A Cat, a Hat, and a Piece of String

by Joanne Harris

  She makes no attempt to read tonight. Her fingers are numb on the Braille pad. The screen has frozen on Phantom’s homepage, but she does not try to refresh it. Instead she simply listens to the songs that he has chosen – she knows his playlists almost by heart; has even given them names in her mind. The current one is called Blue, and it is one of his most melancholy. One of her favourites, too, as it happens, so that she does not even suggest a song for him to play for her tonight. All tonight’s songs are for her, and the thought is ice water and terrible heat as she listens to the lovely sounds, though none are as beguiling as his voice, the voice that has stolen into her dreams—

  Could it be I have fallen in love? She asks herself the question. Can you really fall in love with just the sound of a person’s voice? She moves her hand on the pad at her side and tries to conjure the shape of his face; imagines the feel of her fingertips moving over his eyelids –

  Dear Phantom (she writes),

  I love you. I think I must have loved you before, but last night, when you spoke to me—

  She sends it before she can change her mind. Halfway through a sentence, as if she expects him to finish the phrase. He has to read it several times before it really registers. The simplest words in the language, and he cannot decipher their meaning.

  Dear Lady of Shalott, he begins, and then decides against it. He is not a writer, he thinks. The words will not co-operate. Instead, he changes channels again, switches the broadcast once more to Live. For a moment he has no idea what he is about to say; and then he turns to the piano, spans a chord of D minor and begins to speak, or maybe to sing—

  I wish, he thinks aloud. I wish.

  It must be something in the air. Never before in all his life has he been so articulate. Perhaps it’s the night, he tells himself; or perhaps it’s the thought of those soundwaves shooting off into deepest space—

  Wish I may, wish I might—

  On the call desk, a red light begins to blink persistently. There must be more people out there listening than he thought. Another light begins to blink. A star. A constellation. The switchboard is soon jammed with callers, red lights all across the desk. It’s his job to answer the calls, but tonight the Phantom is occupied. All that can wait till tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow he won’t have a job.

  The thought makes his voice dry up in his throat. Phantom Radio is his life. What has he done? Has he gone mad? What demon has possessed him?

  He pulls off the headphones, steps away from the mike. Switches back to the regular broadcast. Of course it’s too late, he tells himself. He cannot hide what he has done. After a lifetime of hiding away, he has exposed, not his face, but his heart to anyone who was listening—

  He checks the mail.

  Dear Phantom (she writes),

  I think it’s time. Please meet me here in half an hour.

  She gives a place, a street, an address.

  He types: All right. He presses Send.

  And then he stands, frozen with what he has done. He puts his hands over his face – the face that makes little children cry – and stands like this for a long time; a big, awkward man with an ugly mark that looks like a splash of purple ink across his face. Behind him, on the sound desk, lights are blinking like crazy. Something – a circuit, perhaps – has failed. Phantom Radio is off the air. Not that it matters any more.

  He feels his heart begin to pound.

  She feels her head begin to spin.

  What if she isn’t there? he thinks.

  What if he doesn’t come? she thinks.

  And he types: There’s something you need to know.

  And she types: There’s something I didn’t say—

  But now the computers are down as well; the screen is blank; there’s nothing to see but the cursor blinking against the blue; nothing to feel but the Braille pad frozen in its final wave.

  And nobody sees her pull on her coat and pick up her white cane and open the door; and nobody sees him run outside but the doorman, half asleep at his post, while the ghosts of Phantom Radio whisper and hum from darkened rooms and the lights all over the switchboard blink out their messages in code.

  Dee Eye Why

  A lot of these stories are ghost stories. But ghosts, like love, like stories themselves, can come from unexpected places. The house in this tale has featured before (including in some of my novels): it isn’t quite my house, but some of the ghosts belong to me.

