by Hazel Prior
After all the music, my hands eventually calmed down again. So what I did next was to make harps continuously for six months, only stopping to eat and sleep. I made my most exotic and experimental harps at that time: tiny little delicate harps and huge great clomping harps and harps all sorts of peculiar shapes.
I was in the middle of making peculiar harps when my mother went and died too. When this happened exactly the same thing followed as with my father. My hands wobbled and flapped around for three weeks and four days. So I listened to large doses of music and after that I made a load of harps very quickly indeed. Odd, exotic, strange harps.
Jo sold the peculiar harps as quickly as she could. She said we needed money as we were waiting for a thing called probate. Probate was in no particular hurry, so it was just as well I was in such a manic harp-making mood. One of the women who bought a peculiar harp (it had seven crescent moons carved in a falling formation all down the pillar) put a film of herself playing it on YouTube. Jo brought her laptop computer into the workshop and showed it to me. She said the harp sounded peculiar as well as looking peculiar. She said you could hear the grief. I don’t know about that but I think she may have been right.
The evening with Thomas was helpful, in that he did a lot of head-shaking, pint-buying and uttered the word ‘Women!’ many times. However, the girlfriend-to-not-girlfriend switch was still problematic and hard for my brain to grasp. So, the following day I went back to the wood and leaned against the pine tree again and carried on thinking about Roe Deer. I thought about all the things that had happened between us over the last six years. The memories were as clear as ever in my head but now it was as if I was viewing them through a different lens. Or as if somebody had come along and altered all the colours.
I stayed thinking among the pine trees for a long time.
Pine trees are very beautiful and they have a scent that never fails to beguile my nose. They have made their home here, but they do not absolutely belong on Exmoor. They were planted in the 1940s because people needed wood to build ships so they could fight each other more effectively, it being wartime. Then wartime stopped, so people were not so bothered about building ships and killing each other, but the pines kept on growing.
Although I like pine trees, they have two clear disadvantages. Disadvantage number one is that they create a lot of darkness. When you are sitting under pines, you cannot appreciate the sky as it’s all blocked out by their dense foliage. Disadvantage number two (which is a result of number one) is that other plants won’t grow under pine trees. Not at all. Under pines trees the forest floor is nothing but old, brown pine needles, thousands and thousands of them.
However, if you go to an area where our native deciduous trees are growing – the oaks, ashes, birches, hazels, hawthorns, beeches – then you see that all sorts of things thrive under their branches. There are the magical greens of the mosses and ferns, the bright white of the wood anemones, the acres of shining bluebells in May, the foxgloves in early summer. And every autumn the trees create their own rich carpet of dazzling colours.
After a bit, I found I was wanting to move on from the pine tree where I was leaning, so I gathered up my crutches and move on is what I did. I walked a little further along the woodland trail. Soon the birdsong grew louder and the path came out of the pines and lightened and there were birches and oaks flanking my way. They had lost their leaves, but were still beautiful because you could see the intricate tracery of every twig. The birches were shining silver-white. Just a few were hanging on to little twists of yellow leaves that lifted and spiralled in the breeze. The last time I focused in on birches was the day I planted birch seeds for Ellie the Exmoor Housewife. Birch is her favourite.
What happened next was that I found the birches had got right in there, into my thoughts, and I wasn’t thinking about Roe Deer any more. Not at all. I was thinking about Ellie.
First I thought about the way Ellie walks. It reminds me of a young colt; sometimes hesitant and leggy, unsure of quite where to place its feet but then breaking suddenly into a trot or canter, tossing its mane, as if no longer caring. A sort of clumsiness combined with a sort of grace.
Next I thought about Ellie’s face. The way her hair curls around it in different ways on different days. The gentle slope of her nose. Her lips, and how they curve sometimes up and sometimes down and sometimes she opens them and words come out. The words have a sing-song sound, a bit of a lilt, with an inflection like questions even when they are not questions. When Ellie speaks, all of her face is animated: her cheekbones, her dimples, the flesh of her forehead, the line of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrows. Her eyes.
