by Hazel Prior
Perhaps I should have noticed there was a problem. I should have gleaned. But gleaning isn’t my thing. I’m not good at gleaning, not like other people. Harp-making, but not gleaning.
I wonder if Phineas has such problems with his love life. I doubt it. A few lady pheasants come round from time to time and Phineas always seems to get on with them just fine.
I managed to get myself as far as the wood today and I leaned my crutches against the trunk of a great, tall pine tree and I leaned myself against it too. I thought about Roe Deer. I thought about our relationship that I had been wrong about for so many years. I wondered exactly how many years I’d been wrong about it. Three? Four? Five? There was a massive brown anthill just in front of me, but I was wondering so hard I didn’t even bother to count the ants.
My head was full of the time Roe Deer and I first met, when she came to the barn looking for a harp. Her hair was primrosy-yellow, shining and plentiful. Her eyes glinted bluer than any eyes I’d ever seen before. She was dressed in a jacket, cream-coloured with eight buttons, and navy trousers, very tight. She flashed her blue eyes and flicked her primrosy hair around and kept on saying my name.
‘Oh, Dan, I’ve never seen such beautiful harps,’ she said.
‘Oh, Dan, what a place to live!’ she said.
‘Dan, you are amazing!’ she said.
‘Dan, I’m so glad I’ve discovered you!’ she said.
She played all my harps, one by one. She played them very beautifully, every note perfectly placed. Every note, as it was plucked, plucking in turn at something deep inside me. It seemed as though my harps and her fingers were made for one another.
After I’d thought about this for a while I thought about how she came back day after day to look at my harps, and every time she came she stood very close to me, much closer than I was used to anyone standing. I made three types of sandwich for her: egg and cress, gorgonzola cheese, and marmalade. And she laughed. She ate some of the sandwiches but I ate most of them. She spent a long time choosing a harp because, she said, they were all such good quality. Even after she’d finally bought one (I didn’t think of giving it to her at the time) and taken it back to her house, she still came back every day to visit me and stand close and laugh at my sandwiches.
Sometimes we used to go into the orchard or a short way up the track together, even though her shoes were not very practical for lumpy, bumpy ground because they had spindly little heels. Then one day (it was a hot, bumblebee-filled Wednesday in August and we were under the cherry tree) she pressed her lips against mine. I pressed mine back otherwise I would have fallen over. After quite a lot of lip-pressing, there was some tongue-exploring. After quite a bit of tongue-exploring she took my hand and led me back inside the barn. She led me right up the seventeen stairs and through the little room and into my bedroom. In my bedroom she started taking off her clothes until she had completely nothing on. I wasn’t sure at all what I was supposed to do, whether I was supposed to look or not, whether I was supposed to touch or not. But she soon made it clear that I was very much supposed to do both. So that is what I did.
I did it plenty of times after that.
After a few months of plenty, there was suddenly a lot less. She did not come and see me so much and said it was inconvenient whenever I offered to go and see her. She started to talk about needing a change of scene. I said on Exmoor scenes were changing all the time and asked what more of a change she could possibly need. To which she sighed and replied that she was going away for a bit. In fact, she would not be around for quite a while. She told me not to worry about getting in touch because she’d be travelling in different countries different days. But she’d come and see me when she came back.
I waited. And I waited.
After a long, long while she did come and see me.
‘Hello, Dan,’ she said when she stepped into the barn. She had shorter hair and extra make-up.
‘Hello, Roe Deer. Here you are,’ I said.
‘Yes, here I am.’
Thinking back, I probably should have asked her all about her holiday, but I didn’t. I was too busy wondering if she was now going to take off all her clothes.
Her clothes remained on, however.
She hung around for a while, wandering through the harps, plucking strings a bit in a thoughtful way. Then she gave me a little, light, odd sort of a kiss, more peck-like than her usual (no tongue-exploring at all) and said she’d better be going. Her parents had cooked a casserole for supper and were waiting for her.
