by Hazel Prior
‘Alan, sorry but Ellie and I are having an important catch-up.’
Alan looks apologetic and backs out.
When he’s gone again she tops up both our glasses. She keeps shaking her head and making faces. ‘Do you know, I had this bad feeling about Clive right from the start. I know it’s easy to say now, but I never felt he was right for you. I always got the impression he was a bit manipulative. He played on your insecurities, Ellie, and he cramped your style. He could put on a good show of kindness but he knew exactly which buttons to press to get his own way and make you feel bad about yourself. I did try to tell you, but you wouldn’t have it – you always sprang to his defence. You just kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I thought you must have some kind of a blind spot or something.’
‘Well, my eyes are opened now!’
My mother instilled in me such pitifully low self-esteem I’d always considered myself lucky to have a man like Clive.
Lucky? I laugh bitterly.
‘What about this harp-maker?’ Vic says, pushing back her hair, searching for a positive. ‘Is there anything there?’
I look down into my glass. ‘Vic … thirty-two harps … thirty-two! One would have been tragedy enough, but … If you had seen those harps! If you’d seen him working at them day after day, creating such fine, noble creatures out of blocks of wood … so carefully and lovingly shaping them … Each one a work of wonder, each one totally unique. The smell of them, the touch of them, the exquisite sounds they could make! And because of me, because of stupid, stupid me, they are all burned to cinders!’
My grief is contagious. We weep together.
A long time later I stand up and go to look at the calendar that’s hanging on the wall. ‘I must visit Mum. How is she?’
‘She’s got a bit of a cold, but they’re looking after her well.’
‘Can we see her tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
At this moment I feel that the sight of my mother will be reassuring. It just goes to show how much life has changed.
‘Ellie, Ellie, what’s happening?’
I throw back the bedclothes and sit bolt upright, gasping for breath. My heart is jumping about in my ribcage. ‘What? What?’
Vic is at the door in her dressing gown. ‘You screamed.’
I realize where I am. The panic begins to subside. ‘Bad dreams,’ I explain, rubbing my eyes.
‘Oh, my poor sis! You were bloodcurdling; you terrified us all. What were you dreaming?’
‘Bad stuff. Burning harps, flying pheasants, my husband setting fire to my clothes.’
She sits beside me and strokes my hair. I cling to her. The images replay in my head.
My husband was setting fire to my clothes. And I was wearing those clothes.
‘Mum, look who’s come to see you!’ declares Vic as we enter the small, functional, overheated bedroom. Mum is in an armchair, holding a book upside down and viewing it earnestly. A pink paper crown from a cracker is perched on top of her white curls.
‘Ah, Mum, look at you, still looking so festive!’
She would never have worn such a thing in the past. I wonder if one of the carers placed it on her head and if she even knows it’s there.
‘Just a minute, I’m all blocked up,’ she mutters, turning the book over and over in her hands.
Vic and I exchange glances. We’re not sure in which sense she is blocked up or whether she even comprehends the words she’s saying. We wait. At last she lays the book on her lap and looks up at me. Her eyes are encrusted with rheum, but signs of recognition slowly spread across her face.
‘Ah, you!’ she says to me, then turns to Vic. ‘She looks thinner, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, she does, but we’re very happy to see her, aren’t we, Mum?’
Mum’s wrinkles shift slightly. She’s never been very good at smiling.
We stay and chat for a while, covering the topics of Christmas at the care home, the weather, memories of our childhood, and favourite foods. Mum contributes little, and only fragments are relevant. Vic updates her on the ballet and swimming lessons of her throng of grandchildren. I provide precisely no updates about my own life.
Wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, the thought keeps slamming into my consciousness. I fling it out time and time again but it comes scything back at me like a boomerang. Clive wanted to ruin Dan and mortify me; Clive wanted to burn the harps. I simply cannot comprehend such cruelty.