  THEY SAY THE first step is acceptance. After that, letting go becomes a healing process. You have to really feel the pain before you can begin to move on. Well, if that was true, his suffering must have run deeper than even he had suspected. Most men, in the face of divorce, turn to their friends; or take to drink; or lick their wounds in private.

  Michael Harman bought a house.

  Locals called it the Mansion. It was an old, neglected house of the kind you see in those movies in which a nice, white, middle-class family moves into a Gothic Monstrosity (complete with Indian burial ground), then wonders why Bizarre Goings-on suddenly start to happen. This time, however, there was no family. There weren’t even any goings-on. Perhaps that was why he bought it, he thought; that space that needed to be filled.

  Everyone privately agreed that Michael had finally lost the plot. A divorce was surely costly enough without adding all this to the pile: this ghastly white elephant of a house in its tangled five acres of garden; its roof sagging beneath the weight of a hundred winters; its plumbing a can of lead-pipe worms; its garden – mostly woodland, but with the overgrown remains of an orchard, a Japanese mirror-pool, a walled garden, ancient pear trees en espalier, a rose-walk and God knows what else – in need of an army of gardeners to restore it to some semblance of order. And yet he had bought it, no one knew why; giving credence to Annie’s claims that Michael had become impossible to live with; that no one knew how to deal with him; that his mood swings, his temper, his irrational behaviour had finally led her to fear for her safety and for that of the children. People who knew him doubted this. Michael had never been violent. Complicated, maybe – reserved; a man who in spite of his profession rarely betrayed his feelings; hiding his essential self even from those who loved him.

  Once he had been an actor. Mostly in musical theatre; a man who had gained prominence through his powerful interpretation of certain well-known stage roles. A big and rather clumsy man with curly hair, a diffident smile and a tendency to put on weight as he entered his forties; pleasant, but unremarkable – except for his marvellous singing voice, which had earned him many devoted fans, most of them women, some of them mad. One had pursued him for almost ten years from one stage door to the next, bearing gifts; others had plagued him with letters; one had threatened to shoot his wife. All professed to love him. None of them really knew him. In fact, as time passed he grew increasingly unsure as to whether he even knew himself. Years spent living out of trunks, moving from one set of digs to the next, missing his children’s first steps, their first words, their childhood. Fifteen years of Sunday roasts; Nativity plays; football matches; evenings in, all sacrificed to that dusty old god that smelt of sawdust, and greasepaint, and electronics, and sweat; the dusty old god that lived in the dark just beyond the stage lights—

  And then, one day, it had fallen apart. His marvellous voice had failed him. Only once in public – fatigue, hay fever, nerves on edge – but from that moment he was afraid every time he stepped on to the stage, so that soon the fear was unbearable, and even to hear the opening chords of a song that he was about to sing made him sweat, filled his mouth with sawdust, flooded him with a panic that he could barely understand. He had left the show in mid-run, on the grounds of illness, but knowing that the dusty old god had judged him and found him wanting.

  The separation had come soon afterwards. Annie had been supportive as long as he was working away; but to have him underfoot every day was more than she had bargained for. They’d had a house in Yorkshire, in which he had spent his holidays, and lived in for those f
ew short months when he wasn’t working. Now, Annie realized, it was too small for the four of them. No one knew him any more. Friends were awkward in his presence. Annie treated him like a guest. Even the children sensed that he was taking up much-needed space – and Michael had felt like a prisoner without any possible hope of reprieve …

  And then she had left him, taking the kids and leaving him with half a life; half a bank account; half a heart.

  And so, Michael Harman had bought a house. Exactly how that happened, he was still not certain. One moment he had been looking for a place not too far from his children – perhaps a loft conversion, or a riverside flat. Instead he had wandered into the grounds of a rambling, half-derelict house overgrown with rhododendrons gone wild, with a peeling FOR SALE sign standing among the nettles.

  It should not have been love at first sight. And yet, to Michael Harman it was. Perhaps because of that garden; the silence of those overgrown paths. Perhaps because he knew even then that it was perfect for children. Perhaps even because of the sense of neglect that hung over the place like a cloud; the feeling that maybe, under it all, was something waiting to be released.

