House of Silence

by Gillard, Linda

  The Mendelssohn came to an end and the family applauded. On the sofa Frances stirred. She’d kicked off her high heels and curled her legs beneath her before the performance began and Gwen suspected the applause had woken her. Deborah leaned across to Rae, made some remark and Rae nodded, clapping her large hands together.

  As the applause died down, Hattie started to play again. Immediately, the hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck stood up as Hattie played a tune of such languid sensuousness and melodic beauty, Gwen feared she might start to cry. As Hattie settled into the tune, her face serene, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, Marek launched into the cello part, deep in its low register and there began a dialogue between male and female as each instrument answered the other and their voices intertwined. When the tempo changed and the music became more dramatic, Gwen felt her heart begin to pound. She realised she was forgetting to breathe.

  The piece lasted six minutes. Gwen was in tears after four, no longer able to hold back the flood of emotions she felt. As the piece came to an end, culminating in a deceptively simple, almost casual little tune, she reached into a pocket for a tissue and, head bowed in shame, dabbed at her eyes while the others applauded. Oblivious to Gwen’s distress, Alfie approached the piano. Marek acknowledged the applause with a nod, then laid his cello down on its side, and went to sit beside Gwen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me! I hope I didn’t distract you too much with my stupid blubbing. It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful - let alone seen anything so beautiful being played in front of me! I promise I’ll behave for the rest of the concert. How on earth do you play something like that and not fall apart at the seams?’

  Marek laid his hand briefly on hers and said, ‘We do fall apart. But the music puts us back together again.’

  Alfie was leaning on the piano now, talking to Hattie who was rearranging her music. At a sign from her, he turned to his audience and said, ‘And now for something completely different, as the Python boys used to say. I’m about to lower the tone of our elegant proceedings by singing a song made famous by that immortal duo, Flanders and Swann. It’s Hattie’s favourite and I’m singing it at her specific request, so don’t,’ said Alfie pointedly, ‘blame me. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you… The Warthog.’

  Relaxed, assured, with one hand laid casually on the piano, the other in his jacket pocket, Alfie sailed through the comic song, ad-libbing skilfully when Hattie lost her place in the music. He was applauded warmly, especially by Gwen who cheered. She turned round to look at a beaming Rae who was nodding at something Deborah had said. Catching sight of Gwen, Rae waved and Gwen waved back.

  As Marek got up from the sofa to resume his position with the cello, Alfie took his place beside Gwen, muttering, ‘Thank Christ that’s over for another year. Do you think there’s an interval now? I need another drink.’

  ‘You were wonderful, Alfie! Quite hilarious. Why have you never told me you can sing?’

  ‘Oh, there are lots of things you don’t know about me, Gwen. I like to maintain a certain mystique.’

  ‘You should definitely do a musical. You really know how to put a song across.’

  ‘The art that conceals art, my dear. It takes hours rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror to look that natural. Sshh! Hattie wants to speak…’

  Standing beside the piano, Hattie said, ‘Tyler and I are now going to play two more pieces: an arrangement he’s made of a Polish Christmas carol and finally, a Serenade in A major by Josef Suk.’

  Gwen managed to maintain her composure for the final items in the concert: a simple but poignant folk tune followed by a jaunty piece which showcased Hattie’s playing. Gwen noticed as they played the final piece that Hattie now looked relaxed and happy and she remembered what Hattie had said about looking forward to the concert being over.

  The serenade finished with a witty musical flourish from Hattie and, as the applause started, she jumped up from the piano and moved across to Marek, now standing. They took a bow together, then Marek bent to kiss her on the cheek. The applause was long. Viv and Deborah took it in turns to shout ‘Bravo!’ Frances sat up and applauded respectably until Hattie, giggling, announced, ‘That was so much fun, I wish we could do it all over again!’ whereupon Frances said, ‘Well, count me out, darling. I need my bed. It’s been a long day. Night night.’ Picking up her shoes and empty glass, Frances left the room, pausing to give her mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Off to bed via the drinks tray,’ Hattie murmured as she closed the lid of the grand piano. She turned and caught Gwen’s eye. ‘Does Fanny think I’m blind? She slept through the whole thing, right under our noses! I suppose we’re lucky she didn’t snore this year.’

  ‘Don’t let her spoil it,’ said Gwen. ‘You were marvellous! I adored every item, but you really shone in that last piece.’

  ‘The Suk? Yes, it’s fun isn’t it? I enjoy myself with that. Tyler chose all the pieces. He’s really good at programme planning and his musical knowledge is encyclopaedic. We do different pieces every year. Sometimes Alfie does Noël Coward. He’s a scream.’ Gwen looked round for Alfie who had evidently left the room - she assumed in search of alcohol.

  Marek declined Viv’s offer of another drink and fastened his cello case, saying, ‘I’ll be getting back home now, I think. It’ll be a slow walk with the cello.’

  ‘You didn’t come on your bike?’ Viv asked.

  ‘I can’t cycle with the cello. The case is too big.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I don’t think anyone’s sober enough to give you a lift home,’ said Viv, annoyed she hadn’t foreseen this eventuality.