Neither Dan nor I have reported him to the police. As far as the fire brigade is concerned, the cause of the fire was a fallen candle, and the rapid spread of flames was due to the quantity of wood shavings and other flammable objects in the barn. Nobody has mentioned a heap of paraffin-soaked clothes, evidence of which was totally destroyed. Was it arson, anyway? Clive (thanks to Phineas) never actually lit a match. We could, I suppose, drag him through the courts but it would only be traumatic for everyone, most of all for Dan who can’t bear to be in a room with more than five people. But I wonder if Dan could have claimed compensation? Or if I could somehow have helped him negotiate an out-of-court settlement with Clive? I’ve discussed it with Vic and Alan and they think that might still be a possibility.
The thought of ever being in touch with Clive again, however, makes my blood run cold.
They’ve all left early this morning, Alan and Vic for work and the children for school, their first day back after the holidays. I brew myself a strong coffee. The aroma takes me straight back to the Harp Barn. I’m pretty much always there in my thoughts anyway. It has already been a week since the fire but time has folded into itself and everything seems to refer back to that event. I decide to hoover the house or make myself useful in some way before the family returns. There’s a plastic helicopter on the chair, a one-legged doll on the fridge and a felt owl staring at me from the windowsill. The owl has a reproachful look and sadness in its big purple eyes. I sit down with my coffee, wondering where to start. Then I see it: the letter lying on the kitchen table, addressed to me. Clive’s handwriting.
My coffee lurches all over the table. Luckily the tablecloth is childproof and easily wipeable. I find a kitchen sponge and clean the mess, then pick up the envelope gingerly, as if it’s about to bite me. Sooner or later I’ll have to look. I force myself to run a finger under the flap and unfold the paper inside.
Dear Ellie,
I have written to you so many times, but this time I’m going to post it. Words don’t come easily, but you and I still have futures and I know I can’t get on with mine if I leave this hanging.
I want you to know that I’ve stopped drinking. I’m tempted often, but all I have to do is remind myself what a monster whisky makes of me. I know I’ll never go near it again. I can never forget your face that night, and never forget what I did and what I was so close to doing.
There is nothing I want more than for you to come home but I have no right to expect that now. You still have your keys. When you are ready please come back to the house and take whatever is yours. If you don’t want to see me then come during my office hours.
I’ve transferred a sum to your account which I hope you will accept. There is enough, I believe, to support you for a good while and to make repairs to the barn if that’s what you want to do (and I’ve a feeling you will). It hasn’t escaped my notice that no charges have been pressed against me. Your kindness stands in stark contrast to my own bitter actions.
I am in pieces without you, Ellie. All I can do is hope you’ll let me do this much for you.
I can’t say anything else at the moment except this. I am – truly – sorry.
Clive
I am dumbfounded. What it would have cost him to write a letter so contrite, so grovelling! What has happened to the proud, strong, fierce man I used to know?
I am in pieces without you, Ellie.
All those years I viewed Clive as a rock, myself as his limpet. Now it dawns on me for the first time. All those years it wasn’t him who was t
he rock. It was me.
49
Dan
The third, fourth and fifth people who came to visit me in hospital were Ed and his grandparents. My ex-girlfriend Roe Deer did not come with them. But Ed’s rabbit (who is called Mr Rabbit and who Ed is very fond of) did. None of them stayed for long because Ed’s grandparents had a meeting all about a new traffic layout system that, if it goes ahead, is going to upset all the residents in their part of Taunton. They needed to get back and drop off Ed with the babysitter and have a bite to eat and then make sure they were at the meeting in time to get a seat near the front.
It was good to see Ed, very. He sat close to me on the edge of my bed. Mr Rabbit sat next to him. Ed was wearing a blue jumper with a red tractor knitted on to the front of it. Mr Rabbit was wearing a yellow ribbon round his orange neck.
‘Is Phineas OK?’ was the first thing Ed asked.
