Leon had come up for the funeral, so it was just the two of them, standing under the tall trees at the woodland site, wishing Nell a safe journey onwards. Nell had taken care of everything beforehand; the burial and the coffin and the Portland stone memorial, the bulbs to be planted and the words to be spoken. All the practical work was done; it was the impractical stuff, the absence, the gone-ness of her, that no one could do anything about. Maggie realized that she didn’t want to go back to Charmouth with Leon. An idea was taking shape in her head. Nell would never have allowed her to apply for the job at Earl House, but death had lifted the barrier: her mother couldn’t stop her from doing anything, now. And it was Maggie, not Nell, who had to go on, who had to live with herself. She thought she’d make discoveries at Earl House, and she’d been right about that: just not the discoveries she’d expected.
And what a mess of it she’d made. If she’s capable of nothing else, at least she has prepared for the weather, she tells herself. At least she has made the effort to do something before the roads got impassable.
On her fifth day back, with the cupboards nearly empty and the log pile low, she’d taken Nell’s old bike out of the shed and cycled to the petrol station on Bear Lane, ducking the traffic and the blowing rain. The petrol station doubled as a minimarket, and had recently expanded into a souvenir shop and newsagent. Since the post office closed in the village, it had begun to sell greetings cards and stationery and stamps. Maggie stood, twirling the rack of cards, not so much drying off in the steamy atmosphere as simply getting warm again.
She’d bought a sepia-tone postcard of St Gregory’s Church and a sack of logs. The man from the timber yard next door came dashing out of the dark lean-to when he saw her, and held the logs for her while she forced them into her panniers.
Criminal, he’d said, Burning logs in July.
I know, my mother would have a fit, she’d replied, trying to smile, But it gets so cold at night.
Only when she heard her own voice did she realize that she’d talked to no one for nearly a week.
That’s a lot to shift on that bike. I could give you a lift home, if you want.
She thought he was flirting with her until he’d added,
Must be hard for you now, up at that place. Lonely.
And then she understood he was offering his condolences.
Must be hard for you now, up at that place. Lonely.
It’s okay, really, she’d said, Thank you. It’s okay.
Maggie returned to find a heap of sandbags had been dropped off outside the cottage. Every night on the local news the threat of flooding had been the first story, but Maggie hadn’t been worried, didn’t think it abnormal; it was just an abnormal time of year to have so much rain. With the arrival of the sandbags, she reconsidered: it did seem wrong, all this water. It did seem as if it would never stop. She’d dragged the sandbags to the front step one by one, and left them there. They might stop a river rise, but wouldn’t prevent the rain from seeping in through the cracked slate roof, or finding its way down the chimney, where it battled the fire in spittering gusts. She heaved her panniers in one at a time, filling the coal bucket with logs and stacking the rest on top of the meter cupboard. The bed in the corner of the room was still made up. Maggie sat in the armchair next to the fire and stared at it. The room was darkening quietly, and the fire became brighter, and Maggie felt the heat of it burn her calves and sting her eyes.
I miss you, Nell, she said, to the bed.
Over the past few weeks, she had spoken quite often to the bed in the corner of the room; found it impossible, at first, not to. Even though her mother died in a hospital, the bed was where Nell had lain for most of the previous year. It was where they talked. At night, Maggie sat in the chair by the fire and Nell sat sideways on the bed, resting against the wall, and then, after the last round of chemotherapy, she’d half sit, with the pillow supporting her back. At the end, she lay with her head on the pillow, unable to lift it. She died on a late May morning so beautiful, so shining with promise, it was impossible to think that anyone could die on such a day. For a long time, Maggie couldn’t believe her mother was gone. Often she’d hear her, singing, or talking back to the radio. Sometimes, sitting on her own by the fire and trying to read her book, she’d catch a hint of movement, and look up, and nearly see Nell, fidgeting in her sleep.
