Ellie and The Harp-Maker

by Hazel Prior

  Another trip into Taunton, this time alone and in daylight. Clive said he was stopping by at the gym on his way back from work, so hopefully he won’t realize I’ve been out again.

  The drive seems to take for ever. So does the wait.

  Visions pass before my eyes.

  Then, suddenly, it’s over. I know what I wanted to know. What I cannot now unknow. What touches me and worries me and terrifies me. And I have to decide what to do about it.

  25

  Dan

  Ellie the Exmoor Housewife was wearing a woolly hat, green, when she came to the barn this morning. She took it off and her hair crackled with electricity and stuck out sideways. She ran her fingers through it and it calmed down a little and allowed itself to be tucked behind her ears.

  ‘Morning, Dan,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  I told her I was very well, thank you. I said this because it is what you are supposed to say, not because it was strictly accurate. If I had been strictly accurate I would have said my leg was full of grinding pain and my hands were numb. The numbness was due to the fact I had just come in from a frosty walk (or actually, a frosty limp) and I had collected twenty-three pebbles from the stream. The water of the stream is sparkly clean but ice-cold, not designed for finger-comfort. They were nice pebbles though. They were mottled, red-brown and silver-streaked, the colour of rainclouds, the colour of autumn sycamores, the colour of dolphins. Some smooth, some rough. Some flat, some rounded, some jagged. Each will be assessed in due course and viewed against different types of wood to see which ones will end up embedded as jewels in the bodies of harps. The others will just be used for admiring independently.

  Ellie didn’t seem to appreciate them at all when I showed her. Neither did she go up the stairs to her harp, but instead she did her pacing, hovering, shuffling thing. I left the pebbles on the end of the workbench and started to plane a piece of apple wood for the Fifi harp.

  Ellie stood by my shoulder. She lingered. And lingered. Seldom have I seen so much lingering. I stopped planing and turned to look at her. She opened and shut her mouth a couple of times. Eventually words started trickling out in a random monologue.

  Roe Deer. She brought up the subject of Roe Deer. So I held up a hand to stop her and I told her Roe Deer was not my girlfriend any more. I wanted to be clear and I wanted Ellie to know the Truth of the Matter. (I like things to be clear, and I very much don’t like the fact that it took me so long to find out the Truth of the Matter myself.)

  ‘Oh!’ Ellie said on receiving this information. Her voice was stiff and fragile like a beech twig. ‘Oh.’ The corners of her mouth looked as if they couldn’t decide whether to go up or down. ‘So … so when did that happen?’

  I told her that it had apparently happened five years ago but that Roe Deer had only informed me about it last week. Possibly, if I had not asked her about it, she would never have informed me at all. If Ellie had not requested confirmation on this matter, it would never have occurred to me to question it, but she had, so I did, so there we were.

  ‘I see,’ is what Ellie said. She put a hand on my arm. I moved her hand off my arm again. I did not want any hands on my arm at that moment.

  ‘So … so are you OK?’ she asked.

  This was a difficult question to answer. Over the last four days my levels of OK and not-OK had been yo-yoing so much I didn’t really want to think about it. Talking about Roe Deer had made me focus on something that felt very sore, though, and I was now far closer to the not-OK end of things than I had been when Ellie came in. I therefore said nothing and hoped that she would go upstairs and play her harp.

  But she still didn’t go upstairs to her harp. She leaned against the workbench and started mumbling stuff about life being unpredictable and how you never know what is just around the corner. As she went on, she gathered momentum and suddenly a great gush of questions came whooshing out at me. She has always been somebody who asks questions and normally I don’t mind it, not at all, but today it grated. However, Ellie is special and I did not want to offend her even when my levels of OKness were plummeting. I therefore did my best to answer.

