That’s how it was with Alfie once our relationship became sexual. I was always aware of the body beneath the clothes, the steel behind the softness, another Alfie, rather different from the one he presented to the world. Alfie stripped for action was Alfie stripped in more senses than one. Divested of clothing, he looked older, tougher, harder. Instead of the Bambi brown eyes and the soft blond hair that said, “Ruffle me”, I was aware of sinew and bone. The contrast was perplexing, but also exciting.
Dressed or undressed, Alfie was gorgeous. As he himself put it on one of the many occasions I had trouble keeping my hands off him, ‘Admit it, Gwen - you don’t stand a chance. I’m sex on legs.’ Then he grinned and added, ‘Short ones.’
So everything was going really well.
Until I mentioned Christmas.
~~~
Turning the pages of a Sunday colour supplement, Gwen glanced up at Alfie as he finished the last of his breakfast, then said, with studied nonchalance, ‘How would you feel about spending Christmas and New Year in Scotland? I’ve got the use of a flat in Edinburgh. A friend’s going ski-ing and she’s happy for me to keep the place warm for her.’ Alfie froze, a piece of toast poised in mid-air. She added, a little uncertainly, ‘It was just a thought. Hogmanay’s great fun. It’s bigger than Christmas up there. They have a big festival in Edinburgh.’
He sighed, leaned across the table and poured more coffee. ‘I have to spend Christmas with my family, I’m afraid.’
‘Really? The way you talk about them - or rather don’t talk about them - I thought they’d be the last people you’d want to spend Christmas with.’
‘Well, yes, that’s true. But I still have to go. Christmas is the only time I do go. I see everybody and get it all over with. It’s a yearly ritual. And I’m the sacrificial victim.’
‘Oh.’ Gwen bent her head over her magazine again.
‘Couldn’t you ask someone else? It sounds like it would be fun.’
‘Everybody spends Christmas with their family or partners. And if they don’t, they book holidays. I can’t think of anyone I could ask. And I don’t want to stay in Edinburgh on my own. Not at Hogmanay anyway. It’s a sociable time… Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I just sort of assumed we’d spend Christmas together. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise.’ Alfie swallowed some coffee and shook out his newspaper, scowling. ‘I’d much rather spend Christmas with you than my bloody family.’
After a moment, Gwen looked up and said, ‘Could I come with you?’
‘To Creake Hall?’
‘Yes. I’d be interested to meet your family. And from what you’ve said about the house, it sounds as if there’d be plenty of room.’
‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea, Gwen.’
‘We wouldn’t have to share a room. I realise your mother might not approve.’
‘No, it’s not that. In any case, Rae doesn’t actually do Christmas. She rarely emerges from her room. One is given an audience.’
‘Then surely she’d hardly miss you if you didn’t go?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a point of honour. I go because… well, because I’ve always gone. Because Rae wouldn’t understand if I didn’t go. Because Viv thinks it’s important that I go. And because Hattie likes to see me. And I’m quite fond of Hattie. The ties that bind, Gwen… It’s all pretty intense. I don’t think you’d enjoy it.’
‘I don’t think I’ll particularly enjoy Christmas on my own. My flatmates won’t be here and Brighton in December is beyond bracing. ’
‘This is beginning to sound like emotional blackmail.’
‘Well, it’s also sounding as if you really don’t want me around.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Try.’
‘I’m a different person with my family.’
‘Isn’t everyone? We revert to an earlier childhood self, usually a self we’ve consciously rejected. I do realise the whole thing would be a performance.’
Alfie regarded her, his expression grave. ‘Do you?’
‘Well, that’s the nature of families, isn’t it? Everyone trying to accommodate everyone else. Struggling to like people they’d normally cross the road to avoid. Trying hard not to dig up buried hatchets.’
‘For an orphan, you seem to know a lot about families.’
