Ellie and The Harp-Maker

by Hazel Prior

  I asked if we were celebrating a new poem she’d written.

  ‘No, I haven’t finished any in a while,’ was her answer.

  What else could we be celebrating? I looked out of the window for inspiration. My eyes focused on the leaves of the beeches. Each of them seemed to have ideas of their own. Some were determined to stay green. Others were fully committed to being yellow. While others clearly thought bronze was the way to go. But they were all dancing together in beautiful formations in the sunlight.

  I asked if we were celebrating the Glories of Autumn.

  Both corners of her mouth lifted this time. ‘A lovely idea, but no. It’s something that happens every year in the autumn though, on a certain date. It’s not actually today, it’s tomorrow, but I won’t be seeing you tomorrow so I thought we could celebrate today.’

  She looked at me with a look of expectation. I told her that if there’s one thing I’m bad at, that thing is guessing, and I’d be really, really grateful if she could enlighten me now about what we were celebrating because I was starting to feel stressed about it.

  She pointed to the cake. ‘That’s a clue. If it had candles on it, it would be even more of a clue.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘It’s someone’s birthday!’

  ‘Dan,’ she said. ‘It’s my birthday! Not today, tomorrow,’ she added; this was evidently an important point and worth saying twice.

  ‘Ellie,’ I said. ‘Happy Birthday tomorrow!’

  ‘Thank you!’ is what she replied.

  I then started wondering if she was expecting me to give her a present and, this being the case, what sort of a present I could produce at short notice. Presents are difficult, just as guessing is difficult. It is no simple task working out what people want and what will make them happy. When my girlfriend Roe Deer has a birthday I spend a lot of time thinking very hard indeed. She already has three harps now, so it has to be something else. I’ve tried giving her CDs, soap, harp strings, pot plants, carved wooden animals, but they never seem to be right. As for my sister Jo, she has a birthday every February and every time it happens she says: ‘Dan, please don’t get me anything. You’ll only agonize and I’ll only end up with something I don’t want. Just give me a fiver and I’ll buy myself something nice.’ So that is what I do, and that is what she does. It’s much easier that way.

  Luckily on my own birthday (the twenty-first of December) I am allowed to choose exactly what I want to do. And what I choose to do is nothing. Other people seldom take this option, so their birthdays are fraught with difficulty.

  Another thing about birthdays: there is always the worry that I might get invited to a party. That would be spectacularly bad news. I have been to several parties in my life and it’s always a disaster.

  Thomas’s party three years ago, for example. I only managed to stay for twelve minutes because of the noise. Thomas’s wife Linda has never forgiven me for that.

  Roe Deer’s party six years ago, for example. I only managed to stay for nine minutes because I was being jostled by so many people. I had to get out quickly so did not say goodbye. Roe Deer has never forgiven me for that.

  ‘Dan, what’s troubling you?’ asked Ellie the Exmoor Housewife.

  I told her I was worried about giving her the wrong present and also worried that she was going to invite me to a party.

  She laid a hand on my arm.

  ‘You can put your mind at rest. I’m not going to invite you to a party. I haven’t had a party in years. I’m going out for a meal with Clive tomorrow, that’s all. As for a present! You mustn’t even think of it! For heaven’s sake, you’ve given me a harp!’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘That’s enough of a present to last a lifetime! You mustn’t even think of giving me anything else.’

  I was glad she’d said this. And glad I’d given her the harp. Giving her a harp was a good idea. I knew that at the time. At the time that was something I’d realized more than she had.

  Ellie took her enormous canvas shoulder bag from the floor and delved around in it. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got a little present for you!’

  I didn’t know what to think. ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She pulled out a jar of jam, then another, then another. Lots of jars of jam. They had little frilly hats over their lids, checked blue and white, fastened with rubber bands. They also had labels stuck on the side with the word ‘Plum’ written in purple ink. She gave me the jars, one by one. I put them in a line along the edge of the table and counted them. There were seven.

  I thanked her profusely. I was very enthusiastic because nobody has ever, ever given me seven jars of jam before. Let alone ones with checked blue-and-white hats.

