House of Silence

by Gillard, Linda

  Eventually, she withdrew from the damp depths of his clothing and grabbed another tissue. She blew her nose, sniffed several times and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For being such an idiot.’ She pointed to the dark patch on his chest. ‘And for covering you in snot.’

  He looked down at the damp patch. ‘These were due for the wash anyway.’

  ‘I thought I’d got it all under control this year.’

  His smile was ironical. ‘That’s when we’re at our most vulnerable. When we think we’ve got everything under control. If you’d thought you were on the edge, you probably wouldn’t have accepted my invitation.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘To have coffee?’

  ‘To talk. We exercise more rigid self-control when we think we might be out of control.’

  She looked up at him, her head on one side. ‘Is it very exhausting being so wise?’

  He laughed and she was pleased. She felt she’d regained a little ground. ‘I’m not wise,’ he replied, ‘just a people-watcher. If you watch enough people and watch them carefully, patterns emerge. From those patterns you can glean a few truths about human behaviour. It’s not wisdom, just observation. So, no, it’s not exhausting, it’s fascinating. Sometimes satisfying. I don’t do it intentionally any more. In fact, my intention is not to do it, but it still happens. It’s who I am. What I am.’

  Gwen didn’t reply for a few moments, then, crumpling her tissue into a ball, said, ‘Do you think I am angry with my family?’

  ‘I think under the circumstances that would be perfectly normal. And healthy. I think perhaps you’re angry with Alfie too.’

  ‘Why would I be angry with Alfie?’

  ‘Because he has what you want - what you lost - and he isn’t grateful. Maybe you think his family is wasted on him.’ She looked up at him again, her face pale with shock. ‘I’m just guessing.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re mind-reading.’

  ‘Sorry. Perhaps you’re also angry with him because… well, because he isn’t what you want. And you thought he was. Now I am guessing.’

  ‘It isn’t that, it’s that he’s changed! He’s different here, with his family. He isn’t the Alfie I know.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be here, so he has to put on a show of filial duty. You’re intuitive and you’re picking up on the insincerity of that situation. It makes you feel uncomfortable.’

  Gwen considered confiding further in Marek, expressing her concern about the photographs, but decided against it. It was silly. She had simply over-reacted. It was just a photograph and Alfie had explained the anomaly. To take the matter any further would feel like a betrayal. Talking about Alfie like this, to another man, to an attractive man, to an attractive man in pyjamas, already felt like a betrayal. Maybe it was.

  She stood up. ‘I think I’d better be getting back. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Thanks for the coffee. And I really am very sorry for being such a wimp.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. It was a big deal for you, not for me. You looked into the existential abyss, I got damp pyjamas. No contest.’ He rose and she felt at a disadvantage in her stockinged feet, felt she might be about to cry again, but knew it could just be that she wanted to be held. He was speaking again, in that deep, reassuring voice, and she was struggling to take in his words. ‘I hope you feel better for having talked. You’re not a wimp, Gwen, you’re processing grief. Still. It takes a long time, much longer than people think. Sometimes we think we’re over the worst, we think we’ve finally put the past behind us, then - wham! - we run up against something, some memory, some feeling we thought we’d buried long ago and we’re back where we started. The wounds are open and bleeding again. It’s a cyclical process - a sort of spiral in fact - and it takes a long time to get to the end of it.’

  ‘I thought losing my entire family in a variety of ghastly ways had made me tough.’

  ‘It probably has. On the outside. There is a tough and capable Gwen on the outside, one very together young woman who knows what she wants. But inside…’

  ‘Inside, it’s all mush.’

  ‘If you say so. And the tough exterior is brittle. It doesn’t take much to break it. When it cracks, the mush, as you put it, seeps out.’

  ‘You’re making me sound like a liqueur chocolate.’

  ‘Not a bad comparison when you consider what’s inside is powerful stuff.’

  ‘So how the hell do I get rid of all this… emotional baggage?’

  ‘There’s no quick fix. In the end there’s only time. Time and kindness.’

  ‘Kindness?’