She knew this was grief. She understood it would take time. Hearing Nell’s voice and seeing her turn up in unexpected places; Maggie had anticipated that. But grief didn’t account for the smell. It arrived the day Nell died. Maggie came back from the hospital, unlocked the door of the cottage, and there it was, floating so thick in the air she could almost see it. Not the scent of her mother: she could have endured that. It was like leaking gas. They weren’t on the mains at Field Cottage, so a gas leak was impossible, but still the smell was there, rising in a vapour at night to wake her, and Maggie would walk through the house, searching for the source, afraid to turn on the lights or strike a match. It was a dark punishment, she thought. She didn’t know it then, but that was also grief; that was the smell of grief.
twenty-three
They sit under the tree, Kenneth with his umbrella in one hand and a crystal goblet in the other, watching the downpour. As they put their plates on the soaked tablecloth, William makes to clear away the remnants of the wild flowers, shrivelled now and broken into pieces by the weather. Kenneth stays his hand.
Leave them, he says, I like them.
The rain comes sideways in fast, unpredictable bursts, raking the lawn and bouncing off the flagstones. The cedar gives some cover, but when the water falls from the branches, it comes in a heavy rush, spiking the top of William’s head and splashing down the back of his neck. This is ridiculous, he thinks, This is lunacy.
They said we were in for a hot summer, says Kenneth, throwing the crusts of his sandwich onto the grass, Another ‘summer of seventy-six’.
Who said? asks William.
Those people on the news. The weatherman, Kenneth says, Here, have this.
He passes William the umbrella while he pours more wine. The glasses are glittering with droplets of rain. To Kenneth they look marvellous.
That was the hottest in history, he continues.
Until the next one came along, says William, covering his glass with his hand so Kenneth can’t fill it again, No more for me, I’m driving.
You remember the fields? he asks his son, How they would go up – whoof – without any warning. Spontaneous, that’s it, that’s the one.
It’ll be climate change, says William, aching to move off the subject, They don’t call it global warming any more, have you noticed? Go easy on that wine, Dad.
And the fish? The river dried up, and people had to go and collect the fish with their bare hands. Drowning in air.
You weren’t around very much.
Thought you didn’t remember, says Kenneth, piqued. William takes a short quick breath. Here we go, he says, in his head.
Dad, look, about this place.
What, this place here, under this tree? says Kenneth, jabbing a finger on the tablecloth.
Yep, very funny. We should at least talk about it.
I’m not going to live in a theme park, Kenneth says, You can do what you like with it when I’m dead, but while I’m here, it stays as it is.
Not a theme park, Dad, a boutique hotel. A select clientele. You don’t use that half of the house anyway. You’d hardly know they were there.
Kenneth gives a silent laugh.
Troupes of yahoos dragging their cases up the drive, wandering about the flower beds with their video cameras and their maps and their mobile phones. I think I might notice them, don’t you?
Ali wants to help, says his son, trying to coax him, She’d do all the interior stuff. And we’ve had this idea to turn the main hall into a gallery, you know, paintings, watercolours, the odd sculpture. You wouldn’t have to do a thing – I’d act as agent, and Ali would manage it all.
She quite misses you, you know.
Well, tell her from me that I don’t need her help. Or yours. And I don’t miss her, either, says Kenneth, rising from the table, Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a dip.
William thinks he must have misheard him.
A what? he says, A what did you say?
A dip, sighs Kenneth, as if he’s talking to an imbecile. He moves off in the direction of the trees.
In the river? cries William, In this weather? Are you completely nuts?
The shout from his father is joyous.
Ha! ’Tis a naughty night to swim in, Will!
Kenneth removes first one shoe, then the other, tossing them over his shoulder. William watches as they bounce across the lawn. He thinks his father’s bluffing, one of his tedious japes, but keeps his eyes on the retreating form. The belt comes off, leaping like a snake through the air, a pause until the trousers fall, and then Kenneth, stepping awkwardly out of them, hobbles in his shirt and socks down to the water’s edge.
