Frozen Music

by Marika Cobbold

  I sat on the boudoir chair by the foot of the bed, the plate on my lap. I felt like a five-year-old who knew the white pointy shoes with heels would damage her feet, but who really really really wanted them anyway.

  Audrey, as usual, was reclining against a hillock of white lace pillows. She was getting plumper by the day, but she was looking well. That morning she was wearing an oyster-coloured silk bed jacket and her nails were varnished to match. If it weren’t for the bulge extending beneath the bedclothes I might have suspected that she’d done away with legs altogether, like newscasters, but then she wiggled the end of the bulge as well, so I deduced they were still there. ‘Ten perfect little fingers,’ I muttered, ‘and ten rosy little toes.’ Then I asked, ‘You do get up to go to the loo still, don’t you?’

  Audrey frowned at me. ‘Don’t be disgusting. Of course I do. Anyway, how is poor Holden?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since it happened. You know, men seem to take a pride in reserving talking, proper talking I mean, until there’s a crisis. I just wish they’d realise that if they had got into the habit of speaking little and often, there probably wouldn’t be a crisis in the first place. It’s like having a house and refusing to do any maintenance, then acting all hurt and confused when the roof collapses and they’re faced with doing some major work. I ask you, where is the man who likes nothing better than settling down with a bottle of wine in front of a fire for a really good talk?’

  ‘Nowhere, unless he’s gay. Now dear Robbie, you remember Robbie Spink?’ I shook my head. ‘Of course you do. Anyway, he was a wonderful chatter. He would ring up and say, “Audrey, darling, let’s chat.” And did we chat…’

  ‘Why?’ Lotten asked again. She sounded tired. Not angry, just very tired and rather sad. ‘I need to know why?’

  Linus had been sitting with his head in his hands. Now he looked up, his eyes aching as if they had had to be squeezed into their sockets. It was four o’clock in the morning and they had been talking since before midnight. He couldn’t think what to say any more. Or rather, there was too much to say, words that would shatter what was left of his marriage. Feebly he shrugged his shoulders, hating himself for not at least being able to give her the comfort of a reason.

  ‘Did you ever stop to think about the effect of what you were doing on the rest of us?’ Lotten’s voice had recovered its hard edge. Linus just looked at her with his aching eyes. ‘God, you’re pathetic!’ Lotten slammed down her fist on the kitchen table.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mimicked. ‘Well not half as sorry as I am, and not half as sorry as you’re going to be either.’

  They had been past this post before. Several times. Tears, threats, resignation, anger, round and round. Linus knew he had to listen, it was the least he owed her. A friend of Lotten who also knew Katja had told her about the affair.

  ‘How could you?’ Lotten said again. What was he supposed to answer? The truth? They would never survive the truth.

  ‘What were you thinking of? Not of your family, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It only happened once,’ he said for the tenth time.

  ‘You creep, as if that makes it all right.’ But her voice was resigned. She stood up. ‘D’you want some coffee?’

  He nodded. ‘Please,’ he said, as he watched her fill the kettle, get the mugs out, his ‘Genius at Work’ one given to him by Lotten when they were first married, her ‘Wild Thing’ one sold in aid of an animal charity. Small everyday rituals observed in the middle of a war.

  ‘I might consider forgiving you,’ Lotten said, quite calmly, as she sat down again, pushing his mug towards him across the table. ‘But there will have to be some changes, and some promises.’

  Linus listened to the list of changes required and to the charges against him. He was obsessed with his work. He was a weekend dad. He was inattentive to Lotten’s needs. He took her for granted. He left everything at home to her. He didn’t do his share of the housework. He was self-absorbed and, while he was about it, could he do something about that ridiculous laugh.

  That, Linus thought, was some list. ‘You have to address all these things,’ Lotten continued and Linus imagined doing so, taking the complaints one by one. The first one would be a brown envelope: Linus Stendal, The Office, Escape Route One. The next was a small white one with childish writing. To Dad, Weekend Street…

  ‘Linus, are you listening to me?’

  Brought back to the present he said, ‘Yes, yes of course.’

  ‘And I will have to try to learn to trust you again and that won’t be easy. Maybe I never will.’