  ‘I hope it’s OK,’ she said, turning a little red. ‘It’s my first attempt at jam-making. It was quite an adventure. Your plums were so juicy! I made a sticky mess all over the kitchen. Then I was worried it wasn’t going to set, but it did. There were eight jars all together, but I gave one to Christina because she gave me the recipe. I hope you like jam? You do? Phew! I had a bit of a panic in case you didn’t. Sorry – I’m burbling. Let’s eat that cake.’

  We had cake together and Ellie had a fit of giggles because we got so chocolatey. While we were licking our fingers I asked her if she had rung my girlfriend Roe Deer about harp lessons yet. She stopped giggling abruptly and said no, she hadn’t got round to it yet, what with jam-making and birthday arrangements, but she would get round to it very soon. Then she asked if Roe Deer came up to the barn to visit me much and added that she was surprised she hadn’t bumped into her before now. I said not very much these days, no, and oh.

  After we had eaten two slices of cake each and both of us had taken a trip to the bathroom to wash the residual chocolatiness off our hands, I had an idea. Whether or not it was a good idea I didn’t know, but I thought I’d suggest it anyway because to me it is a proper way of celebrating a birthday if celebrating is what you want to do. So I told Ellie it was very lovely to eat cake together but we should also do something outside because outside was special and today there was sunshine which made it even more special.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ she said. ‘A walk?’

  I told her that the thing I had in mind did involve a short walk, yes.

  We put on our jackets and went outside. I took her down the first bit of lane, then over the stile and into the field with lots of molehills. At the far end of this field is an old stone wall covered in layers of shaggy moss. Behind the stone wall are sixteen tall birch trees.

  The birch trees were looking very happy today, with their white trunks arching gracefully upwards, their branches swaying in the breeze and their leaves fluttering every shade of yellow.

  Ellie gazed up at them. ‘Ah, you remembered they’re my favourite!’

  I reached up and pulled a bough towards us to inspect the brown catkins. They were made up of dry clusters of tiny winged seeds. Some were beginning to disintegrate, which is what they do when they are ready to fly. On the next gusty day they’ll suddenly get adventurous. They’ll unhitch themselves, launch out into the air and soar away on the wind. They’ll travel huge distances. But some of them won’t because the next thing I did was to proffer a twigful to Ellie.

  Ellie looked at me with questions in her eyes.

  ‘Take some,’ I told her. ‘We’re going to plant them. I have compost and I have seed trays. First we’ll plant them in the seed trays where I can look after them, but when they are saplings big enough to look after themselves we can plant them out in the countryside. We’re going to create a new coppice of birch trees. For your birthday. An Ellie coppice.’

  ‘Oh, Dan,’ is what she said as she helped herself to birch seeds. ‘What could be more wonderful!’

  10

  Ellie

  He’s leaning against the car, waiting. I feel bad. But it’s my birthday so I’m allowing myself a few more minutes. The autumn light is beautiful this afternoon, the way it clings to the mag
entas and browns of the heather and beams out honey colours from the gorse. I crouch among the prickles and play with the focus of my camera. I zoom in on a single gorse flower, ensure the edge is sharp as crystal, and press the shutter. Not quite satisfied, I adjust the focus again, converting it to a blurry kaleidoscope of colour, then take another shot. I’m not sure which one I like better.

  ‘Got something good?’ Clive asks as I join him.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And we’re going for a walk now, are we?’ He’s using his you’re-the-boss voice.

  ‘Well, just a little stroll to the viewpoint, perhaps?’

  ‘Right you are.’ He zips up his jacket.

  We’ve had a pleasant meal at The Crow’s Nest; the risotto wasn’t exceptional but the lemon meringue pie made up for it. Clive told me all about the new rowing machines at the gym and I enthused about the book I was reading. We noticed that the family having a meal at the next table weren’t talking to each other due to an urgent need to use their smartphones. Clive indulged in a rant about selfie culture in a voice that was a little too loud. I stole an anxious glance at the teenagers to see if they’d taken offence, but they were far too preoccupied to be aware of our existence, let alone our topic of conversation.

