Ellie and The Harp-Maker

by Hazel Prior

  I wander around collecting books, CDs, my photo albums, the remainder of my clothes. The look, the touch, the smell of everything is the same but the place doesn’t feel like home any more. Perhaps it never did. Like the rest of my past, it doesn’t really fit me properly.

  I am at least pleased to note there are no whisky or beer bottles around. There are a couple of postcards lying on the windowsill.

  Hey, Ellie!

  Here I am in Thailand. Best non-Christmas Christmas EVER. Get this: palm-fringed beaches, blue, blue sea, me in teeny bikini! Gadding around in sunshine. No sexy beach bums yet but hope springs eternal. Hope U R well and everything sorted with You-Know-Who. Love and kisses,

  Christina

  The second postcard reads:

  Hi Ellie,

  Guess what? I’ve met a lovely Thai family who’ve offered me food and lodging for another month here in exchange for helping the children with their English. I had to think about it for all of five seconds! The kids are sweet, no hassle and it’s great. I won’t be back in Exmoor for ages. Hope all good for you and Clive.

  C xxx

  I smile sadly and tuck the cards into my bag. Christina and I have some serious catching up to do.

  A sudden noise startles me. The front door opening. My heart jumps to my mouth. I swing round.

  He’s there. Not the monstrous, hateful version I’ve been picturing over the past weeks but my husband: real, human, complex. Haggard.

  ‘Clive!’

  His hands stretch out towards me.

  ‘Ellie … my El … I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘I just came to get my things.’ I nod towards the suitcases. ‘I thought you’d be at work.’

  ‘I know.’ His head bows in a submissive gesture. His presence feels raw. ‘I’ve been finishing early this last week, taking work home instead. A new arrangement.’

  ‘Right.’ I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Did you find everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ I move towards the cases and make as if to go.

  He stands in my way, a wall of desperation. ‘Just a minute! Now that you’re here … Ellie, listen!’ His eyes bore into mine. ‘I never meant to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? I thought you’d gone away that night. I’d no idea you were still at the barn. It kills me thinking about it, about how close it was to … I was going crazy, you see, with everything going round and round in my head. Thinking how you’d lied to me, thinking of you with him, and missing you, just missing you like hell. And the drink … I wasn’t in control. I couldn’t help it, El. Can you ever forgive me?’

  His words clatter round my brain. I want to escape. I try to answer his question but a noise like a growl comes out.

  ‘Ellie, Honey-pun, don’t do this to me … Don’t …’ He swallows, hard. ‘OK, here it is: I love you. I love you so, so much. Don’t you see? I love you and I can’t do without you. I want you to come back to me. Please.’

  I stare at him in disbelief.

  ‘I need you,’ he urges.

  ‘I’m not coming back,’ I tell him.

  ‘Let’s put this behind us, El. This, this madness. Let’s go back to how we were. You and me are good together.’

  That charm of his.

  ‘And I still love you.’

  The ‘still’. The way he says it, the wounded accusation. By ‘still’ he means in spite of everything I’ve done. In his mind he is being magnanimous in his offer to take me back. He’s done with apologizing and has transferred the blame right back on to me. I am the guilty party here. I am supposed to feel grateful and submissive.

  I shrink from his touch. One word. ‘No.’

  ‘Please, El, I’m begging you!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Haven’t I made amends? Haven’t I said I’m sorry? I wrote you that letter. I gave you more money than I can possibly afford. I was generous. I was more than generous.’ There’s a whining, waspish edge to his voice.

  Thirty-two harps burned, a workshop destroyed, Dan injured, myself nearly killed. And he thinks money can make it right.

  ‘C’mon, El, don’t be difficult. This is your home. Your life is here, with me. You need me.’ Willing me with his eyes. He leans in so close I can smell his aftershave, that hint of bergamot and leather I know so well. He isn’t drunk now, just greedy. He steps forward to take me in his arms.

  I can’t help it. My own arm reaches back for an instant to gather force then slams into him, the flat of my hand across his face. He reels sideways, loses his balance and crumples on to the floor. He clutches an elbow, whimpering in pain. Looks up at me, his face brick-red with rage.

  I step over him. Sure of my own decisions at last.

  ‘Goodbye, Clive.’