Possibly, in retrospect, this might have been the day on which we split up. But there was definitely no shouting or throwing of plates. I therefore presumed she was still my girlfriend.
As I leaned against the pine it occurred to me that Roe Deer and I have not been in bed together for five years. Perhaps that’s what the problem is. It was nice being in bed with her but the opportunity does not seem to have arisen recently. Perhaps if I offered …? What is a man supposed to do? If my father was still alive, I could ask him, but he isn’t so I can’t.
When I got back to the barn I rang my sister Jo and asked her instead. She said: ‘Aha!’
I repeated my question about what was I supposed to do.
She said, ‘You are supposed to stop moping and think, “Good riddance!”’
This, although possibly good advice, was not quite as helpful as I might have hoped. The what is very different from the how.
I thought of Thomas. He is always having arguments with his wife Linda but has managed to never actually split up with her. He is clearly an expert.
I gave him a call.
‘Roe Deer isn’t my girlfriend any more,’ I said.
‘Oh, boyo, that’s bad luck,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ Then he said, ‘But I have to be honest with you, I did think you were a lucky bastard to have it so good for so long.’
‘We apparently split up many years ago. Five years ago, I think.’
There was a low whistle down the phone. ‘Stag’s Head?’ he suggested.
‘Good plan,’ I said.
‘But you are driving this time,’ he added. ‘You can drive now, can’t you, mate?’
I said I could. I got out the Land Rover.
22
Ellie
That photo. I can’t stop thinking about it. Dan and Rhoda looked so lovely together, so romantic and so … right. I can’t deny it: as a couple, they do make sense. He the handsome harp-maker, she the beautiful harpist. Both creatives, both charming, yet with differences that complement each other. He more straightforward and stubborn, she more practical and ambitious.
Ignoring my own feelings for a minute, I see that I’ve been wilfully prejudiced against Rhoda. Hasn’t she been kind to me during all the harp lessons? Hasn’t she helped me patiently and painstakingly with my harp-playing? Hasn’t she been good about the fact I’ve been hanging around her boyfriend every day? I’ve wanted so much for her to be undeserving of Dan, for her to be callous and nasty, that I’ve fitted everything she says or does into my own interpretation. Because I’ve wanted me to be the nice one. She can have all the beauty and talent, but can’t I at least claim that? Evidently not.
Dan was stunned when I suggested Rhoda wasn’t his girlfriend. I shouldn’t have done that. There’s no way I could bring myself to broach the subject with him again. I’d really hoped that this relationship of theirs was all in his head, but over the past week I’ve dwelt more and more on the photo and I’ve come to the conclusion I must be wrong. There are all sorts of relationships in this world. Just because Dan and Rhoda don’t follow the normal rules doesn’t mean they don’t have something very strong.
I catch myself biting the inside of my mouth so hard that I can taste blood.
I can’t and I mustn’t be so involved. Maybe it’s music that’s done it to me. Music brings out such strong emotions. It makes us feel things we shouldn’t feel. The loveliness of the harp has wafted me into magic-land and the boundaries of reali
ty have become blurred. I’ve allowed myself to get carried away. I’m a married woman. I’ve got Clive and we’ve promised to be together for better, for worse and all the rest of it until death do us part. I think back to the days when Clive supported me when I lost my library job. Perhaps we’re not as close now as we were then but he’s provided me with so much over the years. He’s given my life a framework and I’d be lost without it. I have to try and put myself back on track.
I’m doing it as a favour for Clive. He’s doing it as a favour for his colleague, Andy. Andy is doing it for himself. Andy’s met a girl who won’t go out on a first date with him alone. She’s insisted that he invites a couple he knows to come along too. For some reason, Clive and I have been appointed as that couple.
I have some sympathy for the girl. I don’t know Andy very well but he does come across as rather big and boorish. She may be scared or she may be wise. No doubt she’ll get more insight into his character by seeing him interact with friends than by partaking in a flirtatious one-to-one.
Intrigued though I am, I’m not looking forward to it.
