‘No, leave me alone now. I’m tired. I need to think. That girl has confused me,’ Rae muttered as she rearranged her pillows, then lay down on her side.
‘Shall I turn out your light?’
‘No, leave it on. I’m thinking. Thinking about Tom… Where’s my notebook?’
‘In the bedside drawer. With your pencils and pens.’
‘I need the light on in case a new idea comes to me. I might need to write something down.’
‘Yes, of course. That would be exciting, wouldn’t it?’ said Viv without much enthusiasm. ‘Well, I’ll say goodnight now. Hope you sleep well.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight.’
Viv was balancing the tray on her hip and reaching for the door handle when Rae called out. ‘Vivien?’
Viv turned round, her arms aching now with the weight of the tray. ‘What is it, Ma?’
‘We must be careful.’
‘I’m always careful, Ma. Goodnight.’
Chapter Ten
Gwen
I slept badly and woke early. It was still dark outside and the air in my attic room seemed very cold. I remembered a fan heater that I’d seen on the floor, plugged in and pointed thoughtfully towards the bed. I turned on the bedside light, switched on the heater, got back into bed again and waited. Alfie had exaggerated about the temperature at Creake Hall but I’d been glad of what he referred to as my passion-killer fleece pyjamas. I’d also been glad of the weight of Hattie’s quilt, insulating me against the night air. I stroked the hexagons absently, then remembered she’d said there were other quilts. But where?… In the trunk at the end of the bed?
I got out of bed again, pulled on my dressing gown and slippers, directed the fan at the trunk and kneeled facing the Siroccan blast of dust and warm air. The trunk was made of battered leather and fastened with buckles. I undid these and lifted the lid with a sense of anticipation.
There were several folded quilts inside the trunk. I removed them reverently, one at a time. On top was a Log Cabin quilt made of light and dark strips of fabric, arranged in a pattern of concentric squares known as Barn Raising. The reds were very faded. Red dyes were unstable and faded soonest, so I assumed this quilt must be antique. I re-folded it carefully and set it aside. The next was a Dresden Plate design, dating from the thirties to judge from its pretty pastel fabrics. Segments of patterned fabric were arranged like slices of pie, to form circles or “plates”. It was a popular design for using up big scraps. This quilt was in such good condition, I doubted it had ever been used.
At the bottom of the trunk were quilt tops that had never been finished, including one made of hundreds of equilateral triangles, a design I knew as A Thousand Pyramids. There was no rhyme or reason to the colour scheme and, as I examined it, it dawned on me that it was a Charm quilt - every single patch was cut from a different fabric. Making such a quilt required a huge and varied collection of fabric scraps, so I wasn’t surprised this one was unfinished. Hattie had probably run out of fabrics.
The quilt top was heavy because it still contained all its paper templates - triangles cut from what appeared to be letters and calendars. Some templates were pictorial, others had numbers and days of the week, but others seemed to be cut from letters written on old-fashioned notepaper. I didn’t pause to examine any but caught sight of “Dear Rae” on one of them and wondered whether she’d made the quilt. But its chaotic nature suggested Hattie’s handiwork to me.
As I spread out the Charm quilt on the bed, the papers crackled. I loved the motley collection of fabrics, some of which appeared to be quite old. There was a dress cotton depicting cowboys chasing Indians, which dated the fabric to the politically incorrect 1950s. There were some Laura Ashley prints in shades of purple and chocolate brown from the unfathomable seventies. Much more appealing were some eye-popping Op-Art fabrics from the sixties. All these were interspersed with a host of Liberty prints, but the gems of the collection to my mind were some coarse and colourful patches that I suspected were cut from American feed sacks, the fabric bags used for packaging dry goods, which thrifty housewives recycled during the Depression to make clothes, quilts and household goods.
I thought of the Christmas present I’d brought for Hattie and wondered if it would enable her to finish off the charm quilt. I decided I would offer to help. If we removed the paper templates, the quilt would be much lighter to handle and we could recycle them to make new patches. Working as a team, the quilt top would be finished in no time.