  51

  Dan

  Whenever I mention Ellie to my sister Jo, she answers: ‘Dan, Ellie will be fine.’ Whenever I mention Ellie, she says: ‘Ellie can sort herself out.’ Whenever I mention Ellie, she says: ‘You’re the one we need to worry about now.’ Whenever I mention Ellie (which is often), she says: ‘Dan, shut up about Ellie! Enough about Ellie! I don’t want to hear about Ellie.’

  Ever since our parents died my sister Jo has been very protective over me. I know this because she told me so herself once. ‘It’s great that you’re so independent, bro,’ she said, ‘but you just don’t get that sometimes people take advantage. You’ve got to believe me, I’ve got your interests at heart. I’m not being bossy, I’m just giving you some guidelines.’

  My sister Jo can see things in a way I can’t and understand people in a way I can’t. I therefore decided long ago that it’s a good idea to follow her guidelines.

  Maybe now my sister Jo can see this: that whenever I mention Ellie there’s a great big mountain of feelings swelling inside me. Some of these feelings are like a thirst, some are like an ache, some are like a flock of bright butterflies. My sister Jo doesn’t want me to go through any more pain. My sister Jo knows (as I do now) that I am not cut out for relationships. Not at all. I am made of all the wrong ingredients. Ellie must know this, too. Whenever Ellie rings she does not want to talk to me, apparently. She just wants to talk to Jo and arrange stuff about the rebuilding of the barn. I am happy about the rebuilding of the barn, very, but I’m not happy that Ellie doesn’t want to speak to me.

  Five is the number of harps that were saved. Five includes Ellie’s cherry wood harp. The reason Ellie’s harp survived is that it was upstairs in the little room at the time of the fire, and Ellie closed the door of the little room behind her when she escaped and (according to the firemen) because the door was tight fitting with no gaps round the edge, the flames did not get any further but concentrated instead on the workshop downstairs. I am glad Ellie’s harp survived. Very.

  Thirty-two is the number of harps that were burned.

  The number of days I spent in hospital was eleven. The number of days I spent in Jo’s bungalow in Bridgwater was thirty-four. The eleven days were not good ones for me, and neither were the thirty-four. In hospital there were way too many ill people, too many visitors, too many doctors, too many nurses and too many machines that went bleep bleep bleep. In Jo’s bungalow there was not enough space, not enough air and not enough things made from wood. Outside her bungalow when I looked out there were not enough trees; only streets and cars and more bungalows.

  When you’re waiting for something time has a way of slowing right down. Those weeks I was at my sister Jo’s house time went slower than a snail with very bad rheumatism. I wished I could have pressed the fast-forward button on time and got myself back to my Harp Barn, but Jo said I was not well enough and anyway the barn wasn’t ready yet, so waiting was my only choice. I did not like waiting. Not at all. I was twitchy.

  Today, at last, the day has arrived! I am going back to the barn. Jo is driving me. Ed is with us, too. He made his grandparents drop him off at Jo’s house because he wanted to be part of the celebrations. We have brought coffee and sandwiches (peanut
butter and cucumber, rectangular, wholemeal bread). Ed is bouncing around all over the back of the car, saying things like, ‘You’re better, Dad!’, ‘You’re going home, Dad!’ and ‘You’re going to be all happy and harp-making soon, Dad!’

  I say yes I am, yes I am, to all of these.

  The day is a bright, bold one. The trees are stirring the air with their branches and ragged white clouds are racing each other across the sky. The sun is blasting everything with colour; greens ranging from emerald to sage to lime. Even the old brown shreds of bracken are rich with auburn and burnished copper. As I watch from the window the landscape becomes wilder and hillier and sheepier. I feel that simultaneously I am becoming Dannier. And I realize that Exmoor is more than my home. Much more. Exmoor, in a way, is me. It is where I can do my harp-making and where I can be my absolute self, and those two things are very bound up in each other.

  When we arrive at the top of the track, the barn is there, as real and solid as ever, with a new door all shiny. Thomas is standing by the doorway, holding an enormous bunch of balloons. And there, scratching away in the dirt, his plumage all splendid and his eyes glittering like jewels, is Phineas my pheasant.

  ‘Welcome home, mate,’ Thomas cries and presents me with the bunch of balloons.