  Two things struck Linus. One was that Lotten had not once appeared to doubt that he wanted to remain married, the other that it seemed almost as if she must just have been waiting for an excuse to pour out her dissatisfaction with him. She must have worked out her catalogue of complaints a long time ago, then tucked it away for a rainy day.

  Lotten went to the bathroom. Linus sat back and closed his eyes. It occurred to him that he might have a list of his own. Be interested in my work, it would read, not just its rewards. Allow me a chance to be the kind of father I can be, not the kind you think I ought to be. Want me, don’t just let me. Don’t talk everything to pieces. Allow me some space. Don’t shut me out of the running of our home. Have some dreams of your own. Love me for who I am, not for who you think you can turn me into.

  But he was the sinner; what business did he have making requests?

  ‘So what will it be?’ Lotten had returned from the bathroom and stood before him, feet level, hip distance apart as if she were about to do a knee bend, her hands on her hips.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘Really, I’ll try.’

  Ten

  ‘So you and your husband are back together?’ I asked Tammy Jones. There was a moment’s hesitation from the woman in the apricot-coloured armchair opposite me, a woman so well preserved that she might well survive two hundred years below the sea and still come up looking good. A manicured finger swept away an invisible strand of hair. I could have told her that it would have been easier to escape from Alcatraz than from her lacquered chignon, but instead I just waited, looking interested. That’s a good tip, by the way, for any aspiring interviewer, just wait and look interested. Few people can face a silence and not yearn to fill it and even fewer can resist filling it with little titbits of themselves.

  ‘In a way, we are, yes,’ Tammy Jones said at last. I waited and looked interested.

  ‘Oh, it probably all sounds pathetic to you. You’re young, you’ve got a career, your life ahead of you.’ Tammy Jones leant towards me. ‘But what have I got?’ She looked at me intently. ‘You tell me. I gave up my career to look after him and our children, I was quite a successful model once, you know.’ I nodded sympathetically and she continued, ‘I’ve given my life to being Mrs Barry Jones. So what choice do I have? Of course I’ve taken him back. It’s either that, or having to admit to the world and myself that I’ve wasted my time on someone totally undeserving. I’d be like those wretched Russians who’d spent their lives sacrificing everything for the revolution, only to be told it was all a dreadful mistake in the first place.’ She paused again, then she looked me straight in the eye. ‘And he’s not a bad man, Barry.’

  ‘I’m sure he isn’t,’ I said. ‘And for what it’s worth, I’m truly glad to hear you’re back together.’ I meant it. The Greek Chorus in the background of my life, announcing the progression of Barry Jones’s downfall, had been a constant reminder of my part in it. I wanted things to pick up for him and his family.

  ‘It’s nice of you to care,’ Tammy Jones said. ‘I’m afraid I always think of journalists, especially female ones, as completely ruthless and unfeeling.’

  I wondered if this was the time to tell her that it was I who had started the ball rolling downhill? Instead I asked, ‘So you don’t blame the Chronicle for exposing the affair?’

  She shrugged. ‘It would have
come out sooner or later. These things always do.’

  ‘And anyway,’ I said, pushing my luck, ‘who wants to live a lie?’

  ‘Oh, lots of people.’ She smiled a pale smile. ‘But with you lot around that’s getting increasingly difficult.’

  ‘But you’ve decided to forgive him.’

  She nodded sadly. ‘Forgive, yes, but not forget. Never forget.’ Her expression changed to one of contempt and she lunged forward and reached for a cigarette from the silver box on the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Can you believe how plain that bloody woman is? None of our friends could. They’d look at me and at pictures of her, and they just thought the man had gone mad.’ She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply as her features rearranged themselves back into a sad but dignified mask. ‘Normally, in a man his age I would say it was sex, you know the thing?’ I nodded, of course I did. ‘Middle-aged man wanting to prove to himself that he’s still attractive, still got what it takes, that kind of thing. But with her… he would have had to put a sack over her head.’ She laughed shrilly and stubbed out the cigarette, jabbing it down in the ashtray as if it were the much despised face of her rival.