Her eyes, the colour of bracken in October. Sometimes Ellie focuses them on my own eyes and sometimes she focuses them into the distance as if she is looking for something and sometimes they are shielded from view by her eyelids. Then they will come back and focus on my face again, and I see all sorts of things reflected in them.
Next time I see Thomas I ask him what is his opinion of Ellie’s eyes.
‘Why you asking me that, mate?’ he demands.
I tell him it’s because I want to know the answer.
‘Well, in that case I’d say they’re a good pair of eyes. Yup, good ones. No question, boyo. Ellie Jacobs – new girlfriend material, deffo. But she’s hitched already, isn’t she?’
I confirm that Ellie Jacobs is indeed hitched.
Ellie Jacobs is hitched and I am made of all the wrong ingredients.
At least we still have music.
24
Ellie
Clive pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth.
‘What sort of concert?’
I pour a bit more gravy on to the roast. I’ve worded the proposition carefully and modulated my voice to sound as if I was hoping for the answer yes, while all the time I am in fact praying for the answer no.
‘Harp music,’ I tell him. The word ‘harp’ is loaded with risk and tight emotion but I do my best to make it sound carefree and trivial. I rush on before he can make any sarcastic references to Exmoor eccentrics who dole out harps to women they’ve just met. ‘Christmas music mainly, I think. Carols and stuff.’
‘Hmmm … Christmas seems to start earlier every year,’ he comments. ‘Not sure I’m ready for carols yet.’
I say nothing but set to work carving the chicken on my plate.
‘In Taunton, you say?’
‘Yes, in one of the churches. I’m taking Christina, too, as she hasn’t been anywhere for ages.’ I cut a potato into small pieces and mop up some more gravy with it. ‘I expect it’ll be quite slushy, but it’s the sort of music she enjoys. Well, the sort of thing both of us enjoy, really. I expect you’d enjoy it too, if …’ I carefully insert a note of pleading as I tail off. Exploiting Christina again is a stroke of genius. She has happily agreed to come with me, but her presence is calculated to guarantee Clive’s absence.
He sniffs. ‘Think I might give it a miss if you’re sure you don’t mind, Hon-pun.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. Although I know Dan won’t be there I’m intending to go and speak to Rhoda afterwards and it would be tricky pretending to Clive that I’ve only just met her.
‘No, I don’t mind,’ I tell him with an air of resignation. ‘It’ll be nice to have a girly chat with Christina, at least.’ A comment which clinches it.
‘How’s her hand these days anyway?’ he asks, tucking more chicken into his mouth. I’d almost forgotten about that particular lie.
‘Oh, much, much better.’
I’ll need to keep him away from Christina for a good while longer in case it occurs to him to inspect her hand. ‘Apparently she won’t even have a scar,’ I add, mentally congratulating myself on my foresight.
‘Oh, good. Seems a crazy kind of accident anyway, cutting open your hand on a tin opener. Only Christina could manage something like that.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is a bit bizarre.’ I ponder for a moment, then add: ‘But it was
one of those old-fashioned tin openers that takes a lot of brute force. She was using it for a tin of chickpeas and something made her jump – I think it was her smoke alarm suddenly going off – so she ended up jabbing herself. Nasty. There was blood all over the kitchen, she said.’
Clive wrinkles his nose. ‘Too much information.’
He is right. I’m only setting myself up for future problems. I’m now going to have to brief Christina all about the specifics of her tin opener and her smoke alarm.
The night is raw, starlit and frosty. The roads are covered in a thin film of white. They haven’t been salted so I drive with utmost care until I reach the edge of Christina’s village, where they are a bit clearer. She comes out to meet me, swathed head to toe in pashminas, scarves and boots. She looks colourful and stylish. She makes me wish I’d made more of an effort. Still, my agenda tonight isn’t to try and impress anyone, just meet a couple of people if I can.