  I am,’ said Gwen. ‘I haven’t had anything to drink. I don’t think we’ll get the cello in the boot of Alfie’s Polo, but if someone will lend me a car—’

  ‘There’s no need! It’s really not far to walk.’

  Deborah, who had parted the curtains to check on the weather, said, ‘I hate to tell you, Tyler, but it’s actually snowing quite hard. It looks as if we’re in for a white Christmas!’

  Viv fished in her handbag, withdrew some keys and handed them to Gwen. ‘Take my car. It’s the Volvo.’

  Marek protested again but Viv overruled him. ‘I won’t hear of you walking, not after that wonderful concert. Do you know, Gwen, they get better every year!’

  ‘It will only take a few minutes,’ said Gwen, ‘and I need some air anyway. And I want to see the snow!’ Without waiting for a reply, she headed for the hall where she pulled on her outdoor shoes and a coat. Turning, she saw Marek standing ready with his cello case.

  ‘This is very kind of you, Gwen.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s my way of thanking you for the concert. Come on, let’s see how bad the snow is.’

  Gwen

  The snow wasn’t heavy but the wind was strong and visibility poor, so we took it very slowly. Fortunately there was little traffic on the road. Marek said nothing as we drove and I was concentrating on the bends in the unfamiliar road. When we finally drew up outside the mill neither of us had spoken for the duration of the journey.

  I turned to Marek and saw his pale profile and even paler hair outlined against the car window through which I could see flurries of snow whirling in a mad dance.

  ‘I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself at the concert. It’s just that it was… a revelation to me.’

  He turned his head to look at me for a moment, then turned away again and stared through the windscreen. ‘And your response was a revelation to me. It’s a very long time since I saw anyone respond to music like that. It was worthy of a Pole,’ he added, with a slow smile.

  ‘Tell me, do you feel Polish?’

  ‘Only when I play.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why playing is so important to you.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  After a moment, I said, ‘You’re different when you play.’

  ‘How, dif
ferent?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You lose your cool. You’re… passionate.’

  ‘You can tell?’ he said, still looking through the windscreen.

  ‘It’s obvious. Blindingly obvious!’ I added, laughing.

  He turned to look at me, regarding me steadily, unsmiling, his body quite still. I knew then what would happen. I also knew I could prevent it, by speaking or moving, by doing anything in fact, other than sitting still and waiting.

  I sat still and waited.

  Marek leaned across and slipped his fingers under my hair, around the curve of my neck. He pulled me gently towards him. His lips brushed mine tentatively and once he was sure I wasn’t going to pull away, he kissed me properly, lingeringly, then let me go.

  I opened my eyes - I didn’t remember closing them - to find Marek staring at me.

  ‘It was your Christmas present.’

  ‘The kiss?’

  ‘The concert. I played for you. I wanted to move you. To touch you. With the music. I was pleased I did. Merry Christmas, Gwen.’ He turned away and reached for the door handle.

  I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Wait! When will I see - I mean, will you be coming to the Hall tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’m invited for lunch on Boxing Day.’ After a moment he said, ‘If you’d rather I didn’t come, I’d understand. I can invent some indisposition.’

  ‘No, I want you to come! I want to see you.’ Silence hung between us as the wind whistled around the car. I shivered. ‘Will you spend Christmas Day alone then?’

  ‘I always do. Alone with my ghosts. There’s plenty of chairs…’

  He got out of the car, retrieved the cello and walked up to the mill without looking back. Snowflakes danced wildly around him and settled on his silver hair, spectral in the faint glimmer of moonlight.

  I turned on the ignition and drove back to Creake Hall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gwen

  When I got back, there was no sign of any of the women. Alfie was sitting dozing by the dying embers of the fire, his head propped on his hand, his fingers buried in his tousled hair. I knew he’d waited up for me and I had a good idea why. Convinced guilt must be written all over my face, I was relieved his eyes were closed. As I stood in the open doorway, looking at him bathed in the glow of the fire and the Christmas tree lights, I felt an urge to turn tail and creep upstairs, avoiding questions, explanations and most of all Alfie’s big brown eyes, always irresistible when sleepy, framed as they were by long, drooping eyelashes. I knew what would be on Alfie’s mind if he woke: bed, but not sleep. And I wished to avoid that. With guilty, sinking heart, I realised I wished to avoid Alfie.

  Seeking justification, my eyes turned to the childhood photos on the side table and I examined the boy cricketer again. The damned child was still left-handed. My stomach turned over. Instinct told me I was involved in something I didn’t like, something I couldn’t handle. I liked to keep things simple, or if not simple, then at least straightforward. I didn’t do casual sex. I didn’t (as a rule) even do casual kissing. Buttoned-up I may be, and that’s how I prefer to keep my clothes as a rule. The person I became with Marek wasn’t a Gwen that I recognised. She wasn’t even someone I approved of. What murky depths had Marek stirred? And what murky depths were there to Alfie that I didn’t know about, didn’t even want to know about?