Sod him, says William, Silly bastard. I hope he drowns. He wipes the rain from his forehead, closes his eyes and puts his face in his hands. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was praying.
twenty-four
Fifteen miles downriver, Maggie stands in the meadow, unsure of how to go on. She keeps meaning to get the bus into town, to stock up on groceries, look in the small ads for a job: something easy, temporary, to tide her over while she considers her next move. Then she forgets what it was she was going to do, and only remembers too late. Time flows away from her. Mostly, she’s been buying what food she needs from the petrol station.
On her last visit, instead of the usual butterfly nets and straw hats hanging from the awning, she saw that the proprietor had lined up a row of wellington boots on the forecourt, from large to small, from black to green to rainbow-coloured. The only pair in her size were duck-egg blue. She tried them on, retreating a few steps to see how she looked in the reflection of the glass frontage: like a gigantic toddler, she thought. She was bending over, tucking her jeans in, so didn’t notice the woman approach until she felt a breath on her neck.
Is that Nell’s girl? asked the woman, catching Maggie’s upper arm in a pinch. The tiny painted face poking out of the plastic rain hat broke into a neat smile.
Course it is. The image of her. You still here? We thought you’d have gone straight back.
No, said Maggie, There’s still stuff to do.
There will be, agreed the woman, Sorry for your loss. You’ll be on your way soon, though? That place’ll be empty soon? The man from the timber yard appeared at Maggie’s side, swinging the door open for the woman. They exchanged friendly hellos before she dipped under his arm and ambled inside.
Old Mrs Moore. Her grandson Sam’s getting married, he said, by way of explanation.
And they’ll want my home, naturally, said Maggie.
The man shrugged.
I suppose she thinks you’ll be giving it up. It’s Maggie, isn’t it? I’m Aaron, he said, holding out his hand, It’s hard these days to get young people to stay, especially if they’ve got nowhere to live. They disappear. You know that.
Do I? she said, feeling a catch in her throat, What makes you say that?
You left. Went to live down south somewhere.
There must be other places. Ours isn’t exactly plush.
There’s the new barn conversions, but out of your league if you’re a sheep farmer, or a carpenter – any of us, really, unless you’re London based. And Weaver’s is empty most of the year, he said, It’s a holiday let. Your family used to live there, right?
I don’t know you, she said, leaning against the wall and kicking off one of the boots, But you seem to know me: my name and my mother and where I live and where I used to live and where I went. Do let me know if I’ve left anything out.
Then he surprised her.
We do know each other, Maggie. Aaron Baggs. My family had Meadow Cottage, down the way a bit from Weaver’s. But you probably won’t remember us. I’m living at the Gatehouse now.
She did have a faint recollection of the family: three children, all younger than her. But there was something else about them that she couldn’t quite recall; caught a glimpse of it on the edge of her memory before it slipped away entirely. Maggie looked at him properly, took in his eyes and the softness in them, thinking it would bring the moment back. His face was so lined and dark it looked dirty; the work had aged him. The work, or the weather, or the close embrace of village life.
You didn’t leave, she said.
Oh, I went away, all right. And then I came home again, he said, Just like we all do.
Maggie paired the boots together and pretended to consider them. When she looked in at the window again, she saw two other women had joined Mrs Moore. They stood all in a row, watching her. Aaron was watching her too, smiling.
They won’t cut much ice down on the gallops.
I’ve never been one for the pony club, she said, snatching them up. She could fling them at the glass; that would give them something to talk about.
Are you one for a barn dance, though, he asked, Only, there’s one in Shefford on Friday. If you fancy it.
Maggie thought she heard pity in the offer.
Thanks, but as your friend in there says, I might be gone by Friday.
Aaron fished in the top pocket of his shirt and fetched out a phone.
Why don’t you give me your number just in case?
I’ve left my phone at home, she said, and seeing his reaction, added, It’s true! And I’ve no idea what the number is. He put his hand up to stop her but she wanted him to understand: she was not a coward.