Slow traffic crawls around the outskirts of Taunton. We’re running late and it takes me some time to find the church, then there’s nowhere to park nearby. I eventually leave the car four streets away and Christina and I end up almost running. We arrive at the church, panting, just as the concert is about to start.
We slip into a pew near the back. I take a brief look around. There are plenty of elderly couples but I can’t see any small boys at all.
Rhoda’s harp is placed at the front. The lighting glistens on its strings and sweeps over its frame with glowing amber brushstrokes.
‘Wow!’ cries Christina. ‘Is yours like that?’
‘Smaller. But similar, yes,’ I boast.
When Rhoda steps on to the stage the audience lets out a gasp. She is svelte and stunning in a golden dress that hugs the curve of her hips then drops in shimmering layers to the floor. Her hair hangs in a single perfect coil over one shoulder. Her slinky black gloves reach up to her elbows. She smiles graciously and makes a show of sliding them off finger by finger before she sits down at the harp.
From the moment she begins playing we are all transported. Notes call to each other, flutter and echo across the arches of the old building. Arrangements of folk melodies, classical pieces and familiar carols ring out, each enhanced by the fey quality of the harp. We drink them all down with relish.
‘God, I think I’m in love with her!’ whispers Christina in my ear.
‘Shut up and listen,’ I hiss.
The interval arrives in no time. The audience moves en masse to the back of the church, where mulled wine is being served.
Rhoda is some time in joining the throng but when she does I aim myself straight at her. She’s already deep in conversation with a small, sharp-nosed man. Her guitarist friend hasn’t come for reasons I can only guess.
I butt in. ‘Rhoda, that was fantastic, fabulous! Really moving!’
She inclines her head. ‘Thank you, Ellie.’
‘May I introduce my friend Christina, who is a great fan of yours.’ Christina darts an arch look at me but shakes Rhoda’s hand, her bangles jingling.
‘And this is Pete.’ Rhoda indicates the diminutive man. ‘He plays the cello.’ I shake his hand then let him talk to Christina for a minute while I ask Rhoda if her parents have come to support her this evening.
‘Yes, of course. That’s Mum over there in the navy skirt and jacket, and Dad with her, with the bald head.’
They look amiable enough but they’re not talking to anyone. They’re standing stiffly and sipping their wine in a slightly awkward fashion. Rhoda catches her mother’s eye and waves. The mother mouths ‘Well done!’ across the room at her.
Rhoda is clearly keen to resume her conversation with Pete the cellist, who is now being monopolized by Christina, so I leave the three of them to negotiate and edge over to the parents.
‘Your daughter is very talented,’ I begin.
They look pleased, as parents would.
‘I’m Ellie, one of her harp students.’
We shake hands. The mother is tall and slim with a fine bone structure, similar to Rhoda’s. Her hair is neatly curled and she is wearing glasses. The father is slightly shorter. He has a shiny bald patch but rather heavy eyebrows. The only physical trait he seems to have passed on to Rhoda is the bright blue of his eyes.
‘Have you been learning the harp for long?’ he asks.
‘No, not long,’ I reply. ‘But I must say Rhoda’s an extremely good teacher. I’ve only had a few lessons with her but – well, I think I’m improving quite fast.’
They make polite noises of interest and appreciation.
‘I’ve got a harp very similar to hers. It’s made by the same man, Dan Hollis, the Exmoor Harp-Maker. I expect you know him?’ I prompt.
I watch their reaction, a little exchange of glances passing furtively between them.
‘Yes, we’ve met Dan a few times,’ says the father.
‘Yes, he’s a very fine craftsman,’ adds the mother.
‘Oh, isn’t he? And a dear man!’ I insist. ‘He’s been so sweet to me. And he thinks the world of Rhoda, of course …’ I let the sentence dangle.
‘Oh, does he?’ the mother says in a non-committal voice.
I nod enthusiastically. ‘He adores her!’
The pause is awkward. I need to throw in a casual comment to encourage them to share more information, but my brain isn’t functioning very well.
‘They’re such a lovely couple!’ I blurt at last, and immediately regret it. I always resort to crass clichés when stressed.