I assured him that Phineas was fine. He had made his escape via the pheasant flap long before the fire started and had kept well away from it. Not a feather was singed. And now that I wasn’t there to feed him, Thomas was doing that task for me. Thomas, of course, couldn’t play the requisite chords on the medieval harp, and even if he could, it would be impossible because the harp had been burned. But he’d promised me he would call Phineas and be sure that he ate his meals, and be sure that he was sleeping all right in his second bed in the woodshed, and be sure to provide him with extra blankets. Thomas had muttered ‘Bloody bird!’ under his breath, but afterwards he’d said, ‘All right, mate, anything for you, mate.’
‘Can we go and visit Phineas, too?’ Ed asked his grandmother.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Edward.’
I said never mind, as soon as I was out of hospital I would give him a lift in the Land Rover and we would go to visit Phineas together.
Ed’s grandfather stuck his chin out and made a humphing noise. ‘We can discuss that later,’ he said.
Ed then took a sheet of paper out of his fluorescent yellow backpack and handed it to me. ‘I drew this for you, Dad.’
I studied the paper with great attention then turned it the other way up and studied it again. It was all rainbow colours, streaky and very fine, but I couldn’t make out what the picture was meant to be.
‘It’s Phineas, Dad!’
I could see now that he’d pointed it out to me that it was indeed Phineas. I said thank you and how proud and delighted I was to have a beautiful picture of such a magnificent and heroic bird. I would put it on the hospital table beside my bed and admire it often.
When I look at past events it seems to me that they are made up of long, wavering strings of ifs. If, for example, I had not given Ellie the cherry wood harp, she would never have come back to the barn to play it. If she hadn’t come back, she wouldn’t have taken harp lessons with Roe Deer. If she hadn’t taken those lessons, she wouldn’t have discovered that I had a son Ed. If she hadn’t discovered Ed, I wouldn’t have known of his existence. He wouldn’t have known of mine. A huge great chunk of wonderfulness would have been missing and we wouldn’t even have known it.
And if Ellie hadn’t told me about Ed, Roe Deer wouldn’t have been cross and spoken to Ellie’s husband Clive. Ellie’s husband Clive wouldn’t have got angry and ripped up Ellie’s poems and she wouldn’t have left him. He wouldn’t have come to the barn to see if she was there and wouldn’t have stuffed paraffin rags everywhere. And if we hadn’t saved Phineas all those weeks earlier, Phineas wouldn’t have been in his bed so he wouldn’t have flown into Clive’s face and Clive would have set fire to the barn when Ellie was asleep and I was away, then not even one of the harps would have survived and Ellie would not be here any more and neither of us would be happy about that. That would be a sad thing. Much sadder than just losing thirty-two harps.
Sometimes the ifs work for you and sometimes they work against you. Sometimes you think they are working for you whereas in fact they are working against you, and sometimes you think they are working against you whereas in fact they are working for you. It is only when you look back that you realize, and you don’t always realize even then.
Lying in a hospital bed with all the nurses, doctors, patients, machines and bleeps was disturbing, but I wasn’t allowed to leave, so I kept my brain busy by thinking about all the ifs. Another thing about ifs is that they help you understand things. If I hadn’t been in a fire, I wouldn’t have understood this: that although people as a whole are difficult and I would rather most of them did not exist, there are certain people who are very, very important. Even more important than harps. Ellie Jacobs is one of those people.
My son Ed is another.
If my son Ed had been in the fire … but I’m absolutely not going to think about that.
50
Ellie
I rang Jo again yesterday. Dan is now out of hospital and staying at her house, although she can scarcely squeeze him in. When she answered the phone Jo was still resentful about the havoc I’ve wreaked in her brother’s life, but she softened when I announced my intention of rebuilding the barn.
‘I want it to rise like a phoenix from the ashes,’ I gushed, all abuzz with new determination.
‘Ellie, you are one hell of a crazy cow! But yes, please, please do it! I can’t cope with Dan here a second longer than I have to, and I’ve been worried sick about his future.’
‘Could I possibly have a word with him?’
