‘It’s pretty amazing, Maureen. I’ve had a few brilliant finds there. There was that time I …’
Roger was enthusing about a flea market in Lyon. Or was it Dijon? Maureen wanted him to stop. She wanted to talk about herself now. Tell him everything. Tell him about that moment when she’d traced the lines in the oak with her finger, and listened to the thrum of the tap dripping into the kitchen sink, wondering what rhythm could exist in a life, in a marriage, without a child at its heart.
‘Coffee?’ she said.
In the kitchen, she ran her hands under the cold tap, letting the water flow across her wrists, numbing them almost instantly. She was glad she’d kept the fire up so high: it was cold enough to freeze the pipes. On impulse, she rolled up the window blind. Far from stopping in the early evening, it had been snowing heavily for hours. The dark hedgerow on one side of the garden stretched back into the night, iced with a thick slab of snow.
She took the tray into the sitting room. Roger was inspecting his vase, or the crystal, perhaps.
‘You need to see something,’ she said.
She pulled back the drapes. The snow had brightened the night. They could see cut-out shapes of trees and fences.
‘Look at that!’ he said, hands on hips. ‘Gorgeous. Bet the roads are going to be bad.’
‘They’ll be impassable,’ she said. ‘That’s the heaviest snow I’ve seen for years.’ She paused, feeling a little embarrassed. ‘But you’re welcome to stay. I have a spare room.’
Roger plucked at his cashmered neck. ‘Oh, thank you,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’ll be having breakfast together as well.’
They both smiled. It was going to be fine.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘How about another brandy with that coffee?’
It was over. Maureen sat, poised on the edge of the armchair, as if she meant to stand up at any moment. She pressed the remote; the television blinked on. Four dead in the Pennines. A whole family gone, their little dog miraculously alive. What came over some people, she thought, setting out like that? Dying, unnoticed, in their snow-white car. The news returned to London. Even there, amidst the concrete and asphalt, bodies were being found. It was a tragic turn of events, as Gerald would have said.
The snow had stopped at last, and the light was strong for late morning. She could see the sun pushing through the crack where the curtains stood slightly apart. Soon, there would be no snow outside, only grey-brown slush and icy floodwaters, and the spaces in the world where those frozen souls had been.
‘You must come and have dinner at my place,’ Roger had said.
This was late on the second night, the weather still too severe to leave. It had been a wonderful, unexpected time, cocooned in the house together. Leftovers for lunch, chess, some music. All very light-hearted. Innocent, really, she thought.
The snow amazed them.
‘We’re no better than children,’ she said, as they stood together at the kitchen window, pointing out a heavy drift caught in a roofline, icicles hanging from the eaves. Earlier that evening, she’d spotted her neighbour looking down on them. Maureen had waved up to her, feeling oddly proud. Her neighbour lifted her hand in half-salute and stepped back into the shadows.
Maureen cooked another dinner, smiling to herself at the strange twist of it all. The food was nothing grand this time, but still good. They ate in the kitchen – Roger had insisted – chatting across the oak table. They went back to the comfortable chairs for more brandy.
This second night seemed more open to possibilities. The fleeting images of bodies locked together – strangers’ bodies – had gone from Maureen’s thoughts, much to her relief. It was not impossible that they might share a bed tonight. The idea gave her a surge of happiness as well as terror.
She’d not spoken much about herself in the end. The need to confide in Roger had surprised her. She realised how lonely she’d been. She did say a little: how her family came from Scotland, her sister in the Philharmonic, even Gerald.
‘How long were you married?’ Roger asked. Just the one question. And his wordless nod at her answer seemed to shrink the forty-six years to something less substantial.
‘A long time to be with the same person, isn’t it?’ she said, hating the defensive tremble in her voice.
‘Unimaginable,’ he replied. And she’d heard the accent then, clearer than ever before.
It was easier to talk about Roger.
‘Did you always like antiques?’ she asked him.
