Silent Song

by Lucilla Andrews

  I was in bed thinking over the astonishing turn in the day’s events when I suddenly remembered another view on chance. From Anatole France: In life we should all make due allowance for chance. For chance in the long run is the Hand of God.

  I remembered that again next day.

  Chapter Eight

  Jilly came out of our block in uniform as we were leaving. ‘Taking her for another sitting, Mr Farler?’

  ‘’Morning, Sister. No.’ George’s explanation included Alistair and Ruth’s names.

  ‘Lucky people! You couldn’t have a better day for a drive. I, for my sins, am on. Take care of that knee as I haven’t a spare small ward. See you anon, Anne.’

  ‘Don’t work too hard, Jilly.’

  ‘My dear,’ she retorted grandly, ‘when one’s ward has open visiting all Sunday one can’t get any work done. One can only preside.’ She refused George’s offer of a lift over and swept on crackling with starch, stopped the traffic on either side with an imperious hand, then crossed bowing graciously to left and right.

  ‘If Jilly went into politics, nothing’d stop her being our first female Prime Minister.’

  ‘Nothing.’ He switched on the engine.

  ‘She’s right about the weather. Perfect.’

  ‘Quite.’ He put on his driving glasses.

  ‘Alistair first, then Ruth?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Let’s hope today pays off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  His profile reminded me of the start of our drive from Edinburgh. I felt like reminding him this one was his idea, and if he didn’t now fancy it, he wasn’t in a minority of one. The past had to strangle that, so I asked if he had slept well.

  ‘Yes, thanks. You?’

  ‘Wonderfully,’ I lied.

  ‘Good,’ he said dourly. ‘Oh ‒ re the sketch. I did some work on it this morning. With luck, I can finish it on my own.’ He did an X-ray on my face as we stopped at lights. ‘Yes. I think I can remember your colouring. I don’t often work from memory, but I can do it. I should warn you, the result’ll almost inevitably be vintage chocolate-box.’

  I thought of the painting Alistair had discovered. ‘So long as it’s vintage.’

  ‘I have a rare talent for producing schmaltz.’ He changed the subject to shop and as enforced familiarity had made that safe, we kept to it until we picked up Alistair.

  He was waiting on the pavement in a sheepskin jacket, black cords, black sweater and a purple brocade cravat.

  He looked quite as good as on New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Battle colours, George?’ I asked as we drew up.

  ‘Ceremonial dress is always worn for beating the retreat to the sound of the pipes and drums.’ He opened his window. ‘Sorry we’re late. Every light was against us.’

  I had not noticed that until he said it, nor his rather attractive tweed suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. I had forgotten he was half-Scottish. I could almost hear the distant lament of the pipes.

  Ruth’s trouser-suit was powder blue and perfect for her colouring. She had taken much more trouble with her appearance than yesterday and done a particularly classy job on her eyes, probably as camouflage, since her attitude had not altered at all. By lunch her silence had reduced Alistair to polite monosyllables and visibly aged George and myself. On the last stretch to the house, I carried the conversation alone and found the funereal silence from the back so oppressive that it put me in mental blinkers. All I saw of the scenery was the road ahead.

  The pair in the back had just got out to hold open the heavy wooden gates of the short, steep drive up to the garage, when a pianist on the car radio began playing Chopin’s Funeral March. For a moment George and I looked at each other and then laughed, wildly.

  ‘Timing never was one of my talents.’ Smiling, he swung the car up the drive. ‘Come and take a look round.’

  The house stood on a built-up mound a little way back from the high-banked lane that ran on downhill to a flat, green stretch of marsh. It was a smallish, square, solid house built of pinkish bricks that looked very old. The roof was enormous, orange-tiled, swept down windowless at the back to within a few inches of the kitchen door, and overhung the upper windows at the front like a too-heavy fringe.

  Alistair turned up his jacket collar. ‘It always gives me the impression of a man crouched with shoulders hunched against the sea.’

  Ruth thought it a pity it had been built with its back to the sea.

  ‘If you’d had to put up with four centuries of gales hurling themselves inland over the marsh,’ said George equably, ‘you’d turn your back to the sea.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘All our bad weather comes in from there.’