‘My mother came from a dysfunctional family. I never got to meet my grandparents because they would have nothing to do with her. I think she ran away from home when she was sixteen, gave herself a new name, a new life. Or maybe they threw her out. I gather they were very religious. They’d have seen Sasha was going the same way as her older brother and sister. Fast track to Hell.’
Alfie smiled. ‘And you think my family sounds interesting?’
‘I know about families, I just don’t do families. Maybe if I came to Norfolk with you, you might actually enjoy the festivities more. I could lighten the conversational load. Mothers usually like talking to their sons’ girlfriends.’
‘Rae wouldn’t. She hasn’t really taken on board that I’m a man. I’ll always be a boy to her. And Rae dictates the terms. I don’t really have any choice but to play up to that. It’s what she expects. And wants.’
‘It’s very good of you, Alfie.’
‘What is?’
‘To give up your Christmas to spend time with them. When it’s clear you hate every minute of it.’
‘I owe them.’
‘What do you owe them?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘You keep saying that! I don’t think one owes family anything. It’s just an accident of birth and at some point in their teens, most kids realise they’ve been born into the wrong family. It’s nice if families are friends, if they love each other, but mostly they don’t. And why should they, if they have nothing in common but blood?’
‘Why indeed? Self-interest, perhaps? Or just survival. The tribal instinct, wanting to belong. Wanting to be loved, even where one can’t love… Do you really think it’s better to have no-one?’
‘I have no-one, so I don’t ask the question.’
‘That’s one of things I admire about you, Gwen. Your pragmatism. There’s no nonsense with you, is there? So what will you do?’
‘For Christmas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eat too much and watch old Morecambe and Wise DVDs, I expect.’ She tossed the magazine onto the floor where it joined a pile of discarded newsprint. ‘No, I’ll volunteer to do a stint at St Patrick’s.’
‘What’s that?’ Alfie frowned. ‘Sounds suspiciously worthy. I think you’re about to ratchet up the guilt factor.’
‘St Patrick’s is the night shelter in Brighton. I’ve done it before. It’s good fun. And more meaningful than stuffing yourself till you can’t move.’
Alfie assumed a tragic expression. ‘You’re breaking my heart.’ She hurled a cushion at him. He fielded it and said, ‘No, seriously!’
‘I didn’t mean to sound holier-than-thou, it’s just that… well, I like to keep busy at Christmas.’
Alfie tossed the cushion back on to the sofa. ‘Something tells me there’s something you’re not telling me.’
Gwen fixed him with a look. ‘You mean like all the stuff you’re not telling me?’
Alfie avoided her eye and folded his newspaper. ‘Come on, spill the beans. You know I can see right through your Plucky Little Gwen routine.’
She drew her legs up to her chest and circled them with her arms. ‘It’s an anniversary,’ she said quietly.
‘Of?’
‘My mother’s death.’
‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry.’
‘She died of a drugs overdose in 1994. On Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Was it suicide?’
‘No. It must have been her Christmas present to herself. Or a presen
t from her dealer boyfriend. An overly generous one.’
Alfie didn’t reply, then his expression changed. With a sharp intake of breath he said, ‘You didn’t get up on Christmas morning and—’
She nodded without looking at him. ‘I knew something was wrong as soon as I woke up. There was no stocking at the end of the bed. She always left me one, even though I was too old to believe in Father Christmas.’
‘Bloody hell, Gwen… Were you on your own?’
‘Yes. I rang for an ambulance. Then I rang my aunt.’
‘The drunk?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t have too many options.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Christ, Gwen!’
‘Can we change the subject, please? I just wanted you to realise that I wasn’t doing the clingy girlfriend thing, I was just hoping that - I mean, I really wanted to spend Christmas with you. I didn’t care where. Or how. I just wanted to wake up on Christmas morning and find you at the end of the bed. I haven’t told you about Sasha to make you feel awful, I’ve told you because… well, I just wanted you to know. What Christmas means to me. Will always mean to me.’
He sat down beside her on the sofa and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I’m really glad you told me. And… I’m honoured that you did.’
