The Knotted House

by Ruth Skrine

  The doorbell doesn’t allow Quentin to comment. This time it is bound to be Susan. I snatch up the folder and push it hurriedly under the cushion of the chair where I have been sitting. ‘That’ll be my neighbour, I think you’ve met her. Please don’t say anything, she’s such a busybody.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  I feel steadier as I go downstairs. Susan is dressed as if for a party in an elegant navy dress and carefully tied scarf. ‘Hi. I’ve come to ask you to have lunch with me.’

  I am conscious of my dust-spattered jeans and ruffled hair. ‘Quentin is in the drawing room.’

  ‘I saw him come in. I hoped he might join us for lunch.’

  She is so transparent. ‘You go on up and entertain him while I make some coffee.’

  I can hear them exchanging pleasantries. The old lift shaft in the adjoining dining room is the very devil for carrying sounds. Susan’s voice rises as she says, ‘Poor Meena. She’s so brave.’ I squirm, waiting for Quentin’s reply but after a tiny pause he asks about the lay out of her part of the house. He wants to know if she too has a first floor drawing room.

  ‘Yes, my kitchen is up there as well. Meena has all the basements, so my ground floor is taken up with the boiler and utility room.’ She tries again to entice him to gossip about me. ‘I don’t know how Meena will cope without her mother; they were very close.’

  ‘She’ll find her own way,’ he says, and I hear him move towards the window and say something about the view. He is a nice man.

  My parents sometimes forgot how easily their voices carried. I remember the time I heard my mother say that I was a sly creature. I didn’t know what that meant but didn’t like her to think I was a creature. My father’s reply, that I was just an imaginative child, had been balm to my sore ears. I begin to think more sensibly about the murder. It could have happened in Susan’s house, not mine at all. I won’t tell her, not till I find out more about it.

  Over coffee she repeats her invitation to lunch. Quentin sounds genuinely sorry when he explains that he can’t accept because he has arranged to go to the gym for his weekly work-out. I look at him more closely. He is a well-built man, and probably needs to keep fit for his job. He says something else about the view and we tell him of the walks along the river. Susan manages to give the impression that she spends her days tramping the footpaths, although I know very well that she never walks anywhere for pleasure. I warm to Quentin’s enthusiasm for my valley. ‘Is that the village church?’ he asks, pointing to the spire.

  I nod. ‘The ancestors are buried up there.’

  Susan turns to him. ‘It’s lovely for Meena to live in a place where her roots go back so far.’

  Quentin passes her the biscuits and smiles at me, the secret of the folder safe between us. She takes a custard cream, demurring that she really shouldn’t. He drains his cup and uncrosses his legs. ‘I’d better be going.’

  Susan rises at the same time, as if I can’t be trusted to show my own visitor to the door. ‘Could you possibly take the cups to the kitchen for me?’ I hurry Quentin away before she has time to reply.

  When we reach the porch we stand in silence for a moment. I hear Susan come down the stairs and turn on the taps in the kitchen. I want to get back to the conversation that was cut off so abruptly but the words don’t come. Instead, I settle for practical banalities. ‘I still don’t know how soon we’ll get probate. When that comes through my sister and I will have to make a definite decision about the house.’

  ‘I’d like to stay as long as possible,’ Quentin says. ‘My own plans are a bit vague. If the job works out I want to buy a house and move my family up here, but that will all take time.’ He tells me he has two children, a boy and a girl. ‘I really am sorry about your mother. She was a lovely person, and took such an interest in my family.’

  I become aware of a silence from the direction of the kitchen, and pull the front door shut behind me. ‘Thank you for not saying anything.’ I hold out my hand.

  ‘That’s OK. Some things need privacy.’ He keeps hold of my fingers. ‘Let’s talk again. Maybe I could take you out for a meal sometime?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Smiling, he gives my fingers a squeeze before letting them drop. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  I watch him walk away towards his own entrance. He turns to wave, before vanishing round the corner. The fountain in the middle of the courtyard has not spouted water for years. A film of green algae covers the thick layer of dead leaves that line the stagnant pool of rainfall at the bottom. The tarnished bronze statue in the middle is a nymph like creature, with a dolphin and a seahorse almost as big. My ancestors were certainly not zoologists.

  Susan comes out behind me and goes into her own house to finish getting the lunch. I stand a moment longer wondering why I didn’t show Quentin back through the connecting passage. It would have been friendlier than making him walk outside. But then we would have had to pass the glory hole. I must admit that it is not just that I am ashamed of the mess; I am afraid to disturb the spirits that may be lurking there. The mower still works so they are not likely to shelter there, but the dark behind the bits of rotten fence would make a good hiding place. Or any number of shades could crouch under the old bicycle or broken wheelbarrow that lean against the mildewed walls.

  Chapter 2

  I run a comb through my hair and go to ring Susan’s doorbell. She opens it all smiles and welcome. ‘You really mustn’t ring, dear. Think of this as your own house now. After all, it was designed as a single establishment.’ Her room smells of new bread. She has cooked a quiche and put a small vase of late roses on the table. ‘Come along and make yourself at home. I’ll just dress the salad.’

