House of Silence

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘No. I think they were cut up for patchwork.’

  Alfie smiled. With relief? ‘They would have just been duty letters to me, nothing special. I’ve no memory of writing them. And it would never have occurred to me there was a family hanging on my every word.’

  Or a scheming slapper of a girlfriend.

  Sick with fear and disgust, wanting nothing more than to sob into my pillow, I stood up and, the words almost choking me, said, ‘It’s late. I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Alfie.’

  He was on his feet in seconds, standing too close, the big brown eyes pleading. ‘Can I join you?’ His hand cupped my face and he stroked my cheek with his thumb. ‘The others have all gone to bed. Not that anyone really cares where I sleep. The niceties have been observed.’ He grinned. I used to think it was a sexy smile.

  ‘I’m shattered, Alfie. And not really in the mood.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m finding it all a bit much, I suppose. Being here. All the family stuff. Frances is a bit of a cow, isn’t she? She’s taken an instant dislike to me, I can tell.’

  ‘Fan disapproves of all my girlfriends, on principle. Take no notice. Look, if you’re tired we could just sleep together. Have a cuddle. That would be nice… Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, thinking, ‘No.’

  It must have shown. He looked into my eyes. ‘What’s wrong, Gwen? Has something happened? Did Tyler say something to upset you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You were gone a long time.’

  ‘I had to drive very slowly. It was snowing and visibility was poor. It was a bit nerve-wracking as I didn’t know the road or the car… I think if you don’t mind, Alfie, I’d rather sleep on my own. I need a bit of space.’

  ‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself this evening.’

  ‘I was! I’m just feeling a bit low now, that’s all. You know what Christmas means to me.’

  He took my hand. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I should have thought. We can’t really leave before Boxing Day, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it! I’ll be fine, honestly. I just need to get to bed. I’m sorry for being such a bore.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m pretty knackered too. I should probably conserve energy for the Christmas Day onslaught. Maybe we could think about leaving on Boxing Day. Make up some excuse.’

  I immediately thought of Marek’s invitation to lunch at Creake Hall. Before I could stop myself, I said, ‘No, really, I’ll be fine. We can’t leave before Boxing Day’s over. Viv and Hattie would be so disappointed. And I’ve said I’ll help Hattie finish off one of her quilts. We must stay for Boxing Day.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I lied, sure of nothing and nobody, trusting no one, aware that this was a dark and familiar place for me, the place where I’d spent all my childhood, hoping, even praying for certainties, for something I could navigate by, someone I could trust. Then, as now, I chose silence rather than confrontation. Then, as now, I chose solitude and the lonely comfort of unheard tears.

  What I hated about my mother was all the lies. The lies about drugs, the lies about money, the lies about losing things that she’d sold, the lies about buying stuff she’d stolen, the lies about the lies. In the end she lied when she didn’t even need to, just because she could, because she thought maybe she should. Defensive, tactical lying. My mother lied about her habit and out of habit, so it became my habit never to believe anything she said - especially not anything I wanted to believe.

  Aunt Sam wasn’t much better, promising me, as she upended the bottle, that this really was it, she was never, ever going to touch the stuff again. Uncle Frank at least never lied to me, only to himself, about his age, his looks, his pulling power and about the boys he said he loved, but whose names he had trouble remembering.

  What was real and true in my childhood?

  Me. I was real. My thoughts, my words, my feelings. I trusted those. And my trusty crap detector. I didn’t lie to anyone, not even my mother when I told her I loved her. I meant it. It was true then. I loved her when she was alive. I must have, I was so terrified of losing her. It was only after she died that things changed, that my feelings changed. Suddenly there was something bigger than love that I felt towards my mother.

  Marek was right. It was anger.

  On the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s accidental death by drug overdose, I took stock.

  Alfie was lying to me.

  He didn’t write those letters and he wasn’t the boy playing cricket.