  I told her no, I was not lonely. If ever I felt lonely I could have a chat with Phineas and that would sort it out. I agreed that it was important to have support in times of crisis and that friends were helpful. Yes, Thomas was a good friend, and so was she, Ellie. Very. And, yes, it would be nice to have more family around but as both my parents were dead and my sister Jo did not live that close, there wasn’t very much I could do about it. No, I had not particularly considered ever having children, but yes, I did like children. So long as there weren’t too many of them at once. Yes, if I ended up with any one day that would be fine. It was not looking very likely though, the way things were going.

  I didn’t answer her question about how I saw myself in the future. But she then asked the same question again but slower and louder and in slightly different words. So I told her I did not see myself in the future at all. I did not possess a crystal ball, and even if I did I doubted whether it would work. I lived in the present. I lived bit by bit, as I went along, and that suited me fine.

  She twisted her mouth to one side and she picked up one of my pebbles and put it down again. Then she started pulling out the hairs of her left eyebrow.

  At that moment there was a scuffling sound and Phineas came in through his pheasant flap. He looked at us both sideways, then he looked at the harps, then he looked at us again. I don’t know what he was thinking but obviously it was an exhausting thought because next he put his head down and aimed himself straight for his bed. We watched his tail disappearing through the archway.

  ‘Dan,’ said Ellie, still picking at her eyebrow. ‘I’d really like to meet your sister some time. You talk about her so much and she sounds … nice. She lives in Bridgwater, doesn’t she?’

  I confirmed that this was the case.

  ‘Do you think it would be all right if I called in on her one day? Or … is she coming here at all in the near future? Could I possibly meet her then?’

  I was quite surprised, as people don’t often ask to meet Jo, but I told her yes, that would no doubt be possible. In fact, somebody was intending to buy my Starling harp so Jo was coming over to fetch it on Friday and, if Ellie wanted to coincide with her then, she could. Only, I added, it might be a good idea for Ellie not to mention to Jo that I had given her a free harp as Jo would not take kindly to that, Jo being my chief accountant and business consultant and a little bit inflexible about financial matters.

  Ellie said she promised not to tell Jo about the free harp, but that she would quite like a woman-to-woman chat with Jo.

  A woman-to-woman chat? What does that involve?

  ‘What does that involve?’ I asked her.

  She cleared her throat. ‘That involves just me and her. Alone,’ she said, underlining the words.

  I can only surmise that she has an urgent need to discuss female underwear.

  Anyway, I said I was sure that wouldn’t be a problem.

  26

  Ellie

  Rhoda isn’t that much younger than me, but she has two parents who are still alive and well. She has no idea how lucky she is.

  I ring Vic. ‘How’s Mum?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  I do. I know only too well.

  ‘And you?’ I ask.

  ‘Busy sewing name tapes into socks.’

  Vic has four children who are forever losing items of gym kit and a mother who cannot recognize her own clothes. Sewing on name tapes is one of life’s necessary evils for Vic.

  ‘Ugh, poor you!’

  My sister is a great ally, although our lives have gone different ways. These days Vic is all about family (I don’t actually know what I’m all about but it’s not that; I sometimes wish it was, but try not to think about it). I’m longing to confide in her. She knows nothing of my harp-playing, let alone Dan and Rhoda and my recent discovery. But I’m sensing a need for cauti
on.

  ‘Is it still all right if Clive and I come up for Christmas?’

  ‘Of course!’ she cries. ‘I’m relying on you to help with the dinner, not to mention everything else!’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘The usual: turkey, presents, tree, everyone running about.’

  ‘I bet the kids are getting excited.’

  ‘Oh yes, uncontrollable!’ she laughs.

  I can see them now, the little flock of terrors I love so dearly: two boys, two girls; all enthusiasm and noise and mess. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Will Mum be joining us for Christmas Day?’

  ‘Yes, one of us will go and pick her up.’

  ‘Do you think we can make her enjoy herself?’

  ‘We’ll certainly try.’

  I sigh. ‘Vic, thanks so much for everything you’re doing.’

  ‘Ellie, it’s OK. I know you’d do more if you could.’

  ‘Just let me be grateful, will you?’

  ‘All right, then. Off you go. Be grateful.’