  ‘Yes. While you’re waiting for time to pass, be kind to yourself. Treat yourself as you’d treat someone who was going through a tough time, who’s having trouble getting over some major loss. A bereavement. The end of a love affair. Time and kindness heal. Eventually.’

  They descended the flights of stairs in silence, Gwen following Marek. As he opened the front door for her she turned and said, ‘Thank you for your kindness. And your time. You know, I really think you should invoice me.’

  He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. ‘You’re very welcome to both. Gratis. Any time.’

  She looked up at him and, with a wan smile, craned her neck to kiss him on his stubbled cheek. ‘Thanks. For everything.’

  ‘It was nothing. Come again.’

  She thought he sounded as if he meant it.

  It would be easy. He could see that now. The way she had clung to him. The way she had opened up to him about her pain. She was looking for something. Somebody… And it wasn’t Alfie. Something had come between them. She didn’t say so, but it was obvious. She was rattled. Frightened even?

  He’d been right about her. The capable young professional was only half the story. Maybe not even half. There was a little girl lost inside. Confused. Lonely. Wanting to be wanted.

  He wanted her. He knew that now. And he wanted to be wanted, thought perhaps she wanted him, or would if she knew her own mind. But she would pick up eventually on the pain within him, the pain that was rotting him from the inside. What was the word she’d used? Mush. She would sense the rotten mush at his core and realise there was only a fragile carapace holding him together. Perhaps that was why she was attracted to him. She recognised his vulnerability and it resonated with her own.

  But she was also looking for strength. A father figure maybe. The Daddy she’d never known. He could see she’d already set him on some kind of pedestal. He should just learn to shut the fuck up… But it was hard when people were hurting, when they were needy and you thought you could help. And how, for the love of God, was he to make any kind of reparation, if it wasn’t by helping other people?…

  She would have been seventeen.

  Anna.

  Almost a woman. He often thought about the sort of woman she would have become, but it was impossible to imagine. She would always be five. Five for all eternity, except that in his mind, she aged with every year that passed. Every year she didn’t live was another year added to her post mortem life, the life she lived in his head, from childhood to girlhood, to womanhood.

  Between memory and imagination there was no escape. It was a life sentence. It would never end, except with his death. And that was just.

  A life for a life.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gwen

  I hurried back towards Creake Hall, feeling guilty for being out so long, guiltier still for having unburdened myself to Marek. I stepped out briskly, trying to banish the memory of how I’d felt with Marek’s arms round me: strangely calm, despite the emotional turbulence; safe, despite the fact I was in the arms of a strange man while my boyfriend was enjoying a lie-in.

  But it wasn’t really like that. Marek was just being kind. And I was just being… what? Pathetic. Not like myself at all. Anyone less wilting-violet than me would be hard to imagine. Ask anyone. Phlegmatic, that’s me. Unflappable. Unshock-able. Bomb-pr
oof. And one stupid little photo undid all that? A photo and a few kind words from a man old enough - just - to be my father?

  ‘Pull yourself together, Gwen.’

  I actually said that. Out loud.

  ‘Why? Are you falling apart? Have we got to you already?’

  Startled, I turned round to see Hattie walking the dogs. (Strictly speaking, they were walking her.)

  ‘We wondered where you’d got to. Alfie said you’d probably eaten some of my porridge, then very sensibly rung for an ambulance and been carted off to casualty. I thought you’d probably gone for a walk. It’s not a bad morning for it.’

  ‘Yes, I went for a walk. Marek - I mean, Tyler - saw me and invited me in for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Did he? You know, I’m convinced he’s smitten with you, Gwen. He’s behaving quite out of character.’

  And so am I, I thought. Behaving out of character, that is, not smitten. I hardly know the guy. I was just upset, that’s all. Very upset. About the photo, about my mother, about Alfie being bloody to his family. I’m not smitten. If I do remember how it felt to rest my head on Marek’s chest, it’s just because that sort of thing never happens to me. I’m the shoulder people cry on, I’m the one passing the Kleenex. That’s what I do, what I’ve always done: mopped up other people’s emotional messes. Marek just turned the tables on me, that’s all.

