The Knotted House

by Ruth Skrine

  ‘I’ll put in some extra practice on the carols,’ Mrs Hendry says.

  I have not liked to ask Mrs Hendry, she always seems so exhausted. But the music can certainly do with some practice.

  Louise breaks in. ‘I’ll dress the Virgin Mary. The mother of that girl will never help and she would look so pretty in white with a blue sash. I’ll buy some taffeta.’

  She will have to use money from the school fund, which will leave less to spend on spare knickers, but at least she has offered to do something. ‘I’ll do Jane as the innkeeper’s wife,’ I say hurriedly.

  Louise sniffs. ‘You would. I wish you luck with that child.’

  Jim tries to move the discussion forward. ‘The most important thing now is to make the final decisions about casting.’

  We settle down with pencils and lists. My biggest worry is still Robby Bates whose outbursts of temper are no better. Tracy thinks he should be one of the kings so he can be responsible for carrying something without the pressure of a speaking part. I put more faith in Jim’s offer to use him to help with the rostrum that we borrow from the senior school. Robby needs male company and physical activity. The meeting finishes with a discussion of the relative merits of wood or plaster of Paris for the shepherds’ crooks. The ones we used last year are broken.

  As we are leaving the building, Tracy slips her hand through my arm and gives it a squeeze. ‘We do need you,’ she says. The unexpected warmth is nearly my undoing and I mutter gruff thanks as I put my hand over hers.

  The next three weeks are hectically busy. I am determined that Jane will look good on the day and she does. I had hoped that Aunt Beth could get away and come to watch the play in place of my mother, who never failed to support me. But George has decided to pay a professional designer to redo their garden. She fears his plans are increasingly grandiose. If she leaves him alone he could go wild and get them into serious debt.

  Jane’s hair winds easily into a twist and I fix it in place with one of my tortoiseshell combs. I have cut the bottom off a brown dress of my mother’s and tied my cream shawl round the middle, leaving one end so long it almost touches the floor, more like a bridal train than an apron. As a finishing touch I put four real mince pies in a little wicker basket over her arm. I hope she will eat at least one afterwards and not give them all away to the bullies. Her mother comes to the performance but cuts me dead when we pass in the corridor.

  The play is a success and term ends with an upsurge of good will. Jim provides sherry, Tracy kisses me and even Louise says it has gone well. Mrs Hendry smiles as if I am now a reformed character.

  Quentin and I have had little time to spend together during this hectic time. On the rare occasions I have been free he has been in Southampton or working overtime. He is determined to buy his children expensive presents and entertain them lavishly during the break. Now there are only two days before I am due in London. I want to give him a really nice meal but I still have to buy my presents. I rush into town and back, before plumping up the cushions and arranging the chairs in the drawing room. The windows have been open all day to remove the stale smell. I have no time to think about the memoir. On my return from London I will settle down and read the whole thing from cover to cover.

  Each year, for as long as I can remember, my mother fixed the Christmas decorations. She splashed out on a big tree, put streamers to it from each corner of the room and covered every available surface with cards. I can’t compete but at the last moment I buy a tiny tree and decorate it with some of my favourite baubles. The old fairy, her paper dress yellow with age, perches on the top in vulgar splendour out of all proportion to the small conifer.

  Quentin arrives with a bottle of champagne in his hand and red wine in a carrier bag. He pours two glasses of bubbly and we link arms in front of the log fire to drink a toast. He leans across and kisses my forehead.

  ‘Now’ he says, ‘I want this conducted tour you promised me so long ago.’

  I decide to introduce him to the house from the top down. He wants to hear the musical box in the loft. The tinkling strains reverberate between the rafters as he helps me pack up the contents of the doll’s house, which have been scattered on the floor ever since Briony’s visit. I hand him each piece in turn, sorting them according to age and saving the best pieces for the end, as I used to do with my favourite bits of food. His nimble fingers wrap the objects in the original newspaper and he packs them carefully away into the shoe boxes where they have always lived. His nails are flat, the slight longitudinal ridges straight as ploughed furrows. I imagine them working over the strained ligaments and tired muscles of his patients. A twist of jealousy runs through me at the thought of them in the service of other women.