  ‘Vic, you are fabulous!’

  ‘Yes, I know. Fabulous me! Fabulous, patient, long-suffering, resentful me!’

  I know exactly the face she’s making as she says it. We’re so alike.

  I try to soothe her. ‘Resentful is allowed. Mum resented us first.’

  ‘Not half.’

  A stream of memories runs through my head. Mum disliked any show of emotion, punished any hint of self-interest, clamped down on any flights of fancy. She didn’t even like it when we, as little girls, gave names to the bees and slugs in our garden. (Bertie Bee was my favourite. And when I burst into tears on finding Bertie dead one morning – I was sure it was him, although all the bees looked similar – Mum said: ‘Ellie, grow up! You’re so silly to let things like that affect you.’) I never once saw her cry, even when my father died. She didn’t radiate warmth as mothers are supposed to do. The only thing she radiated was disapproval.

  ‘Do you think we totally ruined her life?’ I ask Vic.

  ‘Well, if she didn’t have us, where would she be now? Rotting away in some dire council-run place with smelly loos. And zilch visitors.’

  As the dementia set in, Mum’s few friends dropped away. Only Vic and I come to see her now, and my own visits are infrequent. Yorkshire is just too far away from Exmoor.

  I sigh. ‘I wish Dad was still with us.’

  Not many people would have put up with Mum the way he did. He never went against her but he provided Vic and me with the quiet encouragement we so craved and needed. It was Dad who made childhood bearable.

  ‘I miss him every day,’ says Vic.

  ‘Me too.’

  I ring Mum. ‘How are you, Mum?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s me. It’s Ellie.’

  ‘Ellie who?’

  I nearly say, ‘Ellie Jacobs, the Exmoor Housewife.’

  ‘Ellie your daughter,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ah, the older one.’

  This is promising.

  ‘Mum, can I ask you something?’

  A slight pause. ‘She’s very likely to, whether it rains or not.’

  ‘Mum, listen! Do you … do you wish you’d never had children?’

  ‘Children? Children?’

  ‘Yes. Children.’

  Has she forgotten the meaning of the word?

  ‘Children,’ she repeats. ‘Yes, I did have children. I had two.’

  I take a breath and try again. ‘Mum, tell me: are you glad at all, ever … that you had children?’

  ‘Why, yes, of course! It was the best thing I ever did!’

  Her voice contains a fervour I haven’t heard in months.

  ‘I’ll ring again later.’ I put the phone down. My body is racked with sobbing.

  Jo is shorter and stumpier than Dan, but she has the same jet-black hair and round, dark eyes. Her hair is cropped close to her head and she’s wearing jeans and a scarlet jumper. Her face is completely free of make-up but she’s one of those women who doesn’t need it at all. Her features are strong and speak for themselves.

  I feel a little threatened by her at first, and not sure I’ve made the right decision. But she comes over and squeezes my hand warmly.

  ‘And how did you and Dan meet?’ she asks.

  ‘A coincidence,’ I tell her. ‘I stumbled across the Harp Barn and then I started having harp lessons with Rhoda.’ I notice her scowl at that word. ‘I come up here to practise. I’m borrowing one of Dan’s harps,’ I add.

  She glances at his face. I can see her assessing the probability of my buying a harp and warning him to stay out of the transaction, should it occur. Clearly she sees herself as the clincher of deals.

  Dan has bits of sawdust in his hair and his shirt-sleeves are rolled up. He stands close to his sister and I observe a sort of tolerant affection between them.

  Dan mimes a little harp-playing. ‘Ellie is a very fast learner.’

  There’s something like pride in his voice. My heart swells. ‘Rhoda has put me through a lot of technique in a very short space of time.’

  I’m not sure if the topic of Rhoda is still horribly painful to Dan, but his smile gives me a gleam of reassurance.

  ‘Shall I get sandwiches, then?’ he asks. ‘And while I’m making them you two can have your woman-to-woman chat.’