  We sit on either side of her antique table. Through the open door I can see my mother’s favourite dessert, a Norwegian cream, lying ready on the draining board. Her furniture gleams so brightly that my head is reflected in the doors of the Welsh dresser, where her collection of blue and white china is displayed. As she serves the food I find myself comparing her to my careworn mother. Although Susan is years younger, she went grey quite early. Her shoulder length hair has a natural wave and that sheen of premature grey that is so attractive. Despite the extra rolls of fat, her complexion is flawless, preserved by leisure and abundant skin creams. I compliment her on the quiche.

  ‘It was one of your mother’s favourites.’

  I try to divert her onto the subject of her children. The tactic usually succeeds. She tells me her son is settling at university. ‘And Poppy?’ I ask.

  She makes a tiny movement with her hand, as if to fend off a fly. ‘She doesn’t write very often. Canada is so far away.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘It’s worse for you. Your mother was such a lovely person, and death is so final.’

  My eyelid twitches. ‘What do you think of Quentin?’

  Susan sighs. ‘He seems nice. Rather a funny job for a man, though.’

  ‘Sexual equality works both ways. There are even male midwives now. Physiotherapy is quite ordinary.’

  ‘He was telling me he’s the head chap at the hospital,’ she says.

  ‘Did you know he has children?’

  ‘Your mother told me. It would have been lovely for her to have children running around here again. Briony comes so seldom, and you…’

  ‘I’m glad to get away from children,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Yes of course. You work so hard.’

  She prides herself on understanding people’s emotions. I don’t want her to understand me, to consign me to one of her psychological pigeonholes. But her sympathy could be a mask for anxiety. Just before my mother’s funeral she asked about my plans. Since then she has not mentioned the future so I must have snapped something really horrid.

  ‘He didn’t mention his wife. Do you think they’re still together?’

  I can see the coffin with my simple bunch of wild flowers. That awful moment when the curtains closed …r />
  Susan repeats her remark, her eyes sparkling.

  Who is she talking about? Of course, my tenant. ‘I’ve no idea.’ I can’t help the sharp tone. I’m not going to be drawn into speculating about a man I don’t know.

  ‘Your house must seem so big now you’re on your own.’

  I kick myself for not encouraging her fantasies about Quentin. That might have kept her off my back for a few minutes longer.

  To my relief she changes the subject. ‘When you were tiny you used to do little plays, d’you remember? There was one about a dog that thought it was a pig.’

  ‘I stole that from a book.’

  ‘We used to come and watch them, soon after we moved in.’

  I have a fleeting memory of that time before her children were born, before her husband left her. I had the ideas, but Briony took them over, claiming the credit for their success. A surge of jealousy makes me blush but Susan does not notice.

  She is busy with her own thoughts. ‘Do you have any record of those plays?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I just wondered. Your mother kept a lot of papers?’

  I crumble the bread on my side plate. What does she know about papers?

  ‘If you need any help you know I love to be useful.’

  Her offer makes me breathless. ‘Thanks, that’s very kind but I have to find out what’s there for myself – and then talk to Briony.’ I’m being cruel, shutting her out like this. ‘I will need lots of help soon. It’s just that I have to sort out some of the mess in my own mind first.’

  Her mouth tightens. I am only making things worse. The room is hot and I shift in my chair. Looking up I see her wipe the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘I miss her so much. I loved her, she was my best friend.’

  She is bereaved too. I put my hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry. It must be lonely for you now.’

  She blinks and pulls away. ‘Oh, it’s much worse for you. It’s not my mother who has died.’ My warmth departs as quickly as it came. She always has to give; she can accept nothing.

  We return to safer topics. When I get up to leave she leaps to her feet, looking crestfallen. I explain that I need to be alone for a bit. Only the thought that she might walk into town, and perhaps meet Quentin on his way back, raises her spirits.

  ‘What a good idea.’ I try not to sound too enthusiastic.

  She escorts me to the door, fiddling with a bunch of keys. They look familiar but as I give my over-effusive thanks she shoves them into her pocket and clasps me in a big hug. ‘Take care, dear, and just pop round any time.’

  ***

  The paralysis of Susan’s concern follows me home. Rain is falling, disguised as a fine mist. The drawing room is dreary but I have no energy to turn on the light. After sitting for a bit I get up and wander about, touching things. If we do sell, Quentin will have to move out and Susan will have new neighbours. We have been her family for over twenty years, but I can’t stay here haunted by shades of the past. Anyway, the solicitor says our capital is nearly exhausted and there will be little money left from the sale of the house after death duties have been paid.

  The phone interrupts my repetitive thoughts. Susan must have more soothing words with which to attack me. I let it ring nine times before I relent.

  To my delight the caller is Aunt Beth. My father’s older sister is the only person in the world that I can talk to. She won’t pry or utter platitudes. In a brisk voice she tells me that George is in the garden putting it to bed for the winter. ‘So I’ve got a minute for a chat.’

  ‘I thought you were Susan, I’ve just suffered her kindness all through lunch.’ Hastily I add, ‘It was delicious, of course.’