  ‘You’re day dreaming again,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry.’ When he chastises me his voice feels like a caress.

  I go down the steps and he hands me the boxes. Then he lies flat on the loft floor and carefully lowers the doll’s house itself until I can take the weight. I climb back up and see him looking at the trunk. Some protruding envelopes still prevent the lid from shutting. ‘Have you found out any more about the murder?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve read a bit more. The cowman killed the groom’s wife as well. It wasn’t in this house after all, but down the road in one of the cottages.’

  ‘Does that make you feel better about it?’

  ‘Sort of, but I still have the feeling that the family was involved in some way. D’you think there would be a record of the murder anywhere?’

  ‘I expect the trial would have been reported in the local paper. If you know the date you could look it up in the library.’

  ‘I’ll do that as soon as it reopens after Christmas. I want to find out all I can about my ancestors.’ Despite Quentin’s sympathetic nature, my fear that the dramas of the past are influencing my present is too silly to mention.

  We walk on down through the house. In my grandmother’s room – I still think of it as the nursery – he stands at the window and looks out. The branches of the oak tree stretch up as far as my own room above, but he is looking down at the pile of wet ashes, all that is left of our crazy bonfire. His arm comes round me and he turns my head to reach my lips.

  ‘Not here,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Oh, shades of the past.’ I stroke his face to take the sting out of my words and lead him into my mother’s room. Here it feels easier so I put my arms round his neck and kiss his cheek, then pull away. ‘Come on, you haven’t seen the cellars yet.’

  ‘Let’s have another drink first to fortify ourselves.’

  We go down and he refills our glasses. Pointing to a small bird on the tree he says, ‘That one seems to have been in the wars.’

  The ornament is made of brittle material. The stiff white tail that had been its pride and glory was lost ages ago, leaving a jagged hole. ‘I know it’s shabby but for some reason I like it.’

  ‘If you give me some paper, I’ll make it a new tail while you get the food. I’m starving.’ I find some coloured tissue paper and scissors. He kneels on the floor, immediately absorbed in the task. When I return he has wound together pleated pieces of green and red paper. ‘We just need to curl the feathers and then it’ll be done.’

  I laugh at his childish enthusiasm, and fetch the surgical forceps my mother kept in her sewing basket. ‘These are in better shape than those in the compost.’

  He works the blades open and shut and uses them to bend the cut paper into curves and loops. I fetch some glue to stick it in place. Kneeling down beside him I pull him close. I no longer believe that commitment or marriage is needed to solve my problem. True love will be enough. ‘The bird looks drunk,’ I say, ‘as if the wine has gone to its tail instead of its head.’

  ‘Umm. That’s where my drink seems to go.’ He pulls my head onto his lap.

  After several long kisses I drag myself out of his arms. ‘Come and eat, the food’s getting cold. T
hen I’ll take you to the cellars.’

  I have laid the table in the dining room and set it with candles and holly. The meal is a success, my pheasant tender and tasty. Between courses Quentin lets off his fireworks. When I manage to light the brandy on a small Marks and Spencer Christmas pudding, we dance round waving sparklers. Just once I am assailed by a sinking feeling. It is too soon after my mother’s death to be enjoying myself so much. But as I gaze at Quentin I push the thought away.

  ‘In the old days they used to hold huge Christmas parties,’ I tell him. ‘This room and the drawing room were all one and took in some of Susan’s house as well. Relatives collected from all over the world.’

  ‘Before your time, I suppose. How do you know about it?’

  ‘My father told me stories. He was a little boy at the time. When his grandfather got going on the toasts he was allowed a glass of cider. By the time they were drinking to absent friends, my father had climbed under the table to play at being a sea captain.’

  ‘That was before the war, then?’