She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, blinking hard. ‘St Patrick’s is good fun actually. We have a laugh. And it’s a wonderful antidote to self-pity. Which is just what I need at Christmas.’
‘Maybe I need a dose of St Patrick’s too… Look, Gwen, if I took you to Creake Hall you’d have to promise me you wouldn’t ask any questions or ask me to explain anything. You’d just have to take everything and everyone as you found them. Some of them will be glad of the distraction of a new face. Others might resent it. I just don’t know, I’ve never taken anyone home before. It’s uncharted territory.’
‘Alfie, I really appreciate the offer, but if your family are likely to resent an outsider—’
‘No, it’s not that. They aren’t the problem, it’s me that’s the problem, wanting to keep my bloody life compartmentalised. I really don’t think you’ll like the person I am with my family, the person I have to become. Famous son of the even more famous Rachael Holbrook. It’s just a performance. I’d want you to remember that.’
‘Of course. You’re sure they won’t mind?’
‘They’ll be fine. Anyway, they don’t get to vote. I’m the Young Master. When the Prodigal returns, everyone has to jump to it. I could probably exercise some sort of droit du seigneur with the local girls, but I’ve never actually tried.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to scrap that idea now if you’re going to be there, keeping an eye on me.’ She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Just come with low expectations, Gwen - of me and my family.’
‘I’ll prepare myself for the second-worst Christmas I’ve ever had.’
‘I doubt you’ll be disappointed.’
‘Thank you, Alfie.’
‘What for? Your second-worst Christmas?’
‘No, for lending me your family.’
‘Take them! Please! I have absolutely no use for them. I only wish,’ he added ruefully, ‘they had no use for me.’
Chapter Three
Rae
Dahlias… So it must be autumn.
Red, orange, burgundy… and that frightful acid yellow. They must go. Vivien will have to tell him. Tell the gardener. What is his name? Tyler. That’s it. Tell Tyler that the lemon is quite wrong. What can he have been thinking of? I must write a note for Viv and she can give it to… to the gardener. Tyler. Yes, that’s his name.
The apples will be ready. And the pears. They must be stored properly. The Newton Wonders keep very well if they’re stored correctly. It will be a good crop, there’s been plenty of rain.
Rain, rain go away. Come again another day…
I hear it on the roof, rapping on the window panes, cascading from an overflowing gutter. It must be blocked. He needs to look at it. Tyler… I can see him down there in the garden, tidying the beds. And not before time, they look a mess! There are so many jobs to be done at this time of year, so many things to think about, my head spins! There’s no room for stories now. Not any more. The stories have gone…
He’ll be home for Christmas. Alfie. As usual. We’ll have Newton Wonders and some of the Coxes. With the Stilton and port. Alfie likes a glass of port. Just like his father! But Freddie won’t be there. Freddie’s gone.
I think Freddie’s gone… Yes, he went away a long time ago.
I think he’s dead. He is, I’m sure of it. Freddie went away. And then he died…
Vivien said I drove him away, but I don’t remember. He took Alfie with him. Viv said it was all for the best. Alfie went away to school - to a good school - and he was very happy. We had letters telling us how happy he was. I have them somewhere. In one of these drawers, I forget which. Vivien would know. She tidies my desk and keeps things safe for me.
Freddie died…
He must have been old, I suppose. Like me.
But Alfie didn’t die, I’m sure he didn’t. I’m practically sure… No, Alfie didn’t die because he’s coming home for Christmas! Which must be soon. Where’s my diary? I know it’s here somewhere. Vivien leaves the diary open for me, on top of my desk, and she marks it so I know what day it is. And which month. But I know it’s September - I can see the blackberries!
He needs to pick them. Tyler. Harriet can help. That’s a job she can do. Make herself useful, get out in the fresh air. It’s September, so the blackberries must be picked and bottled.