‘No.’ He hesitated, working his mouth as if it held a toffee. ‘That came later.’
Maureen’s balance seemed to be deserting her, even while sitting. The whisky before dinner, the wine, the brandy; there was a crowded tray of used glasses in the kitchen. She could see that Roger, who’d had much more, was feeling it, too.
‘I ran a factory, once,’ he said, looking almost ready to giggle, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘An unlikely candidate, I suppose you’re thinking.’
She was.
‘It wasn’t exactly a pickle factory, Maureen,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It was in the days when my father was still trying to badger me into a career in engineering. Well, this was engineering of sorts. It was a glass factory. You know, shop fittings and so forth. We made amazing things: room dividers, pool fences, balconies. Once, we made a fantastic glass spa with sides like huge, green waves. All very high-end. Beautiful, in its own way, but hardly Lalique.’
Roger was smoothing his hair with the flat of his hand, remembering. ‘I enjoyed running the place, to tell you the truth. It was very successful. For a while, at least. Kept my father off my back.’
‘What made you leave it?’ she said. ‘Fell in love with antique dealing, I suppose.’
How light her heart felt when she said that. How romantic it was to be here, snowed in with this man. When she thought back over the conversation, and she did for the rest of her life, she remembered the pause in his story at that point, how he looked over to the vase in the way an actor might look into the wings for a prompt.
‘I didn’t know much about antiques, except what I’d picked up from my mother,’ he said. ‘We had that same love of craftsmanship. There’s a kind of order in it, I guess.’
A kind of order. She would think about this for a long time afterwards.
‘So why did you all leave South Africa?’ she said. ‘Was it the political scene?’ She saw his eyes narrow, the way they had at the shop when he’d looked at her dessert plates for that one brief moment.
‘We didn’t all leave,’ he said. ‘I was the only one who left, back then. It was nothing to do with politics. That stuff didn’t … affect us much.’ His shoulders rose in a minute shrug. ‘My father made me leave.’
Roger drained the last of his brandy as if he might go. Remembering that he was trapped, at least until morning, he made an elaborate show of replacing his glass on its linen coaster.
‘Your father was pretty authoritarian.’ The brandy was making her blunt.
‘He was.’ Roger grimaced. ‘But in this case he was right. When I got to England, I found the glass business was a closed shop, so that was out. I went into antiques because it was the only other thing I knew. Or half knew.’
‘But why leave South Africa? You said the glass place was successful.’
‘It was. But something happened.’
Maureen felt a slow wave of discomfort wash across the room towards her.
‘Something happened and I had to leave,’ he said. He poured himself another brandy from the bottle beside him, and looked straight at her.
And there it was: that same hard stare. The stare that said if there’s going to be a future to all this, Maureen, with you coming to dinner in my house, and maybe more, you telling me about the slow drip of that tap as the life you expected paled into something more colourless, then you need to know this.
The drink had made him daring.
‘I see,’ she said. She would not have asked any more. She often thought about that.
And she somehow knew what was expected of her. ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ she could say. ‘It’s a harsh place, South Africa, I’ve heard.’ Something like that, something bland and final to speak out loud so that together they could watch the words lift in the thickened air and vanish like smoke. Order returned.
‘I got rid of someone,’ he said.
She would remember, too, the way her mind, soft at the edges from the brandy that she would never drink again, spun through the possible meanings in ‘got rid of’ like a roulette wheel. Round and round, a dull clicking in her head.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, hot blood coursing inside her ears.
He saw she was waiting.
‘One of the workers at the factory,’ he said. ‘Little squat fellow. Took to calling himself the shop steward. Had an opinion on every damn thing. He had this irritating way of coming up too close, stepping into your personal space.’ Roger’s hand moved up and down, miming the intrusion. ‘Sometimes, when he was talking, I could feel his breath on my neck. I hated that. I should never have given him a job, but he was the second cousin or something of one of our suppliers. The usual carry-on: connections and favours. Anyway, about a year in, this guy started causing a lot of trouble in the place. It’d been good till then. Everyone was happy enough.’