  ‘In the early thirties. On Christmas Eve the staff were invited in to get their presents. The parcels were handed out from under the tree in strict order of seniority. Then they were all given a glass of hot punch.’ Only now, with Quentin opposite me, his eyes eager as he watches my face, do I feel safe enough to remember how much I used to enjoy my father’s stories.

  We agree to finish the tour of the house before we have coffee. He follows me down the steep steps to the cellars. I point out where my father kept his wine. Then I lead him through the rooms to my special niche by the window. He watches as I lower myself onto the cold stone.

  ‘No room for two,’ he says, with a teasing frown.

  ‘It didn’t need to hold two in the old days.’ I stick my tongue out at him.

  ‘What’s through there?’ he asks, pointing at a door leading into darkness. The bulb blew ages ago and I have never replaced it.

  ‘That’s the boiler room, as far away from the wine as possible.’

  He takes a pencil torch from his pocket and starts to explore. I put my hand up to feel the hole where I used to hide my diary. Running my fingers down the window frame I remember looking out at the sunken area by the side of the house, and the wall beyond where small clumps of toadflax grew between the stones. Now it is too dark to see anything but my own reflection.

  I hear Quentin moving about. He must be interested in boilers. I haven’t been in the cellars with another person since my father died. Here I had been safe, my mother respected my privacy and the steps were too steep for my grandmother.

  Quentin emerges from the doorway. ‘Look what I’ve found.’ He opens his fingers and there, lying in his palm, is the small, dust-covered boy from the doll’s house. Without thinking I hold him with the head peeping out of my closed fist so that I can stroke his face with the thumb of my other hand. As I do so my chest tightens.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Quentin is peering at me. I don’t answer. He crouches down and lifts my chin. ‘You’re trembling.’

  The coffin was lying in the crematorium chapel with its shiny brass handles and the large cross of flowers perched on the top. Solemn music rang in my ears. I was standing at the end of the pew nearest to him, my mother beside me, with Briony on the other side. I liked being so close, though I knew he wasn’t there really.

  ‘The little figure,’ Quentin presses me. ‘He’s important to you?’

  I run my tongue round the inside of my mouth. ‘He reminds me of my father’s funeral.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It was a terrible day.’ I look away from him. ‘My grandmother kept on saying he was “going to God” but I knew he was going to be burnt. All through the service I tried to fix my eyes on the clouds drifting past the window. I imagined him in our valley, casting his fishing rod and walking by the weir.’ I stop. ‘It didn’t help.’

  Quentin reaches out and pushes the hair back from my face. ‘It must have been terrible.’ Easing himself down to sit on the floor at my feet, he looks up at me. ‘The little boy?’

  ‘He was in my pocket all through the funeral.’ I glance down. ‘I held him like this. When no one was watching I slipped him out to make sure he was all right.’

  He touches my hand, feeling the tension. ‘You’re squeezing him so tight he won’t be able to breathe.’ When I don’t respond he asks how he got into the boiler room.

  I think back. All those visitors – how could they chatter and laugh over the tea and cakes when my father was dead? Leaping up, I pace across the cellar room. ‘I smashed a mirror.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  I continue to pace, trying to explain. ‘My mother’s bed was covered with strange coats. My face in the mirror was pale but alive – when my father was dead. I lost my temper.’

  The details surge back into my mind. I picked up a shoe and threw it. The glass cracked. Jagged pieces fell out onto the carpet. Footsteps on the stairs made me hide on the floor behind the bed. Two guests came into the room, saw the broken mirror and exclaimed. The rank smell of the carpet fills my nostrils as I stand there in the musty cellar. Raising my head, I see Quentin sitting in my special place.

  ‘How dare you sit there?’

  He jumps up. ‘I’m sorry. The floor was cold. I didn’t know it was so special.’

  ‘No one else sits there. I wish you had never come down here.’ He stares at me. ‘It is my den. I had a bit of blanket.’ He comes towards me, his arms outstretched. I flinch away. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He stops, but his eyes remain fixed on my face. There is no way he can understand. That seat is private, never shared with anyone. I made up stories there. I was always the heroine. And it was in that place where I used to touch myself for comfort, as I sometimes do in bed. I remember the feel of the sharp edge of stone cutting into the back of my thighs and the press of my hand under the piece of blanket.