I sense a stiffness. ‘No, Ellie, I really don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Both of you need to sort yourselves out. I’m having a hard enough job getting Dan to relax as it is, without you stirring him up again.’
‘I’d hardly be stirring him up! I just want to share the good news. I just want to tell him I’ll do everything I can to—’
‘Look, I’ve got nothing against you personally and it’s great that you want to make amends. But I’d honestly rather you stayed away from Dan. You’re involved with a very dangerous man. Dan nearly died, and so did you. Who’s to say Clive won’t turn nasty again?’
‘He won’t. I’m sure he won’t.’
‘He may be trying to buy you back. He may take it out on Dan again when it doesn’t work. Hell, I don’t know! But he’s an alcoholic and a psychopath. Sorry, but I’m just not prepared to see my brother getting hurt again. Clear?’
‘But … Please, can’t I just speak with Dan?’
‘What part of “no” don’t you understand?’
I swallowed down my hurt and indignation. I needed Jo on my side.
‘Jo, does Dan, um … does he ever talk about me? Does he ever mention me?’
A short pause.
‘No, actually he doesn’t.’
There. That put you in your place, Ellie Jacobs.
‘I’ll let him know you’re going to fix the barn,’ said Jo in a more conciliatory voice. ‘He’ll be pleased.’
I’d so much rather have told Dan myself.
I ran upstairs and hugged Dan’s jacket instead.
I miss Christina and long to tell her everything. Vic and her family are endlessly, unstintingly lovely but somehow I can’t talk things through in the same way. Christina should be back from Thailand by now, but I’ve left countless messages on her answerphone and she’s never got back to me.
The money I now have in my possession is more than I’d ever envisaged spending in a lifetime. I was quite hysterical when I saw the bank statement. All that scrimping and saving, all that moaning about bills, yet Clive had so much hoarded away the whole time! I’d no idea. So generous was the sum I now wondered if I could actually build Dan a whole castle rather than just repair his humble barn.
But it turns out that builders and workmen and harp-making tools are all way more expensive than I’d imagined. And there are logistical problems with just about everything. Endless phone calls are necessary to make people do what I’m paying them to do and I’m too far away to plead in person. Workmen simply seem to be allergic
to work. It’s hard to get hold of anyone because of the backlog from the holiday season, and when I do they plague me with questions about structural details that I don’t understand.
‘Please, just make everything exactly how it was before!’ I beg. However, in technical terms I am quite incapable of describing how it was before. My lips are bleeding because I’ve bitten them so much from sheer frustration. My eyebrows get balder every day from my endless pulling at them. Dan would be better at explaining what was where in the barn but I am reluctant to refer the builders to him. Dan hates talking to people on the phone – especially people he doesn’t know.
I have extracted from him (via Jo) an itemized list of everything that was in the workshop. We’ll get a catalogue and replace all his tools once the builders and decorators have finished. Jo and I have both agreed we must get Dan back to normal as quickly as we can. I’ve offered the builders a lavish raise if they hurry up. Which has made a massive difference.
‘What would Dad have made of the way I’m spending all this money?’ I ask my sister, having blithely parted with another six hundred pounds.
‘Hard to say,’ she answers, shaking her head. ‘Mum wouldn’t have approved – wouldn’t approve – but I don’t know about Dad.’
‘I like to think he’d be pleased. It’s all down to him that I’m in this position, after all. Him and his insistence that I follow a dream.’
Vic studies my face. ‘And what of that dream now, Ellie? When you’ve finished being so manic, what are your plans?’
I can’t look that far ahead. But I know I can’t stay here for ever, trespassing on her kindness, fitting around her family’s clutter, acting as though I’m happy and normal.
‘What about your harp-playing?’ she asks. ‘Will you go back to it?’
Harp-playing? Me? Now? That seems as impossible as a browned and withered flower-head trying to be a bud again.
The house is silent, as though holding its breath, watching to see what I’ll do. I let myself in. It is early afternoon. Clive is at work.