Tell me something ordinary, she says, Something you’ll always remember.
He tilts his head to one side and stares out of the window.
She was very tidy, he says, at last.
Tidy how?
He bats at the air in irritation.
Tidy. Liked everything in its place.
So, she was house-proud. It’s hardly a crime.
No. She was a maniac, he says, She was obsessive. I could never find anything. When we had visitors, after they’d gone, she’d take their cups or glasses or whatever, and she’d soak them in bleach. Can you imagine? I dropped a spoon on the floor once, at dinner, and she made me fetch a clean one.
Well, says Maggie, That’s not so odd.
It is. We could have eaten off that floor.
How times have changed, she says, quietly, Shall we try a nicer memory, Kenneth? Something you liked about her?
She was stunning, he repeats, slapping his palms down on the arms of the chair with an air of finality, And all the men adored her.
But she chose you, she says, head bent, Must have been love.
Love! barks Kenneth, as though the idea is absurd, People didn’t marry for love in my day – in my set. But I did love her, and I suppose I was a safe enough prospect. I would be successful, you see, which was what women wanted, back then. And all a man wanted, apparently, was a beautiful wife. You made your bed. No living together then, you couldn’t find out about each other first.
Maggie has an image of the bedroom upstairs, the dressing table covered in pots of face cream and dusting powder and elegant perfumes and silver-backed hairbrushes, and a pair of diamond earrings tossed casually into the middle of it all: placed very carefully in the middle, perhaps. And of her own room. Sink full of blood. Torn handkerchief spotted with stains.
But what would you have wanted to find out, Kenneth? she asks, struggling to keep her voice level, She was perfect, wasn’t she? A woman other men coveted, and you won her. Wasn’t that enough?
She liked to be made a fuss of, he says simply, Got terribly . . . low if she wasn’t centre-stage. She craved attention, all the time, from anyone.
Ah, and you were jealous, says Maggie, sensing she’s going too far but unable to stop herself, Is that why you left her?
I’m not having any of this in there, he says, pointing his finger at her, Don’t think you can simply come in here and accuse me. Don’t think for one minute I wouldn’t send you packing.
He doesn’t raise his voice, but his expression is livid. She puts her pen between the pages and closes the cover.
You’ll have heard rumours, I’m sure, he says, About this family.
Maggie wants to say, I am the rumour, sitting right here in front of you; I’m the spectre at the feast. But she’s afraid of him. Kenneth talks very quickly and firmly, as if he’s rehearsed his response.
There was an incident, when Rusty was ill . . . it doesn’t belong in there.
He gestures to the book in her lap,
That is not a period of my life I wish to remember.
The incident – she echoes.
A mother doesn’t turn her back on her child, he says, But Rusty was unwell.
He moves over to the stereo, selects a record and puts it on. Maggie listens, waiting for more. In the long pause that follows, she hears her blood beating in her head, and then a song she knows so well: about a woman and a broken man, about a twist of fate. And she hears what she thinks Kenneth hears; the cruelty in the words, how everything that’s in the past is lost, and how everything that happens now is built on that loss. She won’t look up, dreading what she might see in his face, what Kenneth might discern in hers.
There was an opening for a consultancy in Bahrain, he continues, very quietly, almost apologetic, It was a busy time out there, in those days. And I thought, why not? Change of scene, might make all the difference. You think you’ve made plans, got your escape route, but then— he throws his hands up – All you’re actually doing is running away. And you can’t even do that without making a mess of it. Maggie, don’t take that down. Please. Don’t write that.
What do you want me to write, then?
He doesn’t reply. He drops his head low and smoothes a desolate hand over his hair. She has a sudden, inexplicable urge to smoothe it for him. Pulls on the sleeve of her shirt to stop herself. It’s only the song that makes her feel like this, she tells herself, those silver guitar chords, that plaintive voice.
I want you to invent something, he says, at last, Something unexpected. Surprise me.
Like you surprised me? she says, eager now to reel back in the past five minutes and start all over again, With your lovely surprise?
He half shrugs in reply, and takes the needle off the record. Maggie slides the pen from the notebook, rubbing her thumb over the emerald cap as she does so.
Thank you, Kenneth, she says, It writes beautifully. But you shouldn’t have.
Not a real gemstone, he says, Sorry about that.
It had better not be, I don’t want anyone sweating their life away to provide me with a piece of rock.
So what would you rather they sweated over? he says bitterly, What should a man waste his life on?
She hesitates. To say the wrong thing now is to lose him. But the moment’s already lost; he won’t talk freely in this state. She feels the danger in him, the barely contained violence, and answers slowly, thinking it through as she speaks, articulating the idea for the first time.
What gets me up in the morning, what keeps me sweating on in life, is the possibility that it’ll be better tomorrow.
And is it?
How can I know?
Kenneth gives her a warm smile.
Maggie, I’m so sorry, and you’re so wise. Forgive me. Now, I’ve chosen this one specially for you, he says, lining up the needle on the track.
The sound is a big horse clopping slowly through the desert. Smell of leather, pink dusk falling behind the mountain. ‘Lay Lady Lay’. He’s playing her a love song.