  Jo looks as alarmed as I feel. I laugh nervously.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing important,’ I bluster. ‘Just something I was wanting to ask you.’

  She relaxes again. She evidently thinks I’m going to question her about harp prices, too delicate a matter to discuss in Dan’s presence.

  ‘Right you are! Lots of sandwiches, please then, Dan,’ she says briskly.

  He heads upstairs to the kitchen, his leg delaying him slightly. I watch him all the way to the top, wondering if this was such a good idea after all.

  Jo folds her arms. ‘Fire away!’

  There’s no easy way to say it, even though I’ve rehearsed a thousand different versions in my head.

  ‘Go on, spit it out. I won’t bite!’

  I brace myself. ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but is there any chance that … ah, some years ago, Rhoda might have had a baby? Um, Dan’s baby?’

  She sits down abruptly. I stay standing. I’m too nervous to sit.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, the first thing is that her parents seem to be looking after a little boy. I’ve seen him. He would be about the right age. And the resemblance to Dan is striking.’

  She stares at me, her eyes penetrating. I can see thoughts chasing each other around in her head.

  ‘It’s possible, it’s possible,’ she mutters.

  It’s a relief to share it. I rapidly tell her about the phone calls I’ve overheard during harp lessons, how my suspicions grew, how I engineered to meet Rhoda’s parents at the concert and followed them home.

  ‘There was a child’s swing in the front garden, so it was obvious a child lived there,’ I tell her. ‘I knew the child was Rhoda’s but I couldn’t be sure about the father. So I went back the following day and sat in the car by the road, watching. At around three, I saw Rhoda’s mother leaving the house. She walked down the road in the direction of the local school. About half an hour later she returned to the house. She was hand in hand with the little boy. He had jet-black hair and eyes that …’

  Now I see Jo’s wide eyes fixed on me, I feel a fresh certainty. I carry on. ‘I watched him stoop and pick up a pebble from the driveway. He showed it to his grandma and then stuck it in his pocket. There was something about the gesture …’

  ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I may be wrong but …’

  I know I’m not.

  Jo shakes her head. ‘No. No, you’re … I bet you’re right. It makes sense, thinking about it. Dan and Rhoda were so close for a while and then she suddenly distanced herself. Now I see why. Conniving little cow!’

  ‘She w
as trying to keep it a secret from him.’

  ‘And still is, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, so it seems,’ I reply. I can’t believe how calm my voice is sounding. ‘But why? If she didn’t want Dan to be involved as a father, why keep seeing him at all? And why did she let him carry on thinking she was his girlfriend for so long?’

  ‘She’s not stupid. She stood to gain quite a lot from Dan. Didn’t you know two of her harps were gifts from him?’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know that. I try not to let my face register my dismay.

  ‘And he’s always sending harp students her way. She earns a lot of money through them.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘And Rhoda loves to be doted on. Dan dotes on her. He did, anyway, when he thought she was his girlfriend. Rhoda just soaked up all the admiration. She’s one of those people who are fuelled by the admiration of others.’

  Jo is much clearer in her convictions than I am. I’ve been muddled about Rhoda all along, not trusting my own instincts. I see it now.

  ‘She seems to be very good at hiding the fact she’s a mother,’ I comment. ‘I’m not sure anyone knows about it apart from her parents.’

  ‘And the lad himself?’

  I shrug. ‘Goodness only knows what they’ve told him! I don’t know how much of a mother Rhoda is to the poor boy. It seems to be her parents who run his life.’

  ‘Unbelievable! I suppose she thinks having a child might get in the way of her glam, independent, everyone-has-to-admire-me lifestyle.’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t suppose getting pregnant was ever part of her plan.’

  There’s a slight pause while we both try to construe Rhoda’s thought processes. ‘Well, she didn’t get rid of the baby,’ says Jo. ‘At least that’s something. But she’s been incredibly devious to hide it – him – from Dan for all these years.’

  I grimace. ‘Yes, it’s unbelievable. Awful.’

  Jo’s fists are clenched. ‘I’d like to wring her neck!’