House of Silence

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘You were how old? Twelve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a typical reaction. A bright twelve-year-old would blame her mother or herself, not the dealer, or the culture that makes drug-taking socially acceptable in some circles. And a bright twelve-year-old with an over-developed sense of responsibility would blame herself, not her mother. But blaming yourself for her death didn’t stop you feeling abandoned, did it? The usual game the mind plays in these circumstances is, “If my mother had really loved me, if I’d been enough for her, she wouldn’t have needed the drugs.” Right?’

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘What the brain knows and what the heart feels, are two completely different things. Often irreconcilable. But both are true. I knew I wasn’t to blame for Anna’s death but I felt I should have been punished. So for years I punished myself. Now I’m on parole, I suppose, but my mind makes sure I never forget. I have flashbacks… Every April I remember Anna’s birth and every July I remember her death. They’re events on my calendar. She lives on in my head. Her death lives on in my head. It’s a life sentence.’

  ‘But that’s not the whole story, is it? I mean, how many lives did you save?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you were a psychiatrist, how many patients did you save from suicide?’

  His shrug was dismissive. ‘You never know. You only know about the ones you lose. Occasionally people recover and keep in touch. Send you photos of their graduation or their kids. But most people just want to move on. They want to forget the hell they’ve been through. Understandably.’

  ‘But can you try to estimate? How many lives do you think you saved during your working life?’

  He looked at me and smiled. ‘I see what you’re driving at. Very clever… But you can never really say. A correct diagnosis of manic depression could save a life. ECT saves lives. A strong therapeutic relationship with a doctor can be the difference between a patient living and dying.’

  ‘A conservative estimate, Marek. How many?’

  He sighed and ran an exasperated hand over his head, leaving his short white hair standing up on end. He looked years younger, almost boyish. ‘I practised for ten years. I suppose I was instrumental in saving a few lives a year.’

  ‘Three? Five?’

  ‘More like five. But there are so many different factors!’ he added hurriedly. ‘So many different agencies are involved. It’s never down to one person.’

  ‘But,’ I persisted, ‘your conservative estimate is that you were instrumental in saving maybe five lives a year for ten years?’

  ‘Fifty lives don’t cancel out Anna’s death.’

  ‘Of course not! But you must see her death - which wasn’t your fault - in the context of the big picture. People die. Some take their lives, some die in accidents, like Anna, like my mother. If you really want to beat yourself up, you could dwell on the fact that when you gave up psychiatry, you stopped saving lives at the rate of about five a year. When did you give up?’

  ‘Eight years ago.’

  ‘So perhaps forty people have died as a consequence of you abandoning your work as a psychiatrist.’ He opened his eyes and fixed me with a look that alarmed me, but I pressed on. ‘Do you beat yourself up about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because another psychiatrist took on my caseload. My patients weren’t just abandoned.’

  ‘But can’t you see, Marek? Anna might have died in some other way. She might have contracted meningitis. She might have been abducted by a paedophile and murdered. She might have grown up to be a junkie and died on the kitchen floor while her child slept… Life is terminal! All life! But your sense of guilt has blinded you to the bigger picture. You were responsible for a death and you’ve saved many lives. And improved the quality of many more. I’m not saying the books balance, but a lifetime of guilt isn’t going to make them balance. It’s never going to confer any kind of meaning on Anna’s death.’

  ‘What would?’

  ‘Nothing! It was an appalling accident that wrecked several lives, including yours. You can’t forget it and you shouldn’t try, but you should show the same compassion to yourself that you’d show to a twelve-year-old girl who didn’t wake up in time to save her mother’s life. Time and kindness, Marek - you said it! That’s all there is to help us get over these terrible, meaningless things. And that means being kind to yourself. Seeing yourself as others see you. As I see you.’

  ‘And how do you see me, Gwen?’

  ‘As a good man. An unlucky man. And a man who has suffered enough.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s no end to it.’

  ‘I know. But if the wounds start to heal, there’s surely no need to tear them open again. That’s not heroism, that’s masochism.’

  His eyes widened and he laughed. ‘You’re one hell of a girl, Gwen! You take no prisoners.’ He looked at me and a weary smile lingered on his lips.

  ‘Marek, you told me your story because you thought it would make a difference. A difference to how I felt about you.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘No. None at all. If anything it makes me care even more. I hate to see you suffer like this!’

  He didn’t reply for a long time, then he emptied his wine glass and said, ‘Thank you. I really appreciate all that you’ve said.’ He got up and set the glass down on the table, then glanced at his watch. He turned and stood looking down at me. ’It’s late. Shall I walk you back to Creake Hall?’

  I looked up and stared at his face, trying to find the answer to his question, then said, ‘No. I don’t want to go yet.’ Reaching up, I took his hand in mine. I tugged at the coarse woollen mitten, slid it off and let it fall to the floor. I pressed his warm palm against my cheek, then took his other hand and removed the second mitten. Marek said nothing and he didn’t move. I rose to my feet and found myself standing very close to him, so close I could feel his breath on my face. I shrugged off my coat and let it fall back onto the sofa behind me, then I began to unwind the long woollen scarf that encircled his neck, exposing his throat, swarthy with black stubble. I dropped the scarf on to the floor and placed my palms on his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed unevenly. I moved a hand to where I could feel his heart beating and laid my head on his chest.