‘Thanks, Hon-pun! You’re such a star!’ calls Clive, pulling his best shirt over his head without unbuttoning it.
I don’t feel like a star.
I’m not sure how much to dress up. Obviously, the evening isn’t about us, but it might be nice to make a bit of effort for Clive. It’ll be a chance to discover a little more about his life at the office as well. Apart from complaints about his evil boss, he doesn’t fill me in much. He likes to keeps his work in a separate compartment from me, just as I keep my harp-playing in a separate compartment from him.
I go for a boho-chic look in the end: smart beige trousers with a patterned chiffon top and scarf.
They’ve chosen a seaside pub in Minehead. The windows look dirty and there’s a heap of lobster pots outside the battered blue door. Strong smells of fish and vinegar assault our nostrils the minute we step inside.
‘What’ll you have, Hon?’ asks Clive, marching up to the dimly lit bar. I ask for white wine. There’s a newspaper lying on the bar stool.
‘Oh, look! The Fishing Wire!’
I pick it up and leaf through. Every page seems to display at least three pictures of large bearded men holding up ginormous trophy fish. One of the men bears a striking likeness to Andy.
On cue a voice bellows behind us. ‘Hey, Clive, me ol’ chum! And if it isn’t the lovely Ellie-wellie! How’s it going, Els?’
I’d forgotten how annoying he was. I immediately become extra stiff and formal. ‘Very well, thank you, Andy.’
He grasps Clive by the hand. ‘Good man, thanks for coming. Allow me to introduce the exquisite Sandra!’
Exquisite is pushing it a bit. Sandra has several chins, sharp little eyes and a nose that looks as if it has spent a lot of time pressed against things. Shop windows, presumably. Her hair has been lavishly lacquered and curled. She has squeezed herself into a skimpy dress that can’t quite deal with her ample proportions. Acres of smooth, shining flesh are on view. It’s clear why Andy likes her. It isn’t because of her brains.
Not that such a display means she has no brains, I hasten to remind myself. For all I know she may have a degree from Cambridge in Astrophysics. After my prejudice regarding Rhoda, I’m not going to let myself be so quick to make any unfair judgements. I sense, though, that Sandra has no such qualms in passing judgement over me. Later, when reporting the evening back to her girlfriends over a G and T, she’ll call me words like ‘square’ and ‘stuck-up’. We smile sweetly at each other.
At least we have something to talk about straight away. ‘Look, Andy! I found a picture of you.’ I hold out the page of the Fishing Wire for them both to look. Laughter spreads around our foursome and the ice is broken.
‘Well I’ll be f— flipped backwards by a flying kipper! It does look like me, doesn’t it?’ He holds the picture next to his own face and pulls a similar expression. ‘If only I was holding a fish, you wouldn’t know the difference.’
‘Perhaps Sandra will be your fish?’ suggests Clive, who has slipped into laddish mode.
‘Will you be my fish, Sandra?’ Andy asks pleadingly.
She puffs out her cheeks and opens and shuts her mouth. I have to hand it to her, it’s a fair imitation.
But from then on everything slides downhill. I do my best but the evening only provokes in me a stronger and stronger yearning to be somewhere else. We position ourselves at a table in the corner so that Sandra gets the view of the sea and Andy gets the view of Sandra. The meal arrives and we plough our way through it. I find it too big and a bit tasteless. Sandra shovels cod and chips into her mouth and gabbles on and on about the time her cousin was on X Factor (‘… and Simon Cowell was, like, OMG’). Andy leers at her and interjects dry comments. She shrieks with laughter. I ask the odd question and try to maintain polite interest. Clive alternates between competing with Andy for double entendres and grinning at me. But no matter how hard I try not to, I’m still thinking about Rhoda and what she may or may not be hiding.
‘You’re very quiet, Ellie-wellie! What’s up?’ asks Andy eventually.
‘I’m fine, just a little tired, that’s all.’
‘I’ll take you home soon,’ Clive promises. Then he gets up and buys another round of drinks. I try to keep a pleasant smile anchored to my face.