  It was far from being a bargain, even in its derelict state. But a man in love sees no obstacle, and very soon the place was his. He moved in straight away, in spite of the fact that the house was barely habitable. Annie was back in the family home, and Michael was staying in digs again. The roof leaked; the walls were damp; there was barely any heating. But it was spring; the nights were warm, and surely nothing could be worse than living out of a suitcase.

  They say the first step is acceptance. He spent the first three weeks of it coming to terms with what he had bought: the Mansion; the ivy-encrusted walls; the roof of solid Yorkshire stone; four bedrooms; two bathrooms; a library; a kitchen, a pantry, a nursery, a scullery complete with butcher’s block and meat-hooks on which must have hung hams, ducks, pheasants, sides of beef; an ancient wine cellar mattressed with dust; some leaded stained-glass windows. Much of the glass was damaged now, but the colours were glorious in the morning sun, casting ladders of coloured light over a parquet floor that had once been fine, but which was now scarred and battle-worn. It almost hurt to imagine now what the Mansion must once have been like: gracious in its own grounds; elegantly furnished; grand even by the standards of Malbry village, which had once boasted, locals said, more Rolls-Royces per square mile than any other town in the North.

  Of course, that wasn’t true any more. Millionaires’ Row, as they called it, had mostly been converted to offices, flats and old people’s homes. Only a few old houses remained intact, staunchly holding back the tide of development. Even so, it was clear to him that once the place had been beautiful. The wallpaper that peeled from the walls revealed Morris & Co. originals; one day, he stripped down a stairwell to discover a trompe-l’oeil mural, still in decent condition, of an Arcadian landscape beyond a painted rose trellis. The place had been uninhabited for at least eighteen months, he knew; but soon he came to realize that this was in his favour. No renovations had been made for the past five decades. The wiring might be antiquated, but so were the switches and the elaborate door-plates; the carved cedar balustrades; the stained glass; the monumental ceramic bath; the huge oak fireplaces. Some attempts had been made to modernize the kitchen; but further exploration revealed that under the Bitumastic floor lay a beautiful set of old stone flags, which, when scrubbed and treated, shone with a warm and mellow gleam.

  Annie would like that, he thought. It gave him unexpected pain. Annie would also have liked the stove; the cast-iron range; the chimney; the butcher’s block; the dresser and the well-worn granite surfaces. It was ironic, really. Fifteen years too late, he had found the home that she had always dreamed of.

  Michael began to understand that houses, like people, need to be loved. Too long it had been neglected; and now he set himself the task of bringing the Mansion back from the dead.

  Before the theatre had eaten his life, he had been the son of a builder. His father had taught him many things which now revealed their purpose; and although such things as plumbing and rewiring were still beyond his ability, he found himself applying skills he had thought long since forgotten.

  At first, he worked to dull the pain. To stop himself from thinking. He worked until his hands bled; until his lungs were filled with dust; until every part of him ached; until he was so numb with fatigue that nothing mattered any more. But soon he began to feel differently. There was a pleasing simplicity in physical activity; in stripping and polishing wooden floors; in tearing off panels from old oak doors to reveal the original woodwork; in plastering and rubbing down paint; in filling and staining blistered wood. One day he even caught himself singing as he removed a damaged section of parquet veneer to reveal a beautiful pitch-pine floor—

  What was happening? he thought. What had begun as a penance was becoming a kind of pleasure. His hands had toughened; they no longer bled. His body no longer hurt, but worked smoothly and efficiently. It was almost as if, in peeling back the layers of neglect from the old house, he too were sloughing off a layer of something – skin, or the past. Working alone in the empty house, he sang to himself for the joy of it; and for once, the dusty, forgotten old god went unregarded and unappeased.