  ‘You’re alive, Marek… And I’m alive… We’ve surely had enough to do with death.’

  I raised my head to look at him. After a moment I felt his long fingers cradle my head, threading themselves through my hair. Then Marek bent and kissed me, a bruising kiss that knocked me off-balance, so that I might perhaps have staggered if his arms hadn’t gone round me and held me tight against him, as if he never wanted to let me go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marek woke with a jolt, flinging a hand in the direction of the alarm. Lying on his back, still half-asleep, he felt confused, oppressed by a great weight on his chest. As memory returned, he lifted an exploratory hand and found the weight was Gwen’s head. Her hair was spread out over his naked chest and he lay for a moment, luxuriating in the feeling and the realisation that her body lay along the length of his, pressed against him, as she clung to him even in sleep.

  He moved his other hand and laid it gently on the curve of her waist, then ran his palm down over her hip and thigh. He thought of his cello and smiled into the darkness. His smile faded when he remembered Alfie. Marek had a lot to feel guilty about, but until now, sleeping with another man’s woman had not been one of his sins. Whoever Alfie was, he’d known him for five years and had nothing against the man, even if he didn’t particularly like him. Marek had always thought there was something insincere about Alfie, but he’d put it down to the superficiality of actors.

  Apart from kissing Gwen in the car on Christmas Eve, Marek had made no attempt to seduce her. His conscience was clear about that. Even last night, when she’d indicated she didn’t want to leave, he hadn’t touched her. But he’d waited to be t
ouched, knew that she would touch him. Whatever it was between them was strong and it had been strong from the very start. He could see why, now he knew more about her. She appeared to be an independent young woman. (How young? He didn’t even know how old she was.) But that was only half the story. The other half was the way she held him now, like someone shipwrecked, clinging to a piece of flotsam (yes, that was a good word to describe him) as she struggled to stay afloat.

  Gwen shifted in her sleep and he felt her breasts move against his ribcage, her thigh slide against his. He tried to ignore the stirring in his groin and turned his head to look at the illuminated display on the clock: 05.30. He should get her back to Creake Hall before Viv organised a search party. He twisted so that her head rolled away and he eased himself out from under her. As she woke, she murmured and clutched at him. He thought afterwards that he’d rarely shown more self-restraint than in that moment, when his body had longed to take her again, half-sleeping. Instead, he stroked her hair and said her name softly.

  ‘We need to get up. You have to go back. Someone will be up soon.’

  She moaned and rolled towards him, but he anticipated her move and shifted across the bed. He switched on the bedside light and she groaned again, shielding her eyes. He sat up and looked down at her: her hair tangled; her eyes puffy with sleep; her forehead furrowed against the light. She was beautiful. A thought ambushed him: I don’t get this lucky. He pushed it away and bent his head to kiss her.

  ‘Thank you for my Christmas present.’

  She smiled sleepily and stroked the silky black hair on his chest. ‘You’re very welcome.’

  ‘I hope it’s not going to be like one of those single-use cameras. Christmas Day only.’

  ‘Oh, no. Hours of fun guaranteed. But some small parts,’ she said, pulling him down towards her, ‘are not suitable for children under three…’

  Gwen

  I lay in bed and watched as Marek dressed, admiring the loose, long-limbed elegance that his work clothes completely obscured. He caught me watching him and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘That’s an appraising look.’

  ‘I’m a wardrobe mistress. I’m estimating your inside leg measurement. Force of habit.’

  ‘Do you want breakfast before you shower?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll have to do breakfast when I get back to Creake Hall. I’ll eat some of Hattie’s porridge as an act of contrition.’ Marek sat down on the edge of the bed and appeared to study me. I pulled a face. ‘And that’s an appraising look.’

  ‘I’m a psychiatrist. Force of habit.’ He leaned forward and kissed me, then said, ‘Gwen… all this has happened very fast. You might want some time to take stock. I know you think it’s all over with Alfie and I understand why, but… well, you might not want to get into something else straight away.’

  I laid a hand on his thigh. ‘I think I already did.’

  ‘I’m saying you can back off. I think you’ll have to, until you’ve dealt with Alfie. And I assume you won’t do that in Norfolk.’

  ‘Not unless I have to.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Alfie said the day after Boxing Day.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Is it? I’ve lost track. I know he was keen to get away as soon as possible. So am I now. All the women in that family seem devoted to him and that doesn’t seem to be an act. Once they realise I’ve finished with Alfie, I don’t think I’ll be Miss Popular any more. It’s not even as if I can tell them why it’s over.’

  ‘You’re referring to the false identity thing, not me?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t really anything to do with you, Marek. You’re just an added complication.’

  ‘Give it to me straight, Gwen. Don’t feel you have to protect my fragile male ego.’

