, and remembered their first meeting. Polly came softly up beside them.
‘Goodbye, Eleanor.’
They were in the living room that was almost empty now. All around them the house rang with activity. The morning after, and those who were up early were practical, energetic, lifting last boxes, stripping sheets. Esther and Rose were in Eleanor’s bedroom, packing the bags that on the following day would go with her, first to Leon’s house for Christmas and then to the home. ‘A home,’ she had said to Peter once. ‘Not my home.’
‘I wish you luck.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
‘It’s me who should be thanking you.’
‘I will never forget you.’
‘Oh.’ She gave a soft, blurred laugh. ‘I will fade.’
‘No.’ He was urgent.
‘I don’t know why I talked to you the way I did. Quite out of character.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘My secret life,’ she said, smiling. ‘Be careful what you do with it.’
‘I’ll carry it with me.’
‘What are you going to do next?’
‘I don’t know yet. Something.’
‘Let me know.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Now I had better go.’
‘Sorry. I’m keeping you. I’m very bad at saying goodbye. I can never bring things to an end.’
‘I, on the other hand, am very good at it,’ she said. She touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Take care, Peter. Reach out for life.’
And she turned and walked from the room, tall and straight.
He didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone else. They were all too busy – or, like Thea, still asleep. He pulled on his coat, his gloves, his woolly hat, and picked up his bike panniers. Outside, the wind was blowing away the last of the morning mist. The snow was thick and clean. Above the deck of clouds, the sky was clearing. He made his way to his bike. Polly trotted after him. He turned back and looked at the old house. Almost every window was lit up. In the garden, Samuel was standing beside the smouldering bonfire, his head bent. He looked deep in thought.
Peter put the panniers on his bike, checked the tyres were blown up. He was putting the moment off when he would wobble up the gravel drive and out on to the road.
‘Goodbye,’ he said to the dog. She regarded him with her mild brown eyes and he felt tears start up, a great lump in his throat coming loose, sobs gathering under his ribs.
‘Peter! Wait!’
It was Rose, running towards him.
‘Hi.’ He turned slightly from her so that she wouldn’t see his distress – but of course she could see it. She had her grandmother’s instincts.
‘You’re leaving without saying goodbye?’
‘I thought it was best to just go.’
‘Perhaps. But Eleanor wanted to give you this.’ She held out a small sealed envelope.
‘Thanks.’ He took it and put it into his coat pocket.
‘I hope we meet again,’ she was saying. ‘Ring me when you’re in London and we can have a drink. With Thea, Jonah perhaps.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Give me your number then.’ She handed him her mobile and he entered his
details.
‘Well.’ He was ready to leave now, with his bike leaning against him and the cold wind in his face. ‘Bye.’
She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.
‘Be happy,’ she said and was gone.
Polly trotted after her, tail swinging. In the far distance he could see Samuel. Behind windows, shapes moved about, indistinguishable. Curtains were drawn open. Were those piano notes he could hear?
He took out the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a collection of small shells. Shells that Michael and Eleanor had found on their beach, in those last days. They lay like teeth in the palm of his gloved hand.
Then he got on his bike and left and didn’t look back at the house of memories.
28
Eighteen months later, on a breathlessly hot summer day, Samuel Lee opened the door to the bike shop, the bell jangling. A young, heavily bearded man behind the counter nodded at him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Peter Mistley; I was told I could find him here.’
‘He’s in the workshop. I’ll call for him.’
He didn’t move, simply leant forward slightly.
‘Peter,’ he roared. ‘Pete! Visitor for you.’
There was a muffled acknowledgement that came from somewhere behind them, then a few moments later Peter came into the room, carrying a bike wheel and with oil on his hands.
‘Oh!’ he said on seeing Samuel.
‘Hello Peter.’ Samuel raised a hand in greeting. ‘Rose told me I could find you here. How are you?’
‘I’m well.’
The Twilight Hour Page 27