  I scanned the marsh. ‘Where is the sea? I can’t see it.’

  ‘Can you see that grey line on the horizon? That’s the sea-wall. Visibility isn’t clear enough today. At least that means no rain on the way.’

  Though invisible, the sea was omnipresent in the smell of the air, the salt on my lips, the wheeling and screaming gulls over the marsh and the desolate mewing of the black and white curlew in the field across the lane. And the space. Wherever I looked, miles and miles of empty green space. ‘Where’s the village, George?’

  He smiled at me. ‘We came through it three miles up the hill.’

  ‘So we did.’ I turned back to the house. ‘Four hundred years old?’

  ‘Give or take a few either way. Originally, it was a farmhouse.’ He drifted away to unlock the garage. I stayed looking at the house and trying to accept it had stood on that mound so long.

  I thought of the families it must have housed, the inevitable births, deaths, joys, tragedies, it must have seen. The centuries of bad weather, threats of invasions, wars.

  ‘George! Were your parents here in the last war?’

  ‘On and off. Why?’

  I looked at the sky. ‘Any bombs drop around here?’

  He laughed. ‘One or two.’

  Alistair joined us. ‘Just the one or two you’ll appreciate, Anne, seeing this was only a front-row seat for the Battle of Britain ‒ and later the flying bombs and rockets.’ He swept an arm over his head. ‘They all chose this way in. Do you remember, George, your father telling us for years no-one round here bothered directing strangers with place names. It was a case of left past the Junkers, second right passed the Spit, keep on to the two Messerschmitts, but if you’ve come to the tail of the Wellington you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘I remember.’

  I asked. ‘House knocked about?’

  ‘Lost a few tiles, couple of ceilings, good bit of glass. Nothing serious. Give me a hand with this door, Alistair. It’s warped.’

  Ruth watched them attacking the recalcitrant door with the disapproval of an elderly trained nanny forced to permit her charges to mix with nanny-less children. I was more interested in the stability of the house. I thought of those experts who now insisted environment probably equalled heredity in importance in the formation of character and looked at George pleasurably thumping the door; and then, backwards. No-one was looking my way, so I did a crazy thing. I patted the front wall. ‘Thanks, chum,’ I said under my breath.

  The door was freed. ‘Sorry to keep you hanging about, girls. Come on in.’ George led us round the path to the back door. There was about half an acre of back garden running up hill to a low hedge as neglected as the garden itself. Beyond the hedge was a narrow, rough field and on the far side the pair of round brick oasthouses with black cone-shaped roofs. I noticed neither Alistair nor Ruth looked in that direction.

  George unlocked the back door with an iron key about ten inches long. ‘Watch out for your head on this lintel, Anne. It was put up for pygmies.’ He took us through a stone-flagged kitchen into the front living-room, and switched on the electric fire. ‘Do sit down whilst I ring the Potters from the study to say we’re here. They may have missed the car going by and can’t see this drive because of the swing in the lane. You have
n’t seen their cottage, Anne,’ he added, ‘as it’s hidden by the oasts out back.’

  I wasn’t certain that was another cue, but decided to take it after he left us. ‘Those oasts belong to George, Alistair?’

  ‘Yes. They went with the house when his grandfather purchased the property. I believe he used them as stables. My Uncle William occasionally let them as fodder stores, but mostly they were empty when we were kids and he let us use them as safety valves in wet weather. He had hoped eventually to convert them into habitable dwellings but circumstances prevented that. George now lets them as fodder stores.’

  ‘Are they as attractive within as they look from outside?’

  ‘Not particularly. Each has three round, dirty, dusty, windowless lofts and only the one on the right a very primitive staircase.’

  Ruth roused herself. ‘If I were George I’d pull them down. I think they spoil the view at the back.’

  George returned. ‘The Potters send their regards and are entertaining a married son and family. I said I’d look in on our way back to tell them the result of my check. And having done my duty by the neighbours ‒ how about coming for a look round, Anne?’ He looked at the others. ‘You won’t want the conducted tour. Why not take a walk?’