  And no one’s ever done that.

  Not in twenty-six years.

  ‘Are you OK, Gwen? You’ve gone ever so quiet. Did I offend you, speaking about Tyler like that?’

  ‘No, not at all. I was just thinking.’ As we turned a corner, Creake Hall came into view. ‘I’ve been thinking about those quilts in the attic.’

  ‘Did you have a look at them?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I got them out. I hope that was all right. I was wondering about A Thousand Pyramids. The unfinished quilt.’

  ‘Oh, that old horror. That’s one of my many UFOs.’

  ‘UFO?’

  ‘Unfinished objects. I gave up on that one a long time ago.’

  ‘I really liked it. You ought to finish it.’

  ‘I ran out of scraps. It’s a Charm quilt, you see. I could send off for some packs of fabric squares to finish it off, but they wouldn’t look right. Too modern. I keep going to jumble sales and car boots, hoping to find some cast-off scrap bags or dressmaker’s samples. Really, what I need,’ said Hattie warming to her subject, ‘is for a local quilter to die and bequeath me her fabric stash.’

  ‘I’ve a less drastic idea how we could finish it off and I’d love to help. I thought we could work on it together.’

  ‘It’ll take days just to remove all the papers.’

  ‘Not if we tackle it together. We could start taking out the papers today and then tomorrow I’ll tell you my idea.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘It’s something to do with your Christmas present.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Hattie’s eyes widened.

  ‘Oh dear, now I’ve said too much! I’m not going to answer any more questions. Let’s just get stuck in removing those papers, then we can re-use them. They should come out anyway - the ink from those letters can’t be doing the fabric any good.’

  ‘I left them in so the quilt wouldn’t lose its shape. And because I hate unpicking.’

  ‘I quite like it when it’s only tacking. It’s a mindless, soothing activity. I feel in need of something like that. When are Deborah and Frances due?’

  ‘After lunch.’

  ‘Are you busy this morning?’

  ‘No. I’ve wrapped all my presents, but I dare say Viv will have some kitchen chores for me. Apart from that, we’re just waiting for Fanny and Deb. Deb’s driving over from Beccles and she’s picking Fanny up at Norwich station. She’s coming up from London by train. Minus the boyfriend, so she’ll be a wet weekend,’ Hattie said gloomily.

  ‘Never mind. We’ve got our quilt. And the concert to look forward to. We’ll have a lovely time! Alfie and Fan can be grouchy together, while we’re nauseatingly full of Christmas cheer.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Hattie, linking her arm through mine as we strolled up the drive.

  Hattie and I entered Creake Hall by the front door and while she was removing dog leads I went ahead to put the kettle on. As I approached the kitchen I could hear two voices: Viv and Alfie, sounding serious. When I opened the door, his eyes were fixed on Viv, sitting opposite, and she was staring into the depths of her coffee mug. As they both turned to me, I watched Alfie switch on the light-bulb charm.

  ‘There you are! We’d given you up for lost and had just decided to distribute your Christmas presents among the poor of the parish. Where’ve you been?’

  Viv stood up and headed for the kettle. ‘Coffee, Gwen?’

  ‘Thanks, that would be nice.’ I sat down at the table, opposite Alfie. ‘I just went for a walk. It was a fine morning and nobody was up, so I went off to explore.’

  ‘Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yes. Well, not fun exactly, but I had a mooch around.’ I hesitated a moment, decided I had nothing to hide, but avoided Alfie’s eye. ‘I saw Tyler and he invited me in to look round the mill.’

  Viv set a mug of coffee in front of me. ‘It’s a fascinating old place, isn’t it? I think in her youth Rae had ideas of being Vita Sackville-West, writing in a tower. A bolt-hole, away from the family. Then she came to her senses and got a nice comfy flat in London. But the mill’s been handy for accommodating staff. Only the really hardy can stand it though. It’s very cold in winter. The situation is exposed, you see. Had to be for a windmill. I’ve got some old photos somewhere, of when it had sails. I’ll show you later. Rae’s working on an idea for a TDH story that features a spooky old windmill.’

  ‘How is she this morning?’

