The Knotted House

by Ruth Skrine

  She remained silent as she looked at the ravages of a mole that had tracked across her lawn.

  ‘I know now that some of my funny ideas were caused by my grandmother.’

  At that she turned to me and frowned. ‘I never liked her. I tried to intervene, but your mother seemed unable to break away. I wish she had married again, but that was never an option for her.’

  ‘I am just so glad to know my parents were happy together.’

  She led me down the path behind the herbaceous border, lamenting the fact that I had missed the peonies, better than ever this year. George called that tea was ready. We turned towards his voice, happy to go in. Those few words had been enough to set the matter straight between us.

  ***

  ‘Headset?’ A passing steward thrusts a plastic bag into my hand. It’s easier to take the package than to decide if I want to listen to music, or watch a film. I push it into the pocket in front of me and relax back into my seat. We boarded on time and are now flying in a blaze of sunshine above a solid carpet of white and grey clouds, pulled into mounds that look like bubble wrap.

  My neighbour, a large, middle-aged man, is working on his laptop. I can’t read what he’s writing without snooping and I’m not that interested. He shows no wish to make conversation – that’s fine by me. I hope the drinks come soon.

  ***

  The moonlight is shining on one side of the tree where my father and I sat that first time. A dog barks in the distance. There is a tang of wet grass and leaves, more of a taste than a smell. I feel in the pockets of my jacket. On the right side there are the keys to the house, in the left, the little pipe cleaner boy and Susan’s torch.

  I look up at the stars, to find the constellations that my father showed me. There is the Great Bear. I twist my head to look in all directions, but I can’t see Orion and his belt, or the Pleiades. Perhaps the moonlight is too strong for them to show up, or maybe they aren’t visible at this time of the month or year. My father would have been disappointed that I have not learnt more about the stars , but I expect he forgives me.

  Forgiveness. I have imagined that Henry was asking for my forgiveness, but the dead don’t need us to exonerate them. Neither can they pardon us for the wrongs we have done to them. Only I can forgive myself for my lack of trust.

  At that moment I feel a disturbance somewhere deep inside. Has the cold water affected my system? I fear some loitering spectre is about to ruin my last evening. Instead, a gust of laughter begins to shake my body, up to my throat and out to echo, a small but firm vibration in the still air. A movement makes me turn and flick the switch on the torch. A group of cows are lying quite close. One raises her head, startled by the unexpected sound. I swing the light onto the distant hedges and sweep it round the field. Two small eyes, close together near the ground, reflect the beam, wink once and disappear. A cat, or perhaps a fox. The swan is not the only living creature to witness my journey.

  A clock strikes twelve, the chimes drifting down the valley as I start my return. The swan wakes up and moves slowly along beside me, so close I can almost touch him. When I reach the middle, just past the place where the weir makes its curve to the right before the straight stretch that heads for the bank below the house, I stop. Putting my feet wide apart to get a good balance, I take Susan’s keys from the pocket on the right side of my jacket, and pass them into my other hand. Clutching them tight, I hold my arm out high over the water that falls away in a precipice of sparkle. Behind me my shadow arm tips over the edge and is fragmented by the falling water. Then I open my fingers. The noise of the weir drowns the sound of the splash. They are gone.

  ‘Come on, Meena, do it for yourself this time.’ I follow the swan over to the other side.

  ***

  ‘No drink for you, madam?’ The stewardess is irritated; she must have tried to get my attention before.

  ‘I’m sorry. A gin and tonic please.’ Susan warned me against drinking alcohol when flying but what the hell. My luggage is packed with biros and books. In the hidden pocket under my clothes I carry the money that Quentin has collected for me to take to the school. He says that if you send it by post it invariably gets stolen. A sea of black faces stretches out in front of me and I can hear the clapping of hands. Welcome, welcome, so glad to see you.

  ‘Make that a double, with plenty of ice.’