  Alistair straightened his back and looked down his nose. ‘A not unreasonable suggestion from our host, Ruth,’ he remarked in his most Scottish voice. ‘Coming?’

  She did not answer, but she went with him and from the front window we saw them appear round the house then walk down the lane to the marsh.

  ‘Do you really want to see round, Anne?’

  I recognized that as a different kind of cue, answered it as he expected, and gladly. ‘I’d as soon sit in here whilst you are doing whatever it is you have to do.’

  ‘Much more sensible. If this room’s anything to go on, it’ll be filthy.’ He cleaned up the sofa with a clean handkerchief that turned grey. ‘But if the last lot haven’t smashed up the upstairs, and didn’t set the place on fire, they rate as not bad tenants.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes. Mostly I get couples with small kids on leave or holiday, or embryo writers who want peace to write the novel of the century. They leave the worst chaos. What isn’t spattered with cigarette burns is thick with layers of spilt beer.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’

  ‘Financially? Breaks about even between the damage, bad debts, and tax, but it does a house no good to stand empty and particularly not one so near the marsh. And I don’t think houses should stand empty. Warm enough? Right.’

  Warm enough and warned off his private life. I was glad to be alone for a while. Normally I liked seeing other people’s houses, but not banging into their private ghosts. The whitewashed room with great black oak beams criss-crossing the ceiling was surprisingly peaceful and despite the dust everywhere and lack of books and personal objects, it hadn’t an impersonal air. On no other evidence, the serene atmosphere convinced me that whatever human disasters the house had seen, none had taken place in that room.

  I had twenty minutes peace before Ruth returned alone. She flopped into an armchair, her eyes red-rimmed beneath the blue shading. ‘Alistair’s still on the marsh. I’ve told him not to be too long,’ she added as George came in. ‘We’ll be leaving soon, won’t we?’

  ‘May as well.’ He looked around. ‘Odd how unfurnished a room looks without books.’

  Ruth closed her eyes. ‘Tanks and loft intact?’

  ‘Uh-huh. The loft’s the cleanest place in the house, probably as they couldn’t be bothered to get up there. The rest ‒’ he shrugged ‒ ‘bloody slum.’

  I asked, ‘Can Mrs Potter rally cleaning ladies?’

  ‘Yes. She’s related to half the village and old Ted to the other half. I’ll ask him to get some chap for the garden. I’d do it myself, but there won’t be time.’

  ‘When do the new tenants come in?’

  ‘Any time from next week on, though the day isn’t actually fixed.’

  Ruth powdered her face. ‘Don’t mind having a series of strangers here, George? It was your home.’

  She was looking in the mirror and missed the way his face closed as if he had shut a door on us both. ‘It’s a house not a mausoleum.’

  I didn’t think she noticed he hadn’t answered her question, or properly appreciated what she had asked him. I was sure she wouldn’t consciously wish to hurt him, but still having a parental home she had yet to discover that, for a large proportion of society, homes are places that belong to other people. One can accept that with equanimity, without enjoying the reminder.

  I got off the sofa. ‘George, is there time for me to see the oasts? I’ve never been in one.’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood up. ‘Come along, Ruth. Alistair’ll find us.’

  She didn’t move. ‘Darlings, conducted tours aren’t really my scene. You two run along. What I would like to do whilst you’re out is borrow your phone to ring my mum and say I’ll be in Devon tomorrow. May I?’

  ‘Whenever you wish.’

  We walked slowly over the rough field. ‘Sorry, George. I haven’t pulled this one off.’

  ‘Not your fault. Mine for having the bloody stupidity to think it up.’ He looked me over as if he had just noticed what I was wearing. ‘The oast’ll be dirtier than the house. That’s a pretty outfit. Will you mind?’

  ‘No.’ I stopped walking. ‘But would you rather we called this one off?’

  He took his time and a long look at my face. ‘No. Nipping up and down a ladder may lower my own temperature.’

  ‘Wish you loved the human race?’

  He said quietly, ‘Wish I could kick in its silly bloody face.’ He half-smiled at himself. ‘Sorry to go all primitive. It’s this back-to-the-soil bit.’