  Viv looked at Alfie, then answered, ‘Not too good. We were talking about it just before you came in.’

  Alfie leaned his elbows on the table and sighed. ‘I took her breakfast up and stayed for a while.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She seemed pretty confused.’

  ‘She always is after you’ve arrived.’ Viv sounded impatient. ‘She loves to see you, but you know it always upsets her. She’ll soon settle down.’

  ‘Viv, how does Rae manage to write, when she has such a struggle keeping things straight in her mind? I mean, the TDH plots are pretty complicated, aren’t they, with loads of characters. How does she do it?’

  Viv didn’t reply, but looked at Alfie again. He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘It’s your call, Viv. I can vouch for Gwen. She’s the soul of discretion. Wardrobe mistresses have to be. It’s in the job description.’

  Viv hesitated, then said, ‘Rae doesn’t write the TDHs, Gwen. Not any more. She writes, and she writes about TDH, but not much of it is actually publishable. Not any more.’

  I stared, my coffee mug poised mid-air. ‘So who writes them?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Yes. I’ve written them for years. To begin with, it was something of a joint effort. I’ve always typed them up and I used to make a few suggestions. Rae was wonderfully inventive but she wasn’t bothered about consistency, or even credibility. So I used to make sure the plots worked as a whole, that the series worked as a whole and that characters behaved consistently. That sort of thing matters to children. Then when she had her last breakdown—’

  ‘Was that after the documentary?’

  ‘Yes, eleven years ago. After that she lost it altogether. But there was no let-up in the demand for her books. If anything, the programme created a new market for them. So I stepped into the breach.’ I suppose I must have looked shocked because Viv went on hurriedly, ‘It’s common enough in publishing. Books aren’t always written by the person whose name is on the cover.’

  ‘Does Rae know?’

  ‘Not really. She’s been told of course, but she prefers to think she writes them. It’s not so much self-delusion
as being stuck. She’s stuck in the past, when she still wrote the books, so she believes the stories are hers. I talk to her about them of course, and I read her extracts. She’s usually very pleased with what she hears! Perhaps that’s not so very surprising,’ Viv added with a gentle smile. ‘I try to write how Rae would write, if she still could.’

  ‘But isn’t there a danger that she’ll be exposed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Her publishers know what’s going on and they aren’t going to bite the hand that feeds them. Rae doesn’t give interviews any more. I answer all her fan mail and I post articles - supposedly written by her - on the website, so it’s not at all obvious she isn’t participating. Her readers are happy, her publisher is happy, Rae is happy and so am I!’

  ‘But you don’t get any recognition for your work.’

  ‘I get all the fan letters from children. And quite a few adults too. They make it all worthwhile.’

  ‘Not to mention,’ said Alfie drily, ‘the sizeable income.’

  ‘Yes. It is considerable.’

  ‘But it’s really yours, Viv. You’re the one earning it!’

  She laughed. ‘Only because of Ma’s name! Who’d want to read a book by Vivien Holbrook? At best, it would be a novelty item, something produced by a lesser Holbrook, daughter of the famous Rachael.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Alfie said with a groan.

  ‘Anyway, what would I do with more money? As it is, I decide how we spend our income. Much of it gets ploughed back into this monster of a house. Some supports Hattie and me. It also pays for Tyler. I have to have him so I can get the writing done.’

  ‘Does Tyler know?’

  ‘I’ve never told him. But he’s not stupid and he knows Rae, so he’s probably guessed.’

  I was silent for a moment, trying to assimilate this new information. Eventually, trying not to sound too judgemental, I said, ‘How do you cope with all the… pretence?’

  ‘Oh, it’s become a way of life now! Rae’s lived in a world of make-believe for most of her adult life. It’s a world we’ve all had to accept. Apart from Freddie, who got out because he couldn’t stand it. And Alfie, of course, chooses to keep a sane distance! The rest of us chose to play Rae’s games. It suited us to do so. It seemed - it still seems - the lesser of two evils. With our support Rae can just about hold things together. Hattie and I get to stay in the family home. We can keep the garden going. And I get to write.’