I folded the Charm quilt carefully and replaced it in the trunk. I felt excited about the project, impatient for Hattie to wake, so I could talk to her about it, but it was still dark outside and there was no sound of anyone up yet. I dressed and went down to the kitchen which, thanks to the Aga, was warm and welcoming. There was no sign of Harris or Lewis, so I assumed they were allowed to sleep with Viv or Hattie. While the kettle came to the boil, I stepped outside into the garden. There was a rosy glow in the east now and the heavily frosted garden looked magical, like something out of a child’s story book. Silhouetted against the sky was Marek’s mill and I thought I could see a light at a window. Another early riser. I was getting cold, so I went back indoors to make tea and toast and stood at the window watching dawn creep through the garden.
As I finished my tea there was still no sign of life upstairs so I decided to go for a walk. I fancied some fresh air and a bit of exercise. A restless night had left me full of aches and pains.
I put my coat on, borrowed a pair of Wellingtons and set off down the drive, towards the road.
The country lane was narrow and winding, with no pavement. Without reflective clothing I was probably taking a risk as a pedestrian, but it was so quiet, I could hear the odd vehicle as it approached, so I could withdraw prudently into the hedgerow. After a few hundred yards I came to a crossroads. I studied the fingerpost but already knew I would turn towards Marek’s mill, visible above the rooftops, where I could see light from a first floor window. I crossed the road and headed for the mill.
It was black. Tarred brick, I supposed, and not at all picturesque. Aloft there was a gallery, serving as a sort of balcony, with plants in pots. Ivy was twining round the handrail and the door, for all the world as if this was some chocolate box cottage. The mill had no sails and, as a building, it looked ugly and forbidding, an ominous one-eyed giant looming over the flat landscape.
As I approached the mill, I could see the front door and a cornucopia of tubs and pots arranged on and around the steps leading up to it. Some tubs contained evergreens, some had dead-looking plants in them, but larger pots held shrubs, even a few brave flowers: some battered chrysanthemums, winter jasmine, the odd crystalline rose, frosted in bud. I looked at the array of containers and wondered how long Marek spent watering them all in a parched Norfolk summer. It would be a labour of love, I supposed, and a pleasant task on a summer’s evening.
I raised my eyes to the first floor window and saw Marek standing there, silhouetted against the light from the interior. I presumed he’d seen me standing at the foot of the steps leading up to his front door. I looked around and saw that he had no immediate neighbours, just outbuildings and fields, so I lifted my head, took a deep breath and sang:
‘It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.’
I hadn’t even got to the end of the first verse before the window opened and Marek’s white head appeared. His face was swarthy with black stubble, his expression grim. My heart sank to the bottom of my Wellington boots. He leaned out of the window and said, ‘If I made you a cup of coffee, would you stop singing?’ Then, with a piratical flash of white teeth, he grinned.
~~~
‘So you weren’t impressed with my “glorious song of old”, then?’
‘My objections were more ideological than musical. I’m an atheist. How do you like your coffee?’
Ma
rek, barefoot and clad in pale grey jersey pyjamas, closed the door behind Gwen. She removed her Wellingtons and followed him up a staircase, passing through a utility-come-lumber room on the ground floor, his bedroom on the first, where he grabbed a dressing gown and shrugged it on, then on up to the kitchen level, where he filled a kettle and turned to Gwen, who by now was feeling breathless.
‘Sit down. The sitting room is on the floor above. For the views. We’ll go up when I’ve made coffee. Have you had breakfast?’
‘I had a piece of toast before coming out. There was something soaking on the Aga that looked suspiciously like papier mâché but Alfie had already warned me about Hattie’s porridge, so I thought I’d play safe with toast.’
‘It’s not that bad. Just very… solid. And she likes to salt it, but that doesn’t bother me. I grew up on salted porridge.’
Gwen wondered when Hattie would have been making Marek breakfast and remembered Alfie’s speculations of the night before.