  ‘And what about Barry’s television career?’ I asked. ‘Many commentators believe it will never recover.’

  ‘The public adores him,’ she said in a flat voice. She gave a small smile and shrugged. ‘But who knows? If it’s over it’s over.’

  I wondered if maybe she’d be quite happy if it was. ‘But you have forgiven him?’

  Tammy Jones opened her wide eyes even wider. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  I drove off back south through the rush-hour traffic, thinking that Barry Jones’s penance was just beginning. I arrived home exhausted and went straight to the fridge and brought out a bottle of white wine. The bang as I closed the fridge sent me reeling backwards into the kitchen table. Next I saw the debris flying through the air outside my window and I rushed out into the street, the bottle still in my hand. The air was so thick with dust that at first I couldn’t see for more than a couple of inches ahead. Coughing, I bumped into Elsa. I grabbed her by the shoulder just as the second explosion erupted, diving behind the hedge for cover as a television aerial flew through the air, landing with a clank and a rattle just feet from where we were crouching. Seconds later it was followed by an arm.

  ‘An arm!’ I shrieked. ‘Elsa, oh my God, an arm!’ I hid my face on her shoulder and when I looked up again the dust had cleared a little and I could see that the arm, draped across the low hedge and looking eerily like one of Elsa’s ‘pieces’, was hairy and adorned with a tattoo of a leering mermaid. Last time I had seen that arm it had been attached to Mr Hamilton’s shoulder. ‘Oh Elsa,’ I whispered into the terrible silence. ‘Where is the rest of him?’

  The street was full of noise once more. Someone sobbing, me. People shouting questions, dogs barking and, just as I got to my feet, the sound of sirens. The police car arrived first, followed by two fire engines and an ambulance. Elsa and I, together with everyone else on the street, were hustled away to safety in a nearby church hall as our road was cordoned off.

  It was gas. Elsa nodded sagely over her cup of tea. We had been allowed back into our house and were in her kitchen. ‘It’s as Jim always said, “Gas is a mixed blessing.” We were always electric. He insisted on it.’

  I looked at the plush ear above the kitchen table and shuddered. Elsa followed my gaze. ‘My pieces giving you the heebie-jeebies?’

  I nodded. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Don’t look at them,’ Elsa advised. I burst into tears and Elsa leant across the table and patted my hand. ‘It’s only natural that you should have a cry,’ she said. ‘I lived through the Blitz so nothing much shocks me, I’m afraid, but you young people, you’re different.’

  ‘But you could do nothing about the Blitz,’ I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘It wasn’t your responsibility.’

  Elsa straightened in her chair. ‘It certainly was not. No, the responsibility for that rests fair and square with Mr Hitler and don’t anyone try to tell me differently.’

  ‘I smelt gas yesterday,’ I mumbled. ‘Outside the Hamiltons’. I told them. I rang the doorbell and I told them. I suggested they call the gas board. I even offered to do it myself. He practically slammed the door in my face; EastEnders was about to start. I assumed they’d do something about it. Even when I smelt the gas this morning I assumed they’d called and that it was being looked into. I shouldn’t have.’

  Elsa looked at me. Her eyes were blue and deep-set, and surprisingly sharp. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t, but it’s easy to be wise after the event.’

  I told the investigators from the gas board everything I knew. They told me that they had not received a call from the Hammonds. ‘So you decided not to report it yourself?’ the inspector, a Mr Fenton, asked me.

  ‘It wasn’t so much a decision.’ I paused, looking for understanding. ‘But they told me they were taking care of it, so I assumed they had.’

  Mr Fenton looked up gravely from his notes. ‘It’s as we say, Miss Fisher, never assume with gas. We didn’t lodge any call from the Hammonds and now they’ve lost their home and Mr Hammond his arm. Mrs Hammond is in a state of shock from which, we’ve been told, she might never recover. And as for her leg…’ Mr Fenton shook his head.

  I dreamt about destruction. Each night there were different scenes: an explosion, a burning building, a sinking ship, an outbreak of a deadly virus, different calamities with one common factor: me. I would be there, in the thick of it, its undisputed cause, the queen of disaster.