  I smiled. ‘Plus over-exposure to infantile haemadementia from the non-infantile. Enough to rouse anyone’s primitive instincts.’ I walked on and told him the little I now knew about the oasts. ‘When were the floors put in?’

  ‘By my grandfather after he stopped doing his rounds on a horse. Before he used them as stables, they were kilns for drying hops.’

  ‘And you let them for fodder?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I felt him watching me. ‘The chap who’s got ’em uses the bales in the rotation in which they were stored and as he starts at the top, his stock’ll probably now have eaten through to the middle lofts. The ground floors are usually packed to the ceilings till early April and the ground doors kept locked. By the end of the winter good fodder’s a precious commodity. Come round front. Excuse me ‒’ He went ahead to flatten a path through the waist-high grass and nettles growing up to the back of the circular buildings. In the front a cinder-track wide enough for a tractor ran from the ground doors to the lane. The upper lofts had wide wooden hatches painted white and set above each other roughly twelve feet apart. The middle hatch on the left hung open and a ladder was propped against the aperture.

  ‘That shouldn’t be open.’

  ‘How about the ladder?’

  ‘That’s all right. This is the one without stairs.’ He looked at the cottage across the lane. ‘The Potters can’t have noticed or they’d have told me. They’re probably still watching telly in the kitchen at the back. Either that lock’s given ‒ or the men forgot to shut it properly after collecting this morning’s bales. Any strangers around and the Potters’ Alsatian raises the roof. She regards this as her territory.’

  ‘But ‒ I’m a stranger. She’s not barking now.’

  ‘Because you’re with me. She’s a bright old bitch and knows me very well.’ He tilted back his head to see the direction of the black iron flying-fox wind-vane above the right oast. ‘West. Good. It’s the sou’easter that brings our rain. Rain does fodder no good and those old floors are porous.’ He sorted through his key-ring. ‘I’ve got the spares to the hatches, so we may as well look in that one first. If I can’t fix the lock, I’ll ring the farmer before we leave.’

  I backed
for a better look at the wind-vane. ‘I like that fox. Lovely lines. Was it always there?’

  ‘No. Er ‒ actually, I drew it.’ I looked at him and he blushed faintly. ‘When I was fourteen. My father had it cast. Alistair and I helped him put it up.’

  ‘That must have been fun.’

  ‘Was. After, Dad gave us a beer. He said we’d have to develop heads for the stuff, so we’d better start. We thought we were really living!’

  ‘I can imagine. Did you like it?’

  ‘No, though I wouldn’t have said so with a gun at my head.’

  I had another look up. ‘What’s that black tunnel thing joining the cones? Chimney?’

  ‘Yes. When these were kilns the smoke circulated through both via that. As kids, Alistair and I used to crawl through it as a short cut.’

  ‘Oh no! You were lucky not to bring it down with that drop! Doesn’t look at all strong.’

  ‘It’s stronger than it looks as that’s tough metal, but it is very old. It wouldn’t have stood much more than a small boy’s weight and luckily we grew too big for it before we could overload. Naturally, we were forbidden to use it, which could be why we thought it up originally, though I’m not sure about that. Any tunnel to any small boy calls for investigation. For years now it’s been stenosed with birds’ nests. Solid when I checked a year ago. I left ’em there. Small boys in country villages don’t alter very much.’ He tested the ladder. ‘I’ll get up and give you a hand in.’ Watching him go up I wondered if he would ever tell me about his girl friend’s death, then had a hunch he never would and that after tomorrow this afternoon and weekend would for us both firmly be shut away in mental pigeon-holes. Labelled, Vol. Two.

  ‘Nervous, Anne? Don’t come up if you are.’

  ‘No. Just day-dreaming.’ I went up and he hauled me from the ladder into the dusty, bale-strewn round loft.

  ‘Not very much to see ‒ but this is new.’ He reached up to examine a large gap in the floor boards above and sent a shower of dust and plaster on to my upturned face. ‘I’m so sorry! In your eyes?’

  ‘Only dust.’ Momentarily blinded, I brushed my face with my hands. ‘Why did I leave my bag at the house!’