‘Did you grow up in Scotland?’
‘Until I was ten. Then we moved to England where I quickly got rid of my accent. It was bad enough being called Zbydniewski. But I was good at sport, so they left me alone in the end.’ He lifted the kettle and poured water into two mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Milk, no sugar, thanks. The windows face in different directions, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a good idea.’
‘And a practical one. If the windows lined up it would create a line of weakness in the structure, so they go round in a spiral.’
Gwen surveyed the whitewashed brick walls of the kitchen. ‘It’s so strange being in a room with curved walls!’
‘It’s less obvious in here because of the kitchen units. This room feels more like a hexagon than a circle. You’re more aware of the round walls upstairs. Follow me.’ Marek picked up their coffee and led the way, up another staircase, into the sitting room. ‘This window faces north. Bad for light, good for sea views.’
Gwen walked over to the window and, beneath a vast grey sky, saw a distant expanse of pewter sea, scalloped with white. She turned back to face Marek who was putting a log in a wood-burning stove. ‘Isn’t it rather dark living in a mill?’ She surveyed the curved brick walls, pock-marked with age, their red expanse broken up here and there with pictures and ethnic wall-hangings.
‘The dark doesn’t bother me. I spend most of my working day outdoors. In the summer I’m quite glad to come home to somewhere cool and dark. Norfolk summers can be very hot.’ He sat down in an armchair and Gwen sank onto the sofa, near the stove.
‘Was this a flour mill?’
‘Yes. It was built in 1826 and was a working mill for about a hundred years. Then it fell into disrepair, then dereliction. A Holbrook ancestor was into preserving the local heritage and poured money into its restoration, but he died and so did his millwright. They’re a scarce breed, scarcer even than thatchers. So the Holbrooks cut their losses and converted it into a dwelling. Creake Hall staff have always lived here. It’s not pretty enough to let as a holiday home and it’s of little historic interest because there’s no working machinery. It’s just a shell. But solid. And quaint. I like it. And it suits me. What I particularly like is the lack of garden. I can come home to a guilt-free zone. No weeding. No lawns to mow.’
‘Just a lot of watering.’
‘You noticed all the tubs? There’s no outside tap, so running up and down stairs with cans keeps me fit.’
Unbidden, a memory of Marek standing at the front door in his pyjamas swam into Gwen’s mind. Recalling how the pale grey jersey had clung to the curves of his chest, arms and thighs, she was in no doubt as to his levels of fitness and strength. Feeling suddenly rather warm, she acknowledged that this was nothing to do with either the coffee or the heat from the stove.
‘What are you doing out so early?’ Marek asked.
‘No one else was up, so I thought I’d go for a walk. It was nice to have a bit of time to myself actually. And it’s so beautifully quiet compared to Brighton. Brighton never sleeps. I love the buzz, but I do sometimes long for a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘Do you live with Alfie?’
‘No, I share a flat with two other girls. Alfie has a flat in London. I think it belonged to Rae originally.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘About five months. We met in the summer when he was filming in Sussex.’
‘What do you do? You’re not an actress?’
‘God, no! I’m a humble wardrobe assistant. But it’s interesting work. Very varied. I really enjoy it. Especially when we’re on location.’
‘How did you get into that line of work?’
‘I went to art school to do a fashion and textiles course. I thought I’d end up working in the rag trade, but I discovered I liked old clothes much more than new. I also had a love of old textiles, so working with period costumes seemed like the ideal job for me.’ Gwen sipped her coffee. ‘How long have you known Alfie?’
‘I wouldn’t say I do know Alfie. But he’s been to Creake Hall for Christmas all the years I’ve worked here.’
‘And how long is that?’
‘Five years now.’
‘You’re obviously happy here.’
‘I suppose I must be.’
‘Alfie doesn’t talk much about his family and he behaves rather oddly when he’s with them. It’s as if there’s been some big bust-up in the past. But Viv and Hattie seem so nice, so easy to get on with… I don’t really understand why he’s so distant with them.’