Really, if I didn’t want to go, I’d say.
Then I’ll pick you up at eight, he said.
She’d watched him walk away, his shoulders pulled back and the proud way he held his head, and decided at once she wouldn’t go. She cycled home to the sound of Nell’s voice in her ear, her mocking cadence. Some local lad. Going to a dance with a local lad. The thought almost made Maggie change her mind, as if she could still spite her mother, even now, through death’s blunt severance. Nell’s inability to keep her opinions to herself was one of the reasons Maggie left the village in the first place: that way her mother had, of making her feel very small whenever she tried to take a step on her own; ridiculed her if she wore perfume, or lipstick, or mentioned a boy; if she tried in any way to make herself fit in with the rest or be different from her mother.
Maggie’s first visit to Charmouth had been a revelation. Leon had invited her down on the pretext of offering her a holiday job; he’d assumed, wrongly, that it would force Nell to follow. Nell didn’t speak about it until the night before Maggie left, and then she said something that Maggie would never forget.
That shop was bought at a very high price. Remember that. Remember he’s not your father. He’s not a blood relation. Because he won’t have forgotten.
It was meant to frighten her, of course: a malicious last-ditch attempt to stop her going. Leon was her father in every other sense, and had been ever since Ed left. Maggie had even taken his name. So she wasn’t afraid of that, only of Nell: of missing her or of having to return defeated, having to admit that she couldn’t manage without her. But Maggie had loved Charmouth from the beginning, or thought she did, which amounted to the same thing. So many of the people she met, through Leon, or at the craft shop or the pub, seemed to have simply landed there, as if dropped from the sky. She particularly liked the way they behaved; they were friendly and took an interest, but they didn’t intrude, didn’t care enough to pry. She was simply who she was, just like them. In Charmouth, she could be anyone.
She tried once, on one of her return trips to Field Cottage, to explain to Nell how she felt, hoping her mother would at least visit them, at least experience what it meant to be away from the village, to feel unbound, free. She was confused by Nell’s response.
Have I taught you nothing? Places d
on’t give you freedom. It’s what’s inside makes you free. Don’t kid yourself; you’re not starting a new life, you’re just moving house.
To be near the sea, to be away from Nell: in the end they amounted to the same thing. The next time Maggie went back to Charmouth, she stayed.
A spasm of shame jolts through her now. She’d abandoned her mother. She thought of Nell in those days as a belligerent sort of guard dog, a creature like Cerberus, all-seeing, ready to attack. It took death for Maggie to understood that Nell was protecting her; she was shielding her with her life. No one could blame a mother for that.
When she thinks of the years apart from Nell – nearly twenty of them – Maggie gets an odd sensation, as if she’s emerging from a prolonged and unhappy dream to find she’s still seventeen, still at Field Cottage, and Nell is downstairs making toast and tea. And she’s had actual dreams of a time before Nell was gone, half-glimpsed moments of memory: her mother bending over in the garden, wrenching up a weed; breathless and tearful with laughter at some comedy show on the television; staring into the open kitchen drawer where she’d kept her medication, saying, No regrets, Coyote, in a fake American accent. Maggie wakes from this sensation to a heap of loss; the realization, fresh all over again, that Nell is gone forever.
Maggie stands in the clearing, lost and absent and ankle-deep in muddy water. Get a move on, Nell would say, You’ll take root! She had planned to walk over to the Gatehouse and leave a message. She couldn’t go to the dance with Aaron; the thought of it – having to meet people – made her teeth chatter with fright. They would remember her, of course, as Aaron did, as that old woman did. They would be polite to her face, but curious. She sees again those women behind the glass at the petrol station, their eyes on her. Thinking she can keep out of sight of the bungalows on the main road, she takes the meadow path. Except there is no path, just a spill of standing water and patches of treacherous bog. In her pocket she has the fountain pen Kenneth gave her and the postcard of the church. She tries out various phrases in her head; nothing seems right.
The Song House Page 14