  I slid the hand that rested on his thigh high enough to deter interruptions and continued. ‘It was over between Alfie and me as soon as I realised he was a fake. I mean, I don’t expect perfection in a guy, but pretending to be someone you’re not? I don’t care what the reason is, it’s not OK. And what reason could there be, but money? You know, I could almost understand if it was just a part he played at Christmas, to keep some rich old lady happy. There is something of the tart about Alfie, now I come to think about it. And he’d be the first to admit it.’

  ‘That might not be the cause. It could be the effect of spending your life rôle-playing.’

  ‘I suppose so… I do like him. I mean, I did. We got on really well. But now that I know… Well, the whole thing just gives me the creeps. I don’t think I could bear for him to touch me now. Am I over-reacting?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re responding to a betrayal of trust. And there’s a great deal of trust implicit in a sexual relationship.’

  ‘Is that why you told me about your past?’

  ‘My past is me. You needed to know.’

  ‘And Alfie’s past is… completely unknown.’

  ‘Not completely. We know that there was something about his past that made him abandon it altogether for a past that wasn’t his. A better version, presumably.’

  ‘Couldn’t he be doing it just for money? Rae’s seriously rich, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, he could, but I think there’s probably more to it than that. Is money what Alfie’s about?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What does he want most in the world?’

  I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Recognition. To be taken seriously as an actor. As a good actor.’

  ‘Is he good?’

  ‘Well, he fooled me! And he’s fooled the world for at least eleven years. So, yes, I’d say he was bloody good.’

  ‘So it’s not likely to be about money, then.’

  ‘But what else could it be?’

  ‘There are three motives for human behaviour.’

  ‘Only three?’

  ‘Basically, yes.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Love. Loathing. And lucre. If you don’t think Alfie’s doing it for the money—’

  ‘Well, maybe he did to begin with, but he doesn’t need to now. He doesn’t much like the type of work he gets, but he earns a decent living and he doesn’t have an expensive lifestyle.’

  ‘Could he be doing it for love?’

  ‘Love of whom? Rae? Hattie? Why would he love them when they aren’t even his family? Anyway, I know he doesn’t love them. He treats them quite badly really. Hattie’s the only one he seems fond of. He shows none of them any affection.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean there’s no love.’

  ‘I think it does with Alfie. He’s quite an affectionate person. Demonstrative. In fact, that was one of the first things I noticed when we got here - how cold he was towards his sisters. It just wasn’t like him. He didn’t even go through the motions of brotherly love.’

  ‘Well, that leaves loathing, then.’

  ‘As his motive? But who does he loathe? Frances is a pain in the arse, but he actually seems to like her. The others are all so kind… and grateful to him. And Rae obviously dotes on him, whether she knows who he is or not. So why would he loathe any of them?’

  ‘You’re forgetting someone.’

  ‘Someone Alfie loathes?’

  Marek shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Himself.’

  Marek made tea while I got dressed. I struggled into my damp shoes and put on my coat and scarf. He insisted on accompanying me back to Creake Hall with a flashlight. As it was still dark outside, I didn’t protest.

  I followed him down the flights of stairs to the front door and stood watching while he put on his coat. ‘You’re coming for lunch later today, right?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘And when you do, we haven’t seen each other since I took you home with the cello after the concert.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m feeling horribly guilty. Like a conspirator.’

  ‘Gwen, we’ll be
the only people at Creake Hall who aren’t party to a massive conspiracy! Are you ready?’

  I lifted a long scarf from a peg and looped it over his head, then wound it round his neck several times.

  He grinned at me. ‘I liked it better the other way.’

  ‘You’d better not smile at me like that, or our cover will be completely blown.’

  As he unlocked the front door I suddenly remembered the first time he’d opened it to me, on Christmas Eve. As we stood on the top step and he closed the door behind us, I turned to him and said, ‘Can I give you a word of advice?’

  ‘ “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…” How old are you, Gwen?’

  ‘You should never ask a woman her age,’ I replied, following him down the steps.

  ‘Is that the advice?’

  ‘No.’ I took his arm and we picked our way through the snow onto the road where it was clearer. ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Older than you look. Younger than you sound.’

  ‘I’m twenty-six.’

  He whistled. ‘Jesus… I’m cradle-snatching.’

  ‘But you have to admit, I’m a very mature twenty-six.’

  ‘To the extent that you give advice to men old enough to be your father.’

  ‘For all I know, you are my father.’

  ‘Now there’s a Freudian thought… I make it a rule never to sleep with people whose names I don’t know.’

  ‘What a good idea. I think I shall do that in future.’

  ‘What was your mother called?’

  ‘Sasha.’

  Marek thought for a moment, then said, ‘No, I never slept with a Sasha. I’d remember a name like that.’

  ‘In which case, I can give you my piece of advice.’

  ‘Go ahead. I’m braced.’

  ‘Don’t answer the door to women in your pyjamas.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It just isn’t fair. And you can see where it all leads.’

  ‘Those grey things? They’re ancient! And completely shapeless.’

  ‘But you, Marek, aren’t. Just bear it in mind. You get some very odd people knocking on doors these days.’