  Now, as we tramp side by side across the moor, I’m thinking about Dan and the birch seeds we planted yesterday. And, with a sudden surge of realization, I’m aware I’ve been thinking about Dan all day. Mentally conjuring up his features, his voice, his smile … wondering if he’s thinking of me at all. That’s stupid, of course. He’ll be thinking instead of his beautiful, talented, sexy girlfriend.

  I turn to view the horizon. The line of the land swells and puckers; the line of the sea seems to curve slightly downwards. The islands of Flat Holm and Steep Holm rise like sea monsters out of the blue. I’m grateful for the blast of cool wind against my hot face.

  ‘All right, El?’

  ‘Yes, just admiring the wonderful colours.’

  Dear God! Thirty-six now – that’s how old I am. I wish I wasn’t. Thirty-six is way too old to be feeling such crazy, overwhelming teenage-crush feelings. If it wasn’t so pathetic it would be funny.

  Anyway, I’m happily married, aren’t I?

  Of course I am.

  I clutch my husband’s arm. ‘Thank you for today, Clive! And thank you for – you know – everything! You’re my rock.’

  During tides of emotion little limpets have to cling to rocks.

  ‘So I’m rugged, am I?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘And strong?’

  I feel the muscles of his arm, feel them flex under my touch.

  ‘Extremely strong!’

  He looks pleased.

  This is the perfect opportunity to tell him about my harp-playing. He’s obliged to be extra nice on my birthday, the sun is shining and he’s had a couple of beers. If I can make him understand how much I love the harp he’ll surely be happy for me.

  I’ll do it. I’ll do it now.

  ‘Clive, when I was sorting out the spare room the other day I found your old guitar …’

  ‘Oh, did you? Covered in cobwebs, was it?’

  ‘Well, I gave it a bit of a dust, yes, but it was nice to see it again. It reminded me how you used to love strumming away.’

  ‘I only knew four chords.’

  ‘Well, it sounded good to me, anyway. You put a lot of expression into it, especially when you sang. You seemed so happy.’

  ‘Ellie, it was painful.’

  Perhaps I should try a different tack.

  Five or six Exmoor ponies wander out from behind a hillock, manes wild, tails ragged, noses velvety. They look at us with gentle, uncertain eyes then move slowly away.

  Our shadows are getting longer. I sift through my brain, hunting for inspiration.

  ‘Sometimes I think I should branch out a bit,’ I comment. ‘I mean, I don’t really have any hobbies, do I, apart from poetry. Do you think I’m getting a bit dull?’

  ‘Of course not, El! You could never be dull. What are you getting at? Are you bored?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. I just wonder if I could do something more with my life?’

  ‘Like?’

  Play the harp, play the harp, play the harp!

  But I can’t say it. My mouth has gone dry.

  I look sideways at Clive. He seems extra large as he strides beside me, his strips of sandy hair lifted slightly by the breeze. I know he can be incredibly supportive in certain situations but I’m just not convinced this is one of those situations.

  Anyway, how can I talk about Dan now without my voice and face giving away too much? No, I simply can’t do it today. I’m too obsessed, too jittery. If Clive presses me to give up the harp I actually feel I might cry.

  It’s best if I leave my disclosure until I’ve met Dan’s girlfriend. Once I’ve got to know her I’ll surely succeed in getting more of a grip on myself?

  I sit on the windowsill next to the phone and look out. Beyond the boundaries of our garden the slope of the hill leans heavily against a darkening sky. Drizzle spins through the air and spits on to the window pane.

  The number I need is on a scrap of paper, folded up in the front pocket of my bag. I pull it out and gaze at it. Dan’s handwriting is very neat and slants slightly to the left. I toy with the receiver for a minute then dial a different number.

  ‘Hi, Mum. It’s me, Ellie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ellie. Me!’

  ‘Oh, Ellie, is it? Hello, Ellie.’

  ‘Mum, just ringing to see how you are. Everything OK?’