How do you make the darkness shine? she asks, silently. And as if she’s spoken, looks to him for the answer. In reply, he sits on the edge of the chair, places a hand lightly on her shoulder. She can smell his cologne. She can feel the slight tremor running through his skin, through the fabric of her shirt and through her own skin and through her bones and down beneath her bones. The place where she stabbed herself beats hot and sore. She would like to tell him everything. She would like to weep.
What does it do for you? he says, when the song dies.
It makes me very sad, she says, turning her face away, Because of course, she won’t stay.
Kenneth’s voice is ragged.
Why won’t she stay, Maggie?
Because he doesn’t know her story, she says, It’s always his story. And what is he anyway? He’s just some desperado. He’s not a saint, and she’s probably – she’s probably just a whore! Kenneth, blurred, kneels in front of her.
Maggie, what on earth is it? What’s happened? Was it me being a brute? Did I frighten you?
I’m no good at this, she says, You’re right, the past is gone.
We shouldn’t go looking for it.
She holds her palms out, as if he might divine her grief this way, but he simply takes her hands in his own. They remain like this, like two supplicants, paying no attention to the endless hiss-click of the needle on the vinyl.
Will is coming today, Kenneth whispers at last, Invited himself for lunch.
Maggie dips her head down; she still can’t look at him.
Best hide myself away then, she says.
Kenneth squeezes her hands tight; she feels his own parched warmth penetrate her skin.
No need for that, Maggie, I’d love for him to meet you. As long as you feel up to it. He can be difficult, I warn you. Overprotective. Has been, ever since—
Maggie raises her head and looks at him: she is willing him to say.
– ever since Rusty went, he says.
>
Where is Rusty, Kenneth? Locked in the attic?
Maggie knows from his face he won’t answer.
Because the way you say it, you make her sound like a dog that’s run off. And I think you might be able to trust me just a little bit. Don’t you?
She removes herself from his grip, crossing the floor of the library with ringing steps.
William swings his Mazda round to the porch; Kenneth is waiting at the open door, wearing a pained expression.
Now I know the name perfectly, just can’t remember the face, he says, holding his arms out in welcome.
Ha, Dad, you’re such a wit. How are you? says William, climbing the steps and pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. Maggie watches as they embrace and disappear into the dark hole of the entrance. She waits for the door to close. Now they will be walking through the hall, now they will be standing in the kitchen. William will remark on the heat and he’ll remove his jacket, looking for somewhere to hang it. Kenneth will fetch a bottle of wine from the fridge, and William will decline, and then Kenneth will offer him a glass of soda. He has already frosted the tumbler, has refilled the ice tray, has fetched a wrinkled lime from the fruit bowl and sheared off a thick uneven wedge. She knows all this; she has seen the evidence. When Kenneth went up to his room to change, she checked the kitchen, saw two bowls and two plates ready on a tray, saw the blue prawns defrosting in a sieve on the side of the sink, the shredded lettuce. He will leave nothing to chance: William is here to judge him.
A spider parachutes down directly in her eye-line; hangs there, twirling, so that Maggie has to move. Can’t stand here, hiding in the bushes all day. The back of William gives nothing much away; his hair is greying, he wears a suit, he drives a flash car. He is tall, like his father, but was too far away for her to get a proper look at his face, and was wearing dark sunglasses. She would have liked to have seen his eyes. It can’t be possible, but she’s sure she could smell him: a scent of spearmint. Her palate is educated enough for that. Maggie slings her bag over her shoulder, turns her back on the house and walks into the trees.
fifteen
The pen helps her to write even faster than before. She feels her hand glide across the page, fleet black imaginings pouring from the nib.
Nell is asleep. She’s left the radio on and the sound of voices fills her dreams. Leon’s thick arm pins her to the mattress. They are both uncovered, naked, their skin cooling in the night air. The boy Will lifts the latch on the front door and eases it open. He knows how things are here, has waited a long while, and made preparations: he took the rope-bell when he was home at half-term, just in case he accidentally knocked it on the way back out, and last night he checked over the dinghy. He’d even planned to force a door or window, thought about how would be the best way to do it, but then had a stroke of luck when Leon and Nell had another fight last week and she tried to shut him outside. Leon bust the lock clean off. She’d asked Thomas if he’d fix it for them, and then changed her mind and said that Leon would do it. Will has seen what Leon has been doing this week: lying doped-up in the sun, or sitting under the shade of the willow tree, drinking from a pint glass.
Nell has taken to walking around half-dressed: a striped bikini top and long skirt, or nothing at all on top and tiny little shorts, always barefoot. She lets the little one run around naked. Will can’t stand that; the little one’s got no choice in the matter. He had to act quickly, before they finally got round to fixing the lock. Watched them to make sure. You can smell the weed from over the other side of the river. Will knows what it is; some of the older boys at school smoke the stuff, usually down the field behind the chapel, or leaning far out of the dorm window after lights out. If one gets caught smoking, they all get punished.