Twenty minutes later, Andy and Clive are trading insults about their boss while Andy plays footsie with Sandra under the table.
Then Clive stands up. ‘Gotta go and take a slash. Won’t be long. Guard my beer!’
Andy starts wheeling out fish-related jokes.
‘What do you call a fish without an eye?’
Sandra doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter whether I know or not.
‘A fsh!’
Her laugh tortures my eardrums.
‘There’s two parrots sitting on a perch. And the first one says—’
A waitress is passing. ‘Is this finished?’ she asks me, indicating Clive’s beer glass.
‘Yes,’ I say before I can stop myself. She balances it on the corner of her tray and disappears.
Andy looks at me. ‘You’re brave,’ he says.
Sandra leans across the table and brushes a crumb from his beard with her manicured fingers. He looks chuffed. ‘I think there may be some more in there, if you wouldn’t mind checking …?’
At that moment Clive arrives back.
‘What the …? Who took my beer?’
Sandra points at the waitress who is now wiping down a neighbouring table.
‘Why the hell did you let her take it?’ he thunders.
Andy smirks and Sandra giggles.
‘There was only a tiny bit left and it’s getting late,’ I tell him. ‘Clive, let’s go home. I’m sure Andy and Sandra can do without us.’ Andy gives me a sly wink and thumbs-up while Sandra looks at Clive hopefully. But he’s fuming.
‘God, El, I bloody wanted that beer. I can’t believe you did that!’
To take a man’s beer from him is to let loose a Pandora’s box of demons. I cower under the hailstorm of swear words. The blood has rushed to my face with the humiliation of it. Even Andy and Sandra look uncomfortable. Part of me wants to buy my husband another drink to atone for my sins but part of me just says no. I can’t always let him win.
Clive drives us back, even though he’s over the limit. It isn’t worth protesting, but I cling to my seatbelt as he screeches round the lanes. He’ll be like this until morning, possibly tomorrow as well. I don’t feel as full of remorse as I’m meant to, though. In there somewhere is a naughty, stubborn little strand of triumph. I was desperate for some headspace for my own thoughts, and now I have it.
No matter how much I’ve tried to avoid thinking about Dan and Rhoda, I am still obsessing. I need to decide whether to pursue a line of enquiry or whether to leave well alone. I should probably leave well alone … but I know I won’t.
23
Dan
Roe Deer is not, not at all, my girlfriend. I say the sentence over and over to myself. There is now a big hole in my life. I am listening to music a lot every day, not just because I want to but because I have to. Music helps fill up the holes that people leave behind.
The Roe Deer hole reminds me of the other two largest holes in my life, one mother-shaped and the other father-shaped. It is the father one that I think about most. Maybe this is because my father and I discovered harp-making together. Unlike my mother (who was more concerned with fitting me into a mould that I couldn’t really fit into no matter how hard she tried), my father always wanted to do whatever made me happy. I have discussed fathers with Ellie the Exmoor Housewife. Ellie agrees with me that fathers are very important. We are both sad that our fathers aren’t around any more.
After my father was killed in a car accident, I had a problem with my hands. They refused to do what I wanted them to do. They wriggled about all over the place. Whenever I tried to draw or to saw or to drill or to glue anything, my hands wouldn’t let me, they were flapping and thrashing around so much. I cut the third finger of my right hand quite badly on the bandsaw. It became impossible to make harps. The situation went on for exactly three weeks and four days, which is a long time not to make harps, very. So what my sister Jo and I did during that time was this: listen to music.
We listened and we listened. We listened to orchestras and string quartets, operas and jazz trios, reggae and hip hop. We listened to Vivaldi, to Beethoven, to Fauré, to Palestrina, to Joan Baez, to Sting, to Led Zeppelin and the soundtrack of Star Wars. Some pieces of music were hard to listen to at that time. Others were soft and soothing. They were all necessary. Otherwise everything inside us would have turned to dust. We listened together and we listened separately. My sister Jo cried for hours then listened some more. I went on walks then listened some more. That is how we survived.