  I wrench myself round so that Quentin can’t see my face. Crossing my arms over my chest, I clench my fists, trying to obliterate the memory. The weight of his arm falls onto my shoulders. I stand rigid.

  ‘Can’t you tell me?’

  I swivel so sharply that his arm falls away. Opening my eyes I throw my head back and look up at the beams, not seeing them. ‘It was my fault.’ My voice rises to a scream. ‘My fault my father died.’ Tears spring into my eyes and run down my face. ‘If I had been a good girl he would have wanted to live.’

  Quentin takes a couple of steps away from me, one hand raised with the palm outwards, as if denying what I have said. He hesitates, then pulls his shoulders back and walks over to fold me in a resolute hug. Easing my head onto his shoulder, he strokes my hair. ‘Come on. Let’s go upstairs. You’ll feel better there.’

  He tries to lead me out of the room but I pull away. ‘You go up.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you here. Come on, it’ll be all right.’

  I let him take my hand. As we pass the window I see our reflections in the blackness. My tear-stained face is crumpled and mutinous. Quentin looks strong but his eyes are wary. At the top I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. ‘You’d better go.’ I glare at him. ‘I’m sorry your evening is ruined.’

  He takes no notice but goes into the kitchen to fetch the unused bottle of wine. I can’t bear to think he is leaving. The precious sense of being together is slipping from my fingers. As he comes out carrying the bottle I throw my arms round his neck. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That’s the second time I’ve lost my temper recently, first at school, and now with you.’

  ‘Mind the wine,’ he says, disentangling himself from my grip. He leads the way up to the drawing room and sits me down in the biggest chair that was always said to belong to my father. ‘I’m going to pour you some more. I’m sure your father would have approved.’ He lowers himself into the chair opposite, his own glass cupped between his hands. ‘I would like to understand. The little boy reminded you of the da
y your father died, and then … or would you rather not talk about it?’ His smile is warm. ‘Did you get blamed for the mirror?’

  I have no memory of getting into trouble. Perhaps they thought it was the wind, or some guest being careless. I give Quentin a tight smile. My anger has not shattered him. His frown may be concern, not disapproval. But finding words for a memory that has shaken me to the very depths of my being is difficult. ‘I remember running down to the cellar and crouching in the furthest corner. I don’t know how long I stayed there.’ As I talk the words come more easily. ‘Eventually the house went quiet. All the visitors had left but I didn’t move till my mother called that she wouldn’t go away until I came up. Then I unwound myself from the corner and climbed up. I must have dropped the little boy.’ I pause to look at the toy in my hand. ‘She put me in the bath and washed me all over.’ Her whispering echoes in my head though the words are indistinct. ‘She tipped my head back to swill the cobwebs from my hair,’ I tell Quentin. As I remember the feel of her soft hands, tears run down my cheeks again. He comes to sit on the arm of my chair and wipes my face with his handkerchief. I put the little boy in my pocket and take up my glass.

  ‘I wonder why you felt responsible.’

  ‘All sorts of things made me feel guilty when I was little.’ Even to Quentin I can’t admit the ultimate sin. ‘I used to pick the best flowers from the garden and steal sweets.’

  ‘Not so terrible, surely.’

  ‘No, but that wasn’t all.’ I look into the blood red wine and drink, hoping he won’t press me.

  ‘You must have had an overactive conscience.’

  ‘All my life I’ve wanted to be good, but I had not realised I was trying to make up for causing his death.’

  ‘Children get funny ideas. Nothing you did could possibly have harmed him.’

  ‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense.’ I gulp my wine and lean against his solid body hoping he won’t tip off the arm of the chair. How silly to think that my childish crimes could have hurt my father. Perhaps after all it was he who damaged me. No, I will not go down that road.