  Was he Alfie? If he wasn’t, who the hell was he? Did his sisters know he wasn’t Alfie? Did his mother? Or, if he was Alfie, who was the boy playing cricket? Who had written those letters home from school? Had a lonely Hattie written them as some sort of game of make-believe? If she had, why had Alfie pretended to have the friend I’d invented for him? If Laurie wasn’t his boyhood chum, why should Alfie pretend that “Oliver” was?

  That surely was the most damning piece of evidence. If I could bring myself to accept Alfie’s story of the broken arm, then the cricketing photo could be explained away, but why would he pretend to have a friend called Oliver, even make up a bogus university career for him?

  There could be only one explanation.

  Alfie believed that was what was written in the letters.

  Because he didn’t know what was written in the letters.

  Because he hadn’t written them.

  But he wanted me to believe that he had.

  Because he wanted me to believe that he was Alfie…

  Forgive me, Uncle Frank, wherever you are, for my harsh, self-righteous, teenage judgement. I too have been sleeping with a man whose name I don’t know.

  ~~~

  There was a light tap at the bedroom door. In their respective dog baskets Harris and Lewis raised shaggy heads in unison and regarded first the door, then their mistress. Vivien sat up in bed and said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Alfie. Can I have a word?’

  She laid aside her paperback and reading glasses and got out of bed, ordering the dogs to stay. Sliding her feet into slippers, she took a dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door, put it on, belted it firmly, then opened the door.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is something wrong with Rae?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with Rae. Would you mind if I came in? I don’t want to be overheard. Gwen has only just gone upstairs.’

  ‘No, of course not. Come in.’ Vivien turned away, gathered up a pile of gardening books and magazines from an armchair, dumped them on the floor and indicated to Alfie that he should sit. She perched on the edge of the bed, her brown eyes wide with anxiety.

  Alfie sat down. After a moment he said, ‘There’s a problem with Gwen.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘I think she suspects. Might suspect.’

  Vivien stared at him, her lips parted in surprise, then she bowed her head. Clasping her large, bony hands, she said, ‘Well, we knew it was a big risk letting her come. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing much, but she’s asking a lot of questions. And I don’t know all the answers. Were there letters home? From boarding school?’

  ‘Yes, one a month for a few years.’

  ‘Do they still exist?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I lost track of them years ago. I imagine Rae would have kept them. They were addressed to her. But she might have lost them. Or destroyed them when she had the last breakdown.’

  ‘I think Hattie’s been talking to Gwen about them.’

  Vivien frowned. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

  Alfie spread his hands. ‘Why does Hattie do anything? She’s taken a shine to Gwen and they’re spending a lot of time together. You know how Hattie prattles on.’

  Vivien shook her head. ‘I can’t believe Hattie would be that stupid! Even if the letters still existed, she’d know you wouldn’t be familiar
with the contents. What on earth is she playing at?’

  ‘Maybe she hasn’t talked about them. But maybe Gwen has seen them.’

  Vivien thought for a moment, then said, ‘Even if she’d found them, she doesn’t strike me as the sort of girl who’d read other people’s letters. Surely the most likely explanation is that Rae has talked about them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought, but Gwen said it was you or Hattie, she couldn’t remember which. I knew it wouldn’t be you.’

  ‘Did you manage to talk your way out of it?’

  ‘I think so. She mentioned some of the content of the letters, so I just improvised. Convincingly, I hope.’

  Vivien was silent and appeared to study her hands folded in her lap. After a few moments she looked up into Alfie’s face and said, ‘You know, you could tell Gwen the truth. I think she could be trusted.’

  ‘I’m sure she could. But I care enough about Gwen not to want to lose her. So I’d rather she didn’t know. In any case, the fewer people who know, the better.’

  ‘Well, obviously. But you’re entitled to a life. Your own, I mean.’

  ‘Thanks. But I think we have to accept that, to all intents and purposes, I gave that up years ago.’