No… We don’t do that any more. What do we do with them? Ah, yes, we freeze them! Vivien freezes the blackberries and we have blackberry and apple pie…
A was an Apple Pie, B bit it, C cut it…
Bramleys of course, nothing better. We have blackberry and apple pie at Christmas because it’s Alfie’s favourite. Christmas Pie!
He put in a thumb and pulled out a plum -
No, that’s not right… Blackberries. We have blackberries. I must remind Vivien. She must tell him, tell Tyler, to pick all the blackberries before the birds get them.
Blackbird Pie! That’s what Alfie used to call it!
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. When the pie was opened -
Why is my drawer open? Did I open it? Was I looking for something? I must have been. Something important… It was to do with Alfie coming home. He’ll be home soon. At Christmas. We’ll all be together again. The family. All of us. All the girls and little Alfie. I must ask Viv to get him a present… A new jersey. He’ll have grown. Boys are always growing. Always eating and always growing! He’ll need a new jersey, a warm one, for the winter. And it’s nearly winter now. The apples are ripe and the leaves are turning. Tyler will burn all the dead leaves. If I open the window I’ll smell the smoke and I’ll know it’s November, almost December. And then it will be Christmas and Alfie will be home. We’ll have Blackbird Pie and Viv and Hattie will decorate the house with holly and ivy and there’ll be a big log fire…
When?
When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney…
When is Alfie coming home?
I’m sure I don’t know, says the great bell of Bow…
At Christmas. That’s soon… Where’s my diary? Vivien always leaves it where I can find it. She crosses out the days so I know where I am. And how long it will be till he comes, till Alfie comes home. He’s very good, he comes every year. At Christmas. It’s more than we could expect. Under the circumstances. The boy is very busy, Vivien says. He’s an actor. But he always makes the effort to come and see us. At Christmas.
Ah, here it is! My diary. Viv has marked it for me. Today is September 19th. A Friday. It says here - where are my glasses? I put them down somewhere. I can never find my - ah, here they are! It says here - she’s written it down for me - that it’s ninety-six days to go. Ninety-six days till Al
fie comes home. Less than a hundred! Not long now. The time soon goes…
Tyler is cutting some dahlias. I don’t want any in here. I don’t like them. Horrid vulgar flowers. Freddie grew them. They were his favourites. He liked big blowsy flowers. What happened to the asters, I wonder? They used to look like a purple cloud at the back of the border. We used to have asters, I’m sure, when Alfie was a boy…
Ninety-six.
Why did that number just come into my head? Is it 1996? That was a long time ago, surely? Alfie would have been - let me see now - seventeen. Seventeen! Oh, no, there I go again… It’s silly to cry! Why, after all these years?…
Ninety-six.
I know that number is important, but I can’t remember why. It’s exasperating! Vivien has no idea… But she’s very good, she marks my diary for me and tidies my desk and leaves it so I can find everything. If I should want to write, everything is here, ready for me. A place for everything and everything in its place. Always the same. That’s how I know where I am. Every day. Every year. Every Christmas, it’s the same. We have Coxes and Newton Wonders with the Stilton and the port. Alfie likes port. It won’t be long now. It says so here, in my diary. Ninety-six days till Christmas.
Ninety-six! That was the number! I knew it was important! Ninety-six days till Alfie comes home! Not long now. Not really…
I shouldn’t have cried, I know I shouldn’t, but I get so confused! And I don’t remember why I cry! Vivien says, it’s because I’m old. I don’t remember how old. But I think I must be old… I look old. But I don’t feel old. The time just goes…
Where does it go? When we’ve finished with it? Where does time go? I give the old diaries and calendars to Hattie to cut up for her patchwork, but where does the time go?…
I’ll ask Vivien. She’ll know. And if she doesn’t, she’ll find out for me. Where time goes. I know it bothers her too. She says so. She says, ‘Where does the time go?’ That’s what she says. She says, ‘I must be getting old, Rae. Where does the time go?’
House of Silence Page 3