Will is careful going up the stairs: untried, he doesn’t know where the creaks might be. Turns right. This is where she is. He has observed her from the tree on the other side of the bank. He was quite high up in the branches, Thomas’s binoculars around his neck, and she was rubbing her hand across the window. He thought she was waving, but when he looked through the lenses he saw that she’d stuck a transfer of a rainbow on the glass. Here she is now, asleep; she’s kicked the bedclothes right off the bed, but her skin is still sweaty and her hair is clinging to her forehead. Will has carried heavy things for Thomas; boxes of logs, a dead fox that Thomas said he planned to use as an example, a roadkill fawn. He goes to lift her but her eyes open like a doll’s and she sits up and says, I’m thirsty. He says, OK, little one, come with me and we’ll get you a glass of water. And she rubs her hands over her head and yawns and her open pink mouth reminds him of a kitten he once had. She twists her feet into her slippers, half stumbling against the bed, and as they turn to the stairs she takes him by the hand.
Very steep, she says, and he says, Shh, because they’re passing Nell’s bedroom, and Shh again because she’s such a chatterbox and she just won’t listen. When she starts to say, Where are we going? he moves her quickly through the door and down into the garden. More difficult now, more risky than he thought, trying to get her to go at his pace. At the river’s edge, she starts to cry.
Nell won’t let me, she says, as he’s trying to lift her into the dinghy, I’ll drown, No! and she’s making no sense at all, and he has to shout at her, half throws her into the boat and she bangs her head—
Not her head. Maggie looks up into the emerald leaves on the tree above, crosses out the error and continues.
she bangs her head face on the rowlock, and it’s such a shock, it makes her silent. Will pushes the dinghy into the middle of the river. The level’s low enough for him to carry on pushing. The silt is gritty underfoot, the water sloshing around his knees; the child lies still as a sack in the belly of the boat. He feels the dinghy banking as he manouevres it into the reeds on the other side, thinking it will capsize and tip her out. His hands are shaking and his shorts are wet, and he lifts her out of the boat and leads her through the tangled weeds. It’s all taken such a long time. He’d started in the black of night, no moon, perfect, and now he can feel the dawn lifting behind him as he propels her up the rise towards the house. Her face in the dimness looks very dirty. One of her eyes is shut, the skin around it swelling like a bubble. He tries to hold her hand nicely but she’s shivering and her fingers keep slipping from his grip. He takes her by the wrist, striding fast into the courtyard, and in the far wall there is a low door and behind the door there is the trunk room. Will’s prepared it, cleared the space, moved anything he thought might be dangerous up onto the high shelf – the fishing tackle and the tennis rackets – and has padlocked his school trunk. He thought about giving her a tennis ball to play with, and then imagined her throwing it at the door, the sound it would make. He’s put his sleeping bag in here, and a chamber pot. He doesn’t know what else a child of four might need.
I’m thirsty, she says again. Her eyes are like pips of light. He takes a packet of chewing gum from his pocket and unwraps a stick, holding it for her to take.
You mustn’t swallow it, he says, feeling the terrible fear of finding her, in the morning, choked and cold, You must chew it and then spit it out. Look.
He shows her, folding the stick into his mouth and chewing it, making noises of pleasure, exaggerating the movement of his jaw.
And when the flavour’s gone, you spit it out, see?
And he spits it in the chamber pot.
Here, he says, offering the packet, You have them.
But she wriggles back against the wall, puts her hands out in front of her, trying to push him away. It makes him feel hot, uncontrolled, when she does that. A guilty feeling, like when he’s been caught picking his nose and wiping it on the cushion covers.
You mustn’t talk, he says, Do you understand? No talking. She doesn’t look as though she’s listening so he puts his face very close to hers, like the older boys do to him at school when they want to frighten him, and he repeats the words very slowly.
You – must – not �
�� talk. If the dog hears you talking – even a little bit – he’ll jump in and rip your heart out. And Eat It. Do you understand?
A dog? whispers Maggie.
A very hungry dog, he says, satisfied he’s terrified her now.
He leaves the packet of chewing gum on a boot rack where she can reach it and locks the door behind him. After the closeness of the room the dawn air is like diving into a swimming pool. Will feels the sweat running beneath his clothes. Tomorrow, he only has to wait until tomorrow, and then he can move her to the nursery.
sixteen
Maggie takes the bridle path into the village. The air has become sticky, the sun dim and lifeless, a flattened coin under a thin membrane of cloud. At the shop, she pauses to read the small ads in the window. Peering through them into the interior, she sees Thomas Bryce contemplating a row of tins on a shelf. Inside, the air is even thicker, and damp, carrying a vapour of rotting vegetables. Maggie stands close enough behind Thomas to know the smell is from him. She sees how the grime on his collar makes the fabric look wet. It has been a month since they last met.
Hello Thomas, she says, D’you remember me?
When he swivels his head to look at her, his eyes are filmy.
It’s Maggie, she says.
Thomas selects a tin of tomatoes from the shelf and studies it.
I know, he says, I’m not blind.
I’ve been meaning to stop by again, she continues, ducking forward to try to catch his attention, I’d like to have another chat.
He replaces the tin and fetches down a garish-coloured plastic pot.
Noodles, he reads, considering, Bramble don’t much like ’em.
Are you still up at Keeper’s? she asks.
The Song House Page 10