  Vivien flinched and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry… It was never meant to be like this! It was only ever meant to be a temporary measure.’

  ‘I know. I entered into this with my eyes open, Viv. It’s my own fault for bringing Gwen here. I did it against my better judgement and it was a big mistake. We’ll leave on Boxing Day. We can’t decently leave any sooner.’

  ‘Rae will be quite happy with that.’

  ‘She’ll have to be.’ Alfie shifted in his chair and said, ‘There’s something else, I’m afraid. Something you need to know… Fanny made a mistake with the photos.’

  ‘A mistake? What do you mean?’

  ‘The cricketing photo. In the sitting room. The boy is left-handed.’

  ‘Surely not! Someone would have noticed!’

  ‘Someone did. Gwen.’

  ‘What on earth did you say?’

  ‘I made up some rigmarole about having broken my arm. Having to play left-handed to save face with the other boys.’

  ‘Did she believe you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She appeared to, but she’s been a bit odd ever since. And then there was the inquisition about the letters home. It could just be coincidence. Or she could suspect. So I thought I’d better warn you.’

  ‘Should I tell the others, do you think?’

  ‘Can’t see the point. Hattie’s the one most likely to blow it now, but if you warn her something’s up, she’ll blab out of sheer anxiety. Leave it for now. I think Gwen bought my stories. If she didn’t, then she’s playing her own little game of deception.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope because she likes the family. Because she’s already fond of you and Hattie. I hope it might also be because she doesn’t want to lose me.’

  ‘Why should she have to lose you?’

  Alfie shook his head. ‘You don’t know Gwen. She doesn’t demand a lot from life, but she does insist that what she has is real. Her family strung her along for sixteen years. She has no time for fantasy. Or delusion. Or deceit. If I told her the truth, I’d be taking away everything I’ve given her. Everything I am. There would be nothing left. Nothing real anyway.’

  Vivien gazed at Alfie’s face, his features sharpened by strain. ‘When I think how all this started, what our motives were—’

  ‘There’s no point feeling guilty, Viv. You couldn’t have known what you were getting into. Nor could I.’

  ‘I just hope you and Gwen manage to sort things out. I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t. She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Alfie’s smile was wan. ‘More than I deserve, probably. And I’m certainly less than she deserves.’ He stood up and said, ‘I’ll let you get to sleep. It’s long past midnight.’

  ‘Is it? It’s Christmas Day, then.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Viv.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Alfie.’

  He walked slowly to the door, opened and closed it silently behind him. After he’d gone, Vivien sat staring at the door for some minutes, then she covered her face with her hands.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gwen

  I can’t say Alfie didn’t warn me. He promised me the second-worse Christmas of my life and that’s what I got.

  I spent a restless night. After I’d left a disappointed Alfie to sleep alone, I lay awake turning over in my mind what I now knew - and didn’t know - about the man I called Alfie. I asked myself why I hadn’t confronted him with what I knew.

  I hadn’t challenged Alfie because I didn’t want to listen to more lies; because I would have had to admit that I’d told lies; because even if I’d known who and what Alfie was, I wouldn’t have slept with him because my lips were still conscious of Marek’s. I could still feel his long fingers on the back of my neck.

  I admit I hadn’t exactly occupied the moral high ground in my dealings with Alfie - the man who claimed to be Alfie - but I wasn’t about to leap from one man’s arms into another’s. Although, come to think of it, wasn’t that precisely what I’d done? I fell asleep wondering if I’d inherited nymphomaniac tendencies from my late lamented mother. Or uncle.

  When I woke after a fitful sleep, there was a curious, cold deadness in the air and a complete absence of sound. I got out of bed and looked out on to the garden. It was only just beginning to get light but I could see the snow had settled, obscuring the features of the garden. Paths had disappeared and there were now no boundaries between lawn and flowerbed, just an undulating, white expanse broken up by the dark skeletons of trees.