  I say thank you and then hand them to Ed because Ed likes balloons more than I do and besides, I completely need to hug Phineas. Phineas saved Ellie’s life after all. He is no ordinary bird. Phineas submits to being hugged and pecks my earlobe lightly in a way that is affectionate and pleasing.

  Jo, Thomas, Ed, Phineas and I are all gabbling away at each other, happy and excited to be here again. We unlock the new door, push it open and go inside.

  Ed runs around saying, ‘Look, look, look!’ which is exactly what I am now doing. The workshop seems very big and empty with only four rather bedraggled harps in the middle and no heaps of sawdust and no bits of lichen, fir cones, feathers and the other things I like to keep around. But the room is fully equipped with a brand-new table, chairs, workbench, bandsaw, planer, lathe, and all the other bits and pieces I need for making harps. Winter sunshine streams through the three big windows on to all the new things. They gleam.

  But maybe even better than all the new things is what is up on the walls of my workshop: pictures, stuck up at all sorts of angles, stuck up everywhere. I recognize the style of the artist. The artist is my son, Ed. This time I can see clearly the subject matter of the pictures. They are pictures of harps, all different sizes, coloured in different-coloured crayons. The lines of the strings are thick in some places and thin in others and they go over the sides of the harp frames and the woodwork is scribbly and the straight edges aren’t straight, but I think that they’re by far the best pictures I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Do you know how many there are?’ Ed cries.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, because I’ve counted already. ‘There are thirty-two.’

  ‘Do you like them?’

  I say that I do indeed. Seldom have I liked anything more.

  ‘Ellie said I should do them for you!’ he exclaims, pulling me by the jacket towards the wall to look at them more closely. ‘Ellie said you’d be missing all the burned harps and she said if I drew some more you’d be cheer-upping much quicker.’

  ‘Ellie?’ I’d no idea Ed had seen Ellie since the fire. I thought Ellie was up in Yorkshire. That’s what Jo had told me. Up in Yorkshire and busy sorting herself out. Not wanting to speak to me on the phone or anything because she was so very busy. That’s what Jo had told me.

  Jo looks over at Ed with arched eyebrows. Then she turns to me. ‘Ellie came back here the other day to check everything was OK. Ed and I came to meet her here because she said she needed to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. It was just a flying visit.’

  ‘I saw her afterwards,’ Thomas adds. ‘She called in at mine to drop off Linda’s clothes. Just as well or I’d have been in for it. That was Linda’s favourite jumper, you know.’

  That was kind of Ellie to check up on everything so carefully. But I feel a bit odd about her coming all that way and seeing everybody except me.

  I wish Ellie was here now. But I expect she’ll be back soon. She’s bound to be back soon. She’ll be wanting to play her harp.

  ‘Have you seen, Dan? The staircase is new, too!’ Jo points out.

  She is right. The staircase is made of oak wood, very handsome. I stroke the banister admiringly. Then I go up the stairs. I count as I go. There are still seventeen steps, a thing which pleases me a lot.

  I feel all sorts of things being back here again. Suitable metaphors for the way I feel might be: a singing bird, a dancer’s feet, a skipping lamb, a burst of wonderful music. But as I reach the top of the stairs I see a sight that changes everything in an instant. The singing bird suddenly develops a sore throat. The dancer’s feet are yucky and smelly. The skipping lamb has landed in the mire. The burst of wonderful music has ended on a jarring chord.

  There, in front of me, in the little room, is Ellie’s harp. But it is pushed against the wall and draped in a big white sheet. At once I know that the harp is conveying a sorrowful message. A message so sorrowful I can hardly bear to think of it. The harp tells me that it will not be played any more, perhaps not ever. The harp tells me that Ellie Jacobs is gone.

  52

  Ellie

  Mum is staring fixedly at a picture of a flock of sheep that’s hanging on her wall. I have to tell her now.

  ‘Mum, listen! I’m leaving the country. I’ll be away for quite some time …’

  She says nothing.

  ‘I promise I’ll ring you when I can.’

  ‘And you still have no idea where?’ Vic asks, absently curling a strand of her hair.

  ‘I don’t know where I’ll end up. The only thing I know is that it will be somewhere totally, totally different from home.’ My voice sounds alien. Sharp.