  Six weeks passed. Summer came. During that time, Michael barely left the house. The neighbours were discreet, he found; no one came to disturb him. Mobile reception was poor at the house, probably because of the trees, though texts still managed to get through. By text, he ordered building supplies and arranged for workmen to call round. As for his meals, there was a sandwich shop nearby, although he had little appetite. Even so, his energy continued undiminished. As he worked through the many rooms, he started to come across clues to the past: a pair of leather baby shoes hidden up a chimney; a packet of four Woodbines under a floor left there by some workman (who would no doubt have cursed his forgetfulness); pages torn from a newspaper dated 1908; names carved on the underside of a window-ledge in the schoolroom.

  The more he uncovered of its previous life, the more curious he became about the house. Until fairly recently, it had belonged to a Dr Graham Peacock, and after his death it stayed empty until it was finally put on the market, along with most of its contents. A house-clearing agency had dealt with these, except for the fixtures and fittings and a number of bulky items of furniture, which had been there since the house was built. As for the house’s history – Michael made enquiries and found that Dr Peacock, an elderly man, had inherited it from his long-dead parents, and that his mother, before her marriage, had been Miss Emily Lundy, the only daughter of the Mansion’s original owners.

  Fred Lundy had been in textiles; Lundy Mills had been well known all across the county. He’d married Frances Liversidge, the daughter of a tea merchant from Liverpool. They’d had two children, Emily and Ned, and a son, Benjamin, who had died in infancy. Michael wondered if those shoes he’d found in the nursery chimney had belonged to that long-dead little boy; whether Frances had put them there as part of some secret ritual—

  He’d made no attempt to contact his wife over the past six weeks. The pain of seeing her again – and worse, of seeing their children – had kept him from even considering it. But four weeks into the separation, he found himself thinking more and more about what she would think of his new house. He saw her in the kitchen, looking at the old stone floor, admiring the work he’d done on it while the children – Holly, nine, Ben, six – raced around the garden looking for places to build dens, or explored the attics, or admired the nursery.

  Finally, he invited them to see what he’d been doing. There was no question of the house being anything close to completion; but at least the roof was sound again and some of the rooms had floors. And he was proud of his handiwork; prouder than he’d ever been on stage, in front of an audience.

  He spent the day before their arrival mowing paths through the overgrown lawn, trying to bring some order into the chaos. In doing so, he uncove
red an ornamental pond and a fountain in the shape of a mermaid; his pleasure at the discovery was childlike and surprising.

  Annie and the children were due at four. By five they had not arrived. There was no phone in the Mansion; Michael checked his mobile.

  He found a text from Annie; heard her brittle voice in his mind.

  Michael, I’m really sorry. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. The kids are doing so well now, I couldn’t bear to mess that up. In a couple of weeks, maybe. Take care of yourself, A.

  He deleted the message. Made some tea. Started work on the big bathroom – some of the original floor tiles were cracked, but he’d found a box of spares in the loft that he thought would cover the damage. Half an hour later he was singing to himself as he worked. The marvellous voice soared into the air like the flight of a legendary bird.

  The next day, his friend Rob called by. His friend – well, more Annie’s friend really, a neighbour who’d known them for ever. Annie was very concerned, Rob said. Annie had sent him to check things out.

  Check things out. That voice again. Her bright and brittle voice in his mind. Half of him felt hope at this; if she was keeping tabs on him, then surely she wasn’t indifferent? But Rob soon put him right on that. People were talking, he explained. There was bound to be curiosity. He was famous – in his way – the Press were sure to get hold of it.

  ‘Get hold of what?’ asked Michael, bemused.

  Rob looked awkward. ‘This house,’ he said. ‘This creepy obsession of yours with this house.’

  Apparently the neighbours had taken more notice than he’d thought. The questions he’d asked in the village; the building supplies he had ordered; the roofer; the plumber; the electrician. All of these things had been noted. In a village, nothing goes unnoticed, and the Malbry grapevine was as vigorous as the brambles in his garden.