  There is a silence. I count the seconds. I can hear her breathing, slow and slightly wheezy. ‘There’s a black dog outside on the grass.’

  This may or may not be true. ‘Ah, is there?’ I say brightly. ‘Well, that’s nice. You’re all right, are you?’

  ‘He is sniffing at the dahlias. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘Mum, it’s fine. Tell me, how are you? Are the carers being good? Have you seen Vic today?’

  ‘Vic?’

  ‘Vic. Your other daughter.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Haven’t seen her in years.’

  I know for a fact that Vic goes to the care home twice a week. She’s the dutiful daughter now, living close enough to do that. I am three hundred miles away so it isn’t quite so easy. And the distance is more than just a geographical one.

  ‘Mum, can I ask you a question? Did you ever think I was musical as a child?’

  ‘You might be one of several.’ She hasn’t understood. The conversation, as usual, is going nowhere. Part of me wants to tell her about my harp-playing. The secret would be safe, as she’d probably forget it anyway. But it’s all a bit pointless. How I miss my dad!

  I ramble on for a while then say my goodbyes and put the phone down. The sky has grown a heavier shade of grey. I consult my watch. Clive will be back home if I leave it much longer. I pick up the paper Dan gave me.

  I brace myself and ring the number written on it.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m ringing to speak to Roe Deer.’

  A peal of laughter.

  ‘Sorry, but I was given this number.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And I can guess who gave it to you. Was it by any chance Dan Hollis?’

  His name reassures me a little. ‘Yes, it was actually. Are you Roe Deer?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m Rhoda Rothbury, but Dan likes to call me Roe Deer. One of his little eccentricities. And you are …?’

  ‘My name’s Ellie Jacobs,’ I stammer. ‘Dan suggested I should contact you. I’m ringing to ask about harp lessons. I’m trying to learn on one of his harps but I badly need a teacher.’

  ‘I see.’ Her voice is clear and intelligent; sharp, even. ‘So you’re a complete beginner, are you?’

  We sort out a few logistics. She apparently prefers to give lessons from her house in Taunton, but she might be able to teach me at Dan’s barn once in a while. H
er normal rate is thirty-eight pounds an hour. She’s willing to come to the barn just to meet me first, if I like.

  ‘Oh yes, I think that would be best,’ I bluster. I’m not sure how many lots of thirty-eight pounds I can manage without Clive noticing. He goes through our joint account statement with a fine-toothed comb every month. I’ll have to be devious and pay her cash. Besides, I want to meet her before I commit myself. And find out how well she really can play the harp. And find out if she can teach, which is a different matter. And find out other things.

  11

  Dan

  Today I’m working on a twenty-two-stringed Celtic harp. I’m fashioning it from recycled wood from a pew. The reason I’m using a pew is that the committee of one of the local churches decided they needed to set up a coffee-serving station inside the church and the pew happened to be where they wanted to put the station and nobody ever sat on that particular pew any more because the congregation had shrunk considerably since Revd Harrison arrived with his long sermons but the thing the congregation needed more than ever was coffee. Therefore the pew had to go, therefore they ripped it out. My sister Jo (who is always seeking out wood on my behalf) asked if I could have the pew. The church committee met up and discussed it and discussed it. It took them a while but in the end they agreed on the answer: yes.

  I like this wood and respect it, very much. For generations it was a yew tree, growing through the wind, rain and sunshine of life, expanding steadily in its gnarled, knobbly way. Birds perched on it and little creatures curled up in its roots. Then it became a pew and generations of people sat on it, praying. They must have felt all sorts of things going in and out of their hearts as they sat through baptisms, weddings, festivals and funerals. Now the wood will transform again, and one day some skilled harpist will draw music from it, music that will make hundreds more people feel things. Another miracle.

  The harp is coming on nicely. I’ve made the base, backbone and soundbox complete with ribs, liners and spacing bars. The soundboard is ready to be drilled with twenty-two tiny holes. I’ve also shaped the neck and ensured the harmonic curve is curved exactly the right amount. It is all filed and planed to perfection.