  My sister sighs. ‘Oh, Ellie! You will come back, won’t you?’

  I go to the window and look out. There is only a view of a car park.

  ‘Ellie,’ Mum says abruptly, as if referring to somebody not in the room. ‘She always was difficult in that way. Head full of strange ideas. Don’t know where she got them from.’

  I smile darkly. ‘Mum, take care, won’t you?’

  ‘Take care yourself!’ she returns, as if it was an insult.

  I stoop and kiss her.

  I snuggle into Dan’s jacket during the flight. I should have left it in the barn for him but didn’t. The conversation with Jo reruns in my head.

  I’d asked if Dan was OK. She’d said yes, he was much better. I’d asked if he had managed to forgive me for all the trouble I’d unwittingly caused. She’d replied, ‘Forgive? Don’t be silly! Dan doesn’t think in that way.’ I try to recall her face as she said it, her intonation and her intention, but I can’t wring any extra clues from my memory.

  Ed had clamoured to be first in, thrilled to see the barn’s transformation. When I made my suggestion about drawing the harps he was all eagerness. He reminded me of his father so much.

  I’d walked around trying to take it all in, not sure if I approved or not of this brand-new version of my fairy-tale place. It was well finished and pristine but it just seemed so empty.

  I asked Jo if it was all right, if I’d forgotten anything. She said: ‘Looks good to me!’ I’d thought for a moment she was going to hug me, but she didn’t. She gave me a little pat on the back instead. ‘Well done, Ellie. And thank you. And, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right decision.’

  ‘About the barn?’ I’d said.

  ‘About everything.’

  About everything. That clearly included getting out of Dan’s life without even a goodbye. Despite my efforts and all the money I’d spent I was seen as a disruptive element. I wasn’t welcome any more. Dan wanted to be free of me, Jo had made that perfectly clear. It was a bitter pill.

  The sun is twinkling on the lagoon, making a thou
sand golden loops and twists on the water’s surface. I watch from the balcony of the pensione where I’m staying. The old me would have written a poem but now all I can do is gaze. I am mesmerized by the honey-coloured shapes forever dividing and joining in bright, restless patterns. Above them, Venice gleams. Something about the buildings reminds me of antique lace. They are so intricate in their design and so perfect. They stand proud, starched and taut against the blue sky, but their upside-down reflections are a different matter, loosely weaving and wobbling, unsure of themselves.

  Here I am, living in a crowded city, but I’m a sad, solitary creature. Even though I jostle with people every day I feel no connection with the rest of humanity. I hardly talk to anyone. It’s a relief to be so anonymous. This landscape of palazzi, gondolas, bridges and bell-towers provides a picturesque setting, but their beauty fails to resonate the way it should. I spend my days wandering the myriad twisting backstreets. I get lost often and don’t care greatly. I don’t eat much: an occasional panino from a bar or a thick hot chocolate to keep me going. Every little thing – brushing my teeth in the morning, putting on clothes, even breathing – seems a massive effort. The future looms ahead of me, dark and empty. Pointless.

  The slim, bronzed lady in reception is curious about me.

  ‘Signora Jacobs is always only her, singly, alone. She waits for her man?’

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘There is no man.’

  She throws up her hands in horror. ‘Then she must find one, here in Italia. We have many fine men here!’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ I acknowledge.

  Perhaps that will be a way forward. Perhaps I’ll forget my past in the arms of an Italian. The quickest route to forgetfulness – that’s what I crave.

  My former life won’t leave me alone. Memories torture me. Images flick in and out of my mind: Clive watching the football, Clive giving me jewellery, Clive kissing my neck. Clive with the newspaper, Clive with the whisky bottle, Clive with the poker. I try to understand. Did I ever love him? You could say that I did; you could say that he loved me too. Neither of us really questioned it during those long years together. But I see everything in a different light now, a light that is tainted with violent, flickering orange. I see another Clive, and he is nothing like the man I thought he was. The qualities I admired were all sham. His violent reactions to everything (which I’d interpreted as strength of character) were plain, childish, self-serving neediness. Clive needed me badly but in fact I’ve never needed him. Far from it. I was the rock in the relationship. But this discovery has brought no joy. Rocks are heavy. Rocks sink easily.