  The garden looked beautiful. Stark, but peaceful. I decided I would like to walk in it. It was Christmas Day, after all. I showered and dressed in my warmest clothes and went quietly downstairs. As I passed the sitting room door I heard someone clearing the grate and laying a fire. Viv, probably. I hesitated, then decided to move on without making my presence known.

  As I passed through the kitchen, Harris and Lewis roused themselves from their customary stupor in front of the Aga and wove around my ankles, jumping up to be petted. I grabbed a couple of dog biscuits from a packet Viv kept on the worktop and tossed them on to the floor as a decoy. In the moment’s grace they gave me, I managed to get out into the lobby. I changed into wellingtons and let myself out the back door.

  It was lighter now but the cold stunned like a blow. As I trod, the snow resisted my boots and crunched underfoot. I walked briskly, following the garden path I’d taken when I’d left Marek the first time and found my way back to the house. Was that only the day before yesterday? So much had happened. I’d met so many new people and, with the exception of Frances, I’d liked them all. Hattie, Viv and Marek felt like friends already, although what I felt for Marek was surely something more than friendship.

  What was it? A sexual attraction undoubtedly. There was no point trying to delude myself about that. I’d sat in the car, waiting to be kissed. I’d studied him all evening at the concert, watched his hands, his eyes, the way the illuminated Christmas tree cast gaudy lights on his white hair. At the mill I’d let him take me in his arms and press me to his chest and I hadn’t wanted to be released. I could still remember the graze of stubble as I’d stood on tiptoe and, thinking of his mouth, had kissed his cheek.

  Some friendship.

  But when had it actually started? Meeting him for the second time in the kitchen, I’d blushed. I’d watched, riveted, as his hand bled beneath the running tap. Something had already happened then, only an hour or so after we’d met.

  Snow was falling again and I’d forgotten to wear a hat. I thought of turning back but decided to plod on, past beds of spindly rose bushes. I stopped to look at a frozen rosebud, dangling at the end of a blackened branch, beautiful, but dead. I walked on, feeling more a
nd more depressed, until I recognised tall beech hedges. I’d reached the clearing where Marek had been working when I first met him.

  It had started here.

  I hadn’t known it, but it had started the moment I met him, the moment I looked into those unfathomable dark eyes. What had I seen?

  Detachment. A kind of calm. Not the sort produced by an orderly life. No, Marek’s calm was the after-the-storm variety. His was the stoical grace of a survivor. If he seemed imperturbable, it was probably because he’d known great perturbation. How did I know? Because on the morning I found my mother dead on the kitchen floor, I experienced a millisecond’s calm in which I realised nothing worse would ever happen to me. Then I started screaming. Nobody came because it was Christmas and our neighbours had gone on holiday, seeking winter sun. I continued to scream, hoping to wake the dead. I screamed until I was hoarse, then the calm returned and I picked up the phone. I rang for an ambulance, then I dialled Aunt Sam’s number, astonished I could still remember it, even though my mother was dead.

  I experienced the worst moments of my life terrified and alone. Such a thing scars you, but it also makes you strong. No, not strong. Certain. You’re certain nothing worse can happen. Even if a similar disaster were to occur, it would have lost some of its shock value. You know you’d recognise it and think, ‘I’ve been here before.’ You’d know what to do, how to survive. You’d know that you would survive.

  I think that’s what I saw when I met Marek, although I didn’t know it then. I recognised the calm certainty that life held nothing worse for him, nothing he hadn’t already dealt with, nothing he couldn’t handle. I don’t think I’d ever seen that in a person’s face before, except perhaps when I looked in the mirror.

  Beyond the dark tracery of branches, I could see the mill, black against a lightening sky. I thought of Marek, alone, celebrating his solitary Polish Christmas, with only ghosts for company. And I thought of my ghosts… Uncle Frank. Aunt Sam. My mother. I brushed snowflakes and tears from my cheeks as I brushed the memories from my mind. That was the trouble. That’s what got you in the end. Memories. ‘You can never make a fresh start,’ Marek had said. ‘Memory prevents you.’ I shivered and turned back towards the house, stepping out to get my circulation going.