Roger turned back towards the fire. ‘It wasn’t just me invested in that business. There were local businessmen involved – my father’s mates, naturally. You’ve no idea of the complications.’ His voice trailed off. ‘Three years after I gave that man a job, he’d all but ruined me. It was just incredible. People were giving me grief night and day. We were going broke, that’s the truth of it. And my father got wind of it. Said he was coming back to sort out my mess.’ Roger shook his head. ‘You know, he had a way of saying, “I’m pretty disappointed,” that you could hardly believe.’
Maureen looked over at the peonies, standing with their dark-lipped mouths.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘People can smell trouble, Maureen. Nobody wants to deal with a business that’s at war with its staff. They run a mile.’ Roger was gazing deep into the flames. ‘He was winning, in the end, and he knew it. The orders were dropping off. It was pure sabotage. Even some of the older guys – been with me for years – were starting to take an interest in their goddamn rights. Everything, the whole damn thing, was going to come tumbling down.’
‘So you got rid of him,’ she said.
‘I knew I had to do something but I didn’t have a plan,’ he said. ‘I suppose you could say fate took over. You know how that can happen.’
‘Tell me,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. God, it was – it was forty years ago. Everything’s … well, it’s different now. Okay! It’s forgotten.’ He took a noisy gulp of his brandy and set it down on the table. ‘Forgotten.’
‘I really need to know, Roger,’ she said, and she felt as if she could wait forever, her feet planted in the oatmeal carpet. Wait for the fire to die out, for the ice to set hard in the pipes, for the snow, the dreadful, blanketing snow, to bury them here. He would tell her tonight.
He stood up. For one ghastly moment, she thought that he might attack her. She felt herself brace in the chair, knew she was utterly defenceless. But he moved closer to the fire, put one hand on the high stone mantelpiece.
‘He’d broken his arm.’ Roger paused, putting a hand to his forehead. ‘God, I can’t remember his name … imagine that.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, this guy, he’d slipped on a bit of machine oil. A bad break. Couldn’t do any work. Useless – even more useless than he normally was. But he still kept mouthing off, sneaking around among the workers, telling them to demand this, demand that. There was a strike planned. A strike!’ He looked back at Maureen as if this news might be astonishing.
‘I knew that would mean the end of the business,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t bear it, the thought of my father getting involved. All of it would be so … public. I knew he wouldn’t spare me in any way.’
She watched Roger’s long fingers gripping the edge of the mantelpiece as if he meant to pull it towards him like a drawer.
‘I was out walking one day,’ he said. ‘I used to walk in the bush quite a bit. Birds. Used to photograph birds. So beautiful, some of their feathers: fantastic colours and patterns. You couldn’t believe how perfect, Maureen. I’ve still got some at home. I can show you.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I knew the bush around there very well. My father had owned that land for years. It was private. Strictly private …’ The fire spat a tiny ember onto the tiles. ‘I thought I’d spotted a bird. A flash of yellow and blue. Next thing I look up and there he is,’ he said. ‘On our land. It was the sling I’d seen, it was so brightly coloured. And when he saw me, he didn’t turn away, he just walked right up to me as if he meant to say something, but he didn’t speak. He just stood there, really close, staring. I said to him, “What are you doing on my property?” and he just smiled and said, “Walking, just like you.” And then he made to push past me on the track. Rude. Just so rude. I had a tripod with me that day. It was leaning against a tree on the other side of me, and …’ He looked at Maureen.
‘And you hit him?’ she said. A word was jangling in her mind, crazy as a funhouse. Clobbered. Clobbered him – that’s what you did. That’s what it means.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘it was done before I knew it. It was just … everything came at once and my hand went around the tripod and there he was, up so damn close, and his filthy breath on my neck.’ Roger’s mouth was working again. ‘I didn’t set out to kill him.’
‘But you did kill him.’
They stared at each other.