  Beth snorts but makes no comment. She won’t waste her breath asking how I am. I want to tell her about the murder but I can’t break such news over the phone. ‘The loft is full of papers. Will you come and see if there’s anything you want?’

  ‘Just as soon as I can. Another week or two and we should have broken the back of the garden.’ After a pause her voice softens. ‘I expect you’re feeling bloody. I wish I lived nearer.’

  My eyes fill with tears. ‘I wish you did too.’

  You’ll be selling the place?’

  I have always thought it was unfair that my father inherited the house, just because he was a boy. ‘Would you and George take it over?’

  Her rusty laugh crackles the line. ‘Goodness, I could never live in a rambling place like that. We’re quite settled here.’

  ‘Will you feel badly if it goes out of the family?’

  The receiver in my hand feels heavy as silence stretches between us. I begin to wonder if she has heard me but when she speaks her voice is firm. ‘It is time to let it go. It has not always been a happy house, though I loved it as a child.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing; I ought to be grieving for my mother but I can’t stop thinking about my father.’

  ‘There is no “ought” about it. You just cope in any way you can.’

  Quentin had said the same thing to Susan. Perhaps I don’t have to force my feelings into some pre-ordained shape. ‘It’s as if, now I’m on my own, I’m free to remember him properly for the first time. I wish I hadn’t been so little when he died. We had just walked the weir together. Did you know that?’

  ‘He told me. He was very proud of you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to get to know him. He was only back from the war for a few months before he died. What was he like?’

  ‘Goodness, wherever do I start?’ The line is silent while she thinks. ‘Do you still have that musical box in the loft? The one with a round cylinder that played Twinkle, twinkle little star?’

  ‘Absolutely. Briony and I played it until my grandmother shouted at us to stop.’

  ‘He kept it in his room when he was little. If he couldn’t sleep he started playing it. Once I went in and found him on his knees by the window, the tinkling sound reaching out over him towards the stars.’

  I am surprised by the poetic image in the mouth of my academic aunt. She speaks five languages and can use words like a lance. ‘Tell me some more. We went on an outing once, all together, didn’t we? I remember you made cat’s cradles for us with a piece of string.’

  ‘Did I? That must have been the day you pestered him for a ride on a pony in a field. He couldn’t lay hands on a strange pony so we played hide and seek instead. I hid in a ditch and was attacked by ferocious nettles.’

  ‘Poor you. I don’t remember that.’

  ‘Memory is personal, different for each of us.’

  I think of Briony who doesn’t seem to remember any of the episodes of my childhood. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I make things up.’

  ‘I did that,’ Beth says. ‘The trouble is that memory gets mixed with wishes and even with dreams, so I didn’t always know what was real.’

  A feeling of comfort starts between my shoulder blades. ‘I’m so glad you’re my aunt.’

  ‘I’d better go and see what George has destroyed in his enthusiasm. Take care, I’ll ring again soon.’

  Putting the receiver down I go upstairs. There is Susan walking down the path at the back. Although we are outside the city limits it won’t take her long to reach the centre. She must have gone through the cut below the house, past the seat where she perched so often with my grandmother while we played on the grass – till it got covered with too much dog shit.

  I feel easier as she disappears. Rescuing the memoir from under the cushion I take it up to my room. On the way past my mother’s bedroom I go in and pick up the photo of my father that has lived by her bed for as long as I can remember. I put it on the table by my own bed together with Duncan’s folder. Then I go back to the loft to try the musical box. The sound is just as thin and tinkling as it ever was. When I see Quentin again I will ask him to help me carry it down so that I can play it with Briony when she comes. Just like old times.
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  On my way up to bed I stop again in front of the ancestors. Briony has the family lips with the pinched, self-conscious tension. My mouth is fuller, turned out in a pout I can’t help. I pull up the corners to stretch it into a more Smedley-like shape. My hand drops and the shape reverts to its individual mould just as it did when I searched for a likeness after Daddy died. Perhaps that was the beginning of the knowledge that I was different.

  The wind is whistling in the service lift. It always makes a noise, but tonight it has a different note, like a lost child crying. I will not be cowed. I am now free of the responsibility my father landed on my shoulders all those years ago. I check the timer switches on the security lights, lock the doors and go up to my room in the attic

  But I can’t sleep. It is not only that I have no idea who my father really was. I don’t know who I am; a good teacher, there is no doubt about that. I tried to be a good daughter and look after my mother, though Granny often got in the way. I am not squeamish like Briony, not afraid of spiders or ghosts. At least not until now. I will not let myself imagine things about the ancestors. A door bangs somewhere in the house. I try to block out the putrid thoughts of my disastrous marriage. My profile may have been less refined than Briony’s but I’m not ugly and my shoulder-length blond hair attracted the interest of my husband – and of a few others. But I failed. There is no way I can keep the demon at bay any longer. There is something wrong with me, something deep inside that is so poisonous that it killed my marriage.

  I turn on my side and curl into a ball, twisting a piece of sheet to put in my mouth. I do not approve of dummies. How often I have tried to remove them from children in the nursery class. But sucking is the only way I know to banish the horrors and drift off into sleep.

  Chapter 3