‘He only sees them once a year.’
‘Isn’t that all the more reason to be friendly when he does see them?’
‘Maybe. Perhaps you’re right about there being some incident in the past. He seems quite angry with them.’
‘Angry?’
‘Yes. Angry with them, or about them.’
‘I know he’s fed up with Tom Dickon Harry, but I don’t know why he would be angry with his sisters.’
Marek smiled. ‘I take it you don’t have any siblings?’
‘No, no family at all. That’s why I’m here. Borrowing Alfie’s.’
‘What happened to yours?’
Gwen hesitated, then braced herself. ‘I never knew my father. Nor, for that matter, did my mother, except in the carnal sense. She died of a drugs overdose. Her sister died of drink and her brother died of AIDS. And they were the only family I ever had.’
‘I see… So you’ll know all about being angry with your family, then.’
‘Me? No, of course not. I loved my family.’
‘Anger isn’t incompatible with love.’
‘But why on earth would I be angry with them?’
‘Well, for a start they failed in their duty to provide you with a sense of security and a stable home. You might also be angry with them because they put their hedonistic lifestyle before the happiness of a child… But mostly, I should imagine, you’re angry because they’re dead.’
‘How can you be angry with someone because they died? That’s ridiculous! None of their deaths was suicide,’ she added.
‘Maybe not, but they were all playing Russian roulette with their lives. I take it your uncle died of sexually-contracted AIDS. Was he gay?’
‘Yes. Promiscuously so.’
‘That’s what I mean. It wasn’t suicide, but it was suicidal. You could be angry about that. Especially when you were younger. When did you lose them?’
‘They were all dead by the time I was sixteen.’
Marek winced, then said gently, ‘That must have been very, very tough. I’d be surprised if you weren’t angry with them.’
‘I was grief-stricken!’ Gwen exclaimed. ‘Every time!’
‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive,’ Marek replied. ‘In fact they often coincide.’
‘But they died horribly! All three of them. I’m not angry with them! I can’t be,’ Gwen said, sounding less certain now.
‘A
ll right, you’re not. My apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset!’
‘Good. That’s OK then. Do you want to go back to pumping me about Alfie, or shall we change the subject altogether?’
He watched as her eyes filled with tears; watched her swallow and try to blink them back; watched her compute the distance to the stairs and the likelihood of getting beyond them before the floodgates opened. He leaned forward, picked up a box of tissues from the coffee table, deposited it at her side, then leaned back again. He sat quite still, silent, his long limbs composed, and braced himself for the inundation, but she wept quietly, discreetly, with her head bowed.
He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but old professional habits die hard and he found he could do nothing other than sit silently, attentively. Eventually, when she’d composed herself a little, he said, ‘I’m very sorry for my part in that. You now have good reason to be angry with me.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s… it’s because it’s Christmas.’
He nodded. ‘It can be a difficult time. It’s all the socialising. Christmas brings us bang up against all the ways in which our families fall - or fell - short of the ideal.’
Gwen heaved a shuddering sigh and helped herself to a tissue. ‘My mother died at Christmas. She overdosed on Christmas Eve. When I was twelve. I always fall apart. Every bloody year. Coming here was supposed to be a way of avoiding the crack-up.’
‘Well, you haven’t cracked - as you put it - in front of the family. You’ve been putting on a great show as the perfect guest. And it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. You couldn’t have picked a better person to crack up on. Not that I think you cracked,’ he added.
‘Oh, please - stop being kind, it just makes things worse.’ And she started to cry again. He sensed then what she wanted, also finally what he wanted, and he moved towards her - not fast, he didn’t want to startle her - and sat beside her. He took her in his arms and she sagged against him, her face pressed against his chest, as if she was trying to muffle the sound of her cries. He sat still, his arms gently but firmly enclosing her, and registered the wet warmth of her tears on his skin as they soaked into his pyjamas. He said nothing and waited.
House of Silence Page 12