  ‘Audrey is very concerned about Esther,’ Olivia said. ‘She called me this morning. Apparently she’s lost all her oomph, all her get-up-and-go. She dithers about the smallest decision, mopes around asking questions about life… it’s all since that gas explosion on her street.’

  ‘It sounds as if she should join the Merry Group,’ Lotten said.

  ‘The what group?’ Olivia wanted to know.

  ‘Merry Group. I’m sure I’ve told you about it. It’s all about finding your inner…’

  ‘Self,’ Olivia suggested.

  Lotten frowned, her thick blonde eyebrows meeting above her nose. ‘I’m not quite as stupid as you seem to think, Olivia,’ she said. ‘What we learn at the Merry Group is real. It’s about relying on your own quiet centre, the base core inside you. About not blowing in the wind of other people’s actions and opinions. Instead, we learn how to trust ourselves and to dare to go with our instincts. Since the… since Linus’s little episode, it’s been invaluable to me.’

  Linus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Any social occasion lately had been a minefield of embarrassment as Lotten confessed, sooner or later, on his behalf. ‘I don’t think we need to go into all that again, do we?’ he mumbled, clearing his throat and feeling himself turning pink. How he hated that tittle-tattle complexion of his, how he hated everything about himself from the hair that still curled ridiculously when damp or wet, to his long-fingered hands with their insistence on drawing what no one seemed to want or understand. How he hated his fickle heart and his act of betrayal. He could feel it, all that self-hatred, seep into every part of him like some terrible exercise in reverse relaxation. Now hate your toes, feel it creep up your ankles and up your thighs. Now it’s at the pit of your stomach, feeling sick yet? Your fingers tingle with it, feel them tingle, and your arms… feel that hatred seep into every pore, every cell. Your limbs are growing heavy with it.

  ‘No, let’s just leave it for now shall we?’ he said. Lotten turned to him with a faintly surprised look on her face as if she had not expected to find him there, in his own parents’ flat, drinking after-dinner coffee.

  ‘I don’t think that it’s really your place to object, do you?’ she said.

  No, no of course not. As a sinner he had no rights, Linus had learnt that, if nothing else lately. ‘So anyway.’ Lotten turned back to Olivia. ‘The group has been a life saver. Did I tell you why it’s called
the Merry Group?’

  ‘Because you’re all frightfully jolly?’ Bertil said from his chair in the corner of the room.

  Lotten ignored him. ‘It’s rather a lovely story. The founder of the programme…’

  ‘… American?’ Bertil interjected again.

  ‘Dutch with an American mother, actually. Her name is Merry van Heuysen, but wait for it, her real name was Joy van Heuysen.’ There was a pause while everybody tried to work out what the point was.

  ‘Ahh,’ Olivia said, but she still looked confused. ‘She decided to change her name from Joy to Merry because…’

  ‘Wait for it,’ Lotten repeated. ‘Her mother who was this strict religious woman, very cold, would tell her as she grew up, “We named you Joy and J stands for Jesus, O stands for Others, and Y stands for You, yourself. You must never forget that you come last, after Our Lord and your fellow men.” Can you imagine what that kind of thing would do to a young mind? Anyway, she then met this young man and they fell in love and she told him the story of her name and that it was the reason why she had no confidence and no self-esteem. And do you know what he said? He said, “I’ll call you Merry. M stands for Me. Now you can put yourself first.” Isn’t that the most wonderful story?’

  Linus rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger as Bertil cleared his throat, then they both looked at Olivia who got up and asked if anyone wanted more coffee. Lotten smiled, unconcerned. She certainly seemed more contented these days, Linus thought. And even more sure of her opinions. He had always envied Lotten her certainties, imagining her topping them up at the supermarket together with the coffee and cereal and cartons of milk so that she could sit there at the end of the day, brim-full of them. And waking up every morning with the knowledge that you were more sinned against than sinning was probably as helpful in strengthening your beliefs as attending the meetings of the Merry Group. Lotten had taken to shaking her head and saying ‘Men’ a lot, too. At first it had just been a minor irritation, but it had become something of a worry since Ivar had appeared for breakfast wearing his mother’s nightdress.