  Alfie opened his eyes and I jumped. I saw it then, what I’d seen so many times before, but not registered consciously. The shutters coming down. For an instant Alfie’s eyes were wide, a little confused, even vulnerable. Then they changed. A light went out, a guarded look replaced the one of openness. Prepared. That’s how he looked. His face was prepared. Here’s one I made earlier…

  ‘You know,’ he said, sitting up in his armchair and stretching cramped limbs, ‘I could never tire of looking at a face like yours.’

  ‘A face like mine? What sort of face is that?’

  He paused and seemed to choose his words carefully. ‘Old-fashioned. Characterful. Ever so slightly androgynous. You’re my idea of a Shakespearean heroine. Beautiful, but not girly.’

  My mouth was working but words wouldn’t come. Eventually I managed to say, ‘You’ve never called me beautiful before.’

  ‘Haven’t I? How remiss of me. Well, there you are. You’ve had your Christmas present early.’

  So now I’d received two early Christmas presents. Alfie’s would have seemed quite wonderful had I not already been presented with the gift of Marek’s playing. One man was trying to seduce me with words, the other with music, and both were succeeding. (Shakespearean heroine or slapper? You choose.)

  With blithe disregard for Alfie’s compliment, I changed the subject. ‘You love Shakespeare, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. With a passion. I find him bloody difficult, but I love his words. I love the sound of them, even when I don’t get all the meaning. It penetrates at some gut level. Shakespeare was why I became an actor.’

  I went and sat on the sofa, glad of the residual warmth from the fire. ‘How old were you when you decided you wanted to be an actor?’

  ‘I don’t remember… I was in my teens. It was a school trip to Stratford and I’d never seen live theatre before. I must have been about fourteen. Maybe fifteen.’

  ‘As old as that? I’d imagined actors grew up wanting to play kids’ make-believe for the rest of their lives. Weren’t you stage-struck when they cast you as the lead in school plays? I imagine that sort of thing could go to your head, especially when you’re young.’

  ‘I dare say it could, but it never happened to me.’

  An alarm bell went off in my head, distant but distinct. I ignored it. (A stupid slapper too.)

  ‘What didn’t happen? Wanting to be an actor?’

  ‘No, being cast in starring rôles. I wasn’t exactly leading man material. Star parts went to taller, more glamorous boys than me. ’Twas ever thus.’

  I could feel the triangular pieces of paper between my fingers, crisp and crackling; I could see the round childish hand; the phrases “I am playing Toad” and “they all think I am very funny.” So I persevered. (Scheming, stupid slapper.)

  ‘Did you never play a lead then? Not even when you were young? Maybe you’ve forgotten?’

  Please, Alfie, say you’ve forgotten. Please don’t say what I know you’re going to say. Lie. Please…

  ‘I’d hardly forget something like that, would I? I can remember auditioning for parts and not getting them. And being broken-hearted.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you want to know about all this anyway?’

  ‘Oh, no particular reason. It was just something Viv said. Or maybe it was Hattie. I must have misunderstood. I thought she said you’d had the lead in a school play.’

  ‘How would she know?’

  ‘Your letters home?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Have they kept them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But I understood that you’d written home about being in a play. I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘More likely Hattie did. She said I’d written about being in a school play? Maybe I was lying. I wasn’t the most truthful of children. When your parents divorce, you learn pretty fast to say what you think they want to hear. It’s a survival mechanism.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that.’

  ‘I was brought up to believe that honesty was important, but I could never really see the virtue in being honest if it hurt people. And truth always seemed so relative to me. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that I chose to make a career out of being a fake.’ Alfie stared at me in silence for a moment, then said, ‘What else did Hattie have to say about my childhood?’

  I could have stopped there. I could have accepted that the letter home was a lie, just a child’s wishful thinking, something to impress the folks back home. I could have accepted that Alfie used to lie as a boy, in the past. But not now. And so I continued. With my own lies.

  ‘She was telling me about you
r special friend at school.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Did I imagine it? Did Alfie’s nonchalant, amused look slip for a moment? There was no sign of panic, nothing so obvious, just a sense of his being suddenly alert, watching me. As I dug a verbal pit for him to fall into, I felt sick to my stomach.

  ‘She said you had a friend. A best friend. I think she said he was called… Oliver?’

  Alfie didn’t miss a beat. ‘She remembered old Ollie? Amazing! I’d almost forgotten about him! Yes, Ollie was my best mate throughout school.’ Then he chuckled in the most charming and natural way. (You’re good, Alfie. I had no idea how good.) ‘We got into a lot of trouble together.’

  I could almost see him trawling through the childhood memories, memories that, according to his letters, involved a boy called Laurie.

  ‘What happened to Oliver?’ I asked, casually.

  ‘No idea. He went to university - read History at Durham, I think - and I went to RADA. We went our separate ways and lost touch.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Yes. He was a good bloke, old Ollie. A loyal friend. We were quite close. Fancy Hattie remembering him.’

  ‘Your letters home must have made quite an impression on her. On everyone. They must have looked forward to hearing baby brother’s news.’

  ‘I suppose so. I didn’t realise… But you say they didn’t actually keep them?’