‘What did you do then?’ she said. ‘After you killed that man.’ She was horror-struck by a need to laugh aloud. Here, in her own sitting room, in the linen union chairs, talking of murder. A murderer leaning on the mantelpiece, his handsome face explaining it all. Preposterous.
‘You know, it’s what the Greeks used to do,’ he said. There was a small note of defiance in his voice.
‘Greeks?’ She thought she’d misheard.
‘The Ancient Greeks. Pushing out troublemakers. Driving them into exile. Sometimes … yes, sometimes killing them, for the greater good.’ His voice sounded thinner, higher. ‘That’s what they did. To restore things. That’s … what they did.’
‘What did you do after you killed that man?’ she said again.
Roger dropped his hand from the mantelpiece, stretched both arms like someone who’d driven a long way. ‘When I was a kid, I played there all the time. And my sister. We found a couple of deep hollows in the ground. We never did find out what they were, exactly. Not caves. Not man-made, I think. They were almost like sinkholes. Very well camouflaged. We used to hide in them. Terrifying, as kids on your own. They seemed huge to us then.’
He turned to her now, his face a plain, tight mask. A finely wrought shell of a face. ‘I knew I was close to one of the holes that day,’ he said. ‘So I just dragged him down the hill and rolled him in. It was astonishingly simple, if you must know. And they didn’t find him for years. My sister rang to tell me. She’d seen something in the local paper – used to get them sent to her in Germany. Nothing else ever emerged. My father could be very … proficient whenever things needed sorting. That’s all I can tell you, Maureen. Truly. That’s all there is. It was a long time ago. A million miles from here. It was just something that happened.’
She stood up. She didn’t feel afraid, which surprised her. She stepped towards him, pushed the brass guard against the mouth of the fireplace with a metallic scrape, and turned towards the door.
‘I’m going to bed now, Roger,’ she said, her hand on the doorknob.
She felt the colder air slip in from the hall, wind around her legs like a needy cat. ‘I want you to leave at first light. There’s a garden spade on the porch. You can dig your way out if necessary.’
Roger sat down, pushed his elegant hands around the curve of the armrests. He did not raise his head.
‘We won’t be seeing each other again,’ she said. She’d never spoken to anyone in such an icy, calm voice.
He nodded slowly, as if he were only just taking everything in.
She turned to go.
‘Maureen,’ he said, in a quiet voice. She was sure he was going to say that he was sorry, how much he regretted all this.
‘What is it?’ she said.
He looked straight at her and, in a low, chivalrous voice, he said, ‘Would it be too much to ask, do you think, if I took back the vase?’
In her bedroom, Maureen turned the key. She felt the metal components drop into place, heard the satisfying click. The silk tassel that dangled from the key swung against the glossy door. Gerald was always a great man for locks. His father had been a locksmith. It wasn’t that they were afraid; they were just careful people. Ready.
She took the tweed rug from the upholstered chair in the corner. She lay down, fully clothed, on the thick bedspread, smoothed the lavender checks across her body. She kept her eyes open, watching the snow-lit square of window, waiting for morning.
An Uncommon Occurrence
You’ll wait. Everything will feel, will be, upside down. Above you, the shape of ordinary things will lodge in your mind for later. The line of boxy lights, running out of sight, each stark bulb masked by its own frosted casing. The smoke alarms like buttons on a placket of ceiling. Everything neat and controlled, bar a strange bloom high up in one corner.
‘Mind, please,’ you’ll hear – the hospital porter, older than your father, deep-voiced, steering. ‘Off we go, love,’ he’ll say, as you’re trundled into the corridor. You will not find mint green a soothing colour.
In the lift, no one will speak. You’ll be the only one averting your eyes. You’ll smell rain on woollen sleeves, stale nicotine, a perfume too heavy for daytime. You’ll see a moth trapped, backlit, dead. You’ll notice the music. Muzak, to be precise. For a precious moment this will distract you; the way it is something, and yet not. Half-baked.
This Taste for Silence Page 2