The father’s eyebrows have shot upwards. The mother presses her lips tightly together and views me through narrowed eyes.
The father says: ‘Another glass, dear?’
‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she answers, handing him her empty.
‘Can I get you a second, er …’
‘Ellie,’ I remind him.
‘… Ellie?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Driving back home. Must be careful.’
He disappears into the crowd for refills.
‘I live some way away,’ I explain. ‘But I expect you’re local to Taunton, are you?’
‘Yes, we live quite close,’ replies the mother. ‘Not too far from Rhoda, which is nice. We get to see her whenever she’s not too busy with all her harp activities.’
‘Ah, how nice to have family close by. I hardly ever get to see my mother; she’s up in Yorkshire, much nearer my sister.’
‘Ah, is she?’
‘Yes. It’s a shame we can’t both be close to her. That bond with parents is so vital, isn’t it?’
She gives a forced smile and glances over in Rhoda’s direction but says nothing.
‘It must be nice to be near shops, too, here in Taunton,’ I babble on. ‘I have to drive for miles just to buy a pint of milk. It’s lovely scenery where I live, mind you; I do love Exmoor. But sometimes I think it would be so great to be nearer a bit of culture.’
‘Mmmm, yes, I’m sure.’ She’s looking bored now. ‘If you’ll excuse me I must just go and have a word or two with my daughter.’
She makes her way towards Rhoda and her cellist friend. Christina has vanished. I guess she’s gone outside for a cigarette. I return to our pew to await the second half of the concert. I sit pulling at my eyebrows. There has to be a way of finding answers to my questions, otherwise I’ll obsess for ever. I’ll have no eyebrows left at this rate.
‘Did you find out anything?’ asks Christina, plopping down next to me.
‘Not enough.’
I cross my arms. Bit by bit my anxiety is hardening into stubborn determination.
‘But the car’s that way. Isn’t it?’ Christina is forever doubting her sense of direction, usually with good cause.
‘Yes, but we’re not going to the car yet,’ I reply, sotto voce.
‘What? Why?’
‘I’m following them.’ Rhoda’s parents are ahead, strolling arm in arm. ‘I need to know where they live.’
‘Can’t you just ask t
hem?’
‘Well, I would have done, but the opportunity didn’t arise, and I need to be subtle.’
Christina shoots me a glance. ‘Why the urgency, Ellie?’
‘It seems crazy, but I can’t deny the facts. As far as I know, Rhoda and Dan have been together for years. At one point she put on weight, then she disappeared for a while. And now she and her parents are hiding something from him. Christina, Dan is my … my friend, my kind, lovely, good-hearted friend. It’s not fair on him. And it’s driving me insane. I need to know the truth. Stop!’ I put a hand on her arm. The couple are getting into a white Toyota. ‘Christina, wait here!’
‘Eh?’
‘Remember the number plate and tell me which way it goes!’
I turn and hurry back along the streets to where my own car is parked. I leap in, breathing hard, rev up and drive at top speed – thank God the roads here are clear of ice – to where she’s waiting. I can only hope that Rhoda’s parents are ditherers. As I reach the spot, I lean over and open the door for Christina. She hops in.
‘They went straight down and turned left at the end!’ she cries. ‘And I don’t remember the numbers, but the letters were BLT. At least that was memorable.’
I shoot down the street. As we round a bend we see the tail end of a white car disappearing up another side street. I turn after it. The number plate has a BLT.
‘Well done, Chris! Great detective work!’
‘Thank you, my dear fellow! But …?’
‘I’ll tell you later … I may have to indulge in a little light espionage first.’
She gawps at me. ‘Who the devil are you and what have you done with my friend Ellie!’
I tail the Toyota through a few more twists and turns of Taunton and down past a smart row of detached houses. It eventually swerves into the driveway of one of the houses near the end of the row. The sign on the gate reads ‘Swandale’. There’s a big willow tree in the front garden. It is slightly obscuring something else that piques my interest.