Ellie and The Harp-Maker

by Hazel Prior

  More painful still are those other thoughts. Thoughts about my harp and the harp-maker who set in motion all the events that have led me to this spot. Feelings run deep. Thank God I managed to repair the barn! That helps soften the distress, but it is always present, a dark underground gully of guilt, hurt and sorrow.

  ‘Signora Jacobs will find a handsome Italian man and be happy again!’ cries my concerned receptionist.

  ‘Will she?’ I answer, not meeting her eye. ‘We’ll see.’

  53

  Dan

  Thomas takes a swig of cider. ‘So, mate, what’s going on with your love life?’

  I take a swig of mine. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I confirm.

  He takes another swig. It glugs noisily in his throat. ‘Roe Deer?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ellie J, the Exmoor Housewife?’ he asks.

  I shake my head again.

  ‘She’s gone, then?’

  ‘Gone,’ I say.

  I hear nothing from her. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel or think.

  ‘So you don’t have any lovely ladies visiting you any more?’

  I acknowledge that this is the case.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books, boyo!’ he says.

  I ask him which books he is talking about.

  ‘The books of Grim Despair,’ he answers, ensuring both words have capital letters.

  We sit and swig in silence for a while until our glasses are empty.

  ‘Women!’ says Thomas. He then stands up with a sigh, goes to the bar and asks for another round of ciders. The barmaid with painted-on eyebrows smiles and the barman with the shiny face says, ‘No worries.’

  Thomas brings back the ciders and goes on to tell me all about his most recent arguments with his wife.

  Thomas and I have a lot of conversations like this.

  On the journey to and from the pub I get the back of my neck licked by his dogs.

  I need to make harps quickly now and sell them to help pay the bills and to contribute towards Ed’s upkeep. I am making four simultaneously. My sister Jo has said we need more publicity. She has made a lot of flyers with pictures of a harp and the website details and the words: Would you like a harp? Take a look at this! She originally put three exclamation marks on it but I said that was too many.

  ‘Do you think so?’ she said. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. Less is more.’

  I pointed out that this was a contradiction in terms and actually less is less whereas more is more. And in my opinion less than three exclamation marks was what we needed. Less than two, even. One would be quite adequate. I wasn’t even sure we needed one.

  ‘OK, OK, whatever you want,’ is what she said.

  I am grateful to be back here and pleased to be making harps again. But I am not in the mood for exclamation marks. Not at all.

  I walk, I make harps, I feed Phineas, I eat sandwiches, same as usual. I do not eat so many spicy things now and there is not so much variety in my life. However, my sister Jo visits more than she used to. She brings stew and soup and gives me instructions about this and that. My son Ed still comes to visit on Saturdays too.

  Our harp is coming on nicely. We spent a long time discussing what sort of a harp it is to be, but now that’s settled. It will be made out of walnut wood, because he likes the quality of the graining in the wood and the colour, which he says is the right amount of dark. I tell him about the special kind of deep resonance that walnut has. He tells me he does not like to eat walnuts because they taste like bricks, but that he thinks a harp made out of the wood will be good. We go out for long trips pebble-hunting, putting on our wellies and following the path of the stream together.

  We have found the right pebble. It is roughly diamond-shaped and is very light, almost white with a dove-grey mottling. There were a few possibilities but Ed said as soon as we saw it that this was the one. He held it between his finger and thumb and viewed it from every angle. Then he looked at me with his big, round eyes.

  ‘Do you miss her?’ he said.

  I asked him if he was referring to his mother, Roe Deer.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean the kind woman. The woman with the nice hair and sad eyes. The woman who slid all about everywhere in the snow. Who read us the Jabberwocky poem. Who got me to draw harps. Ellie.’

  I thought about Ellie Jacobs, the Exmoor Housewife. Some people, when you don’t see them for a long time, become sort of transparent and blurry round the edges. Ellie Jacobs is not one of those people.

  I told him yes.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said and his eyes looked straight into mine in a way that made me look everywhere but back at him.

  ‘Is she coming back ever?’ he asked.

  I said I didn’t know. But I thought in all likelihood she wasn’t.

  We were silent for a bit. I was aware of Exmoor stretching all around us. The trees were scratchy and sharp against the raw, empty February sky. In the silence I thought more and more about Ellie and why she went away after the fire. I guess it can only be because she loved her husband Clive very much but he had planned to do an awful thing and she knew she couldn’t go back to him once she knew about the awful thing but she still felt lost and lonely and sad and probably just wanted things to go back to the way they were before but that was impossible. Love can be very complicated. I should know. I would so much have liked love to be a part of my own life, especially where Ellie Jacobs was concerned, but I am made of all the wrong ingredients. I know that now.

  ‘If Ellie would come back you’d like it, Dad, wouldn’t you? You’d be happy if that would happen, much more than now?’

  I said I would, I would indeed be happy more than now, hugely more. A flock of feelings like a murmuration of starlings swirled around inside me at such a thought, then disappeared again over the dim horizon. Strange things were happening with my face, too, things I couldn’t control.

  ‘Can I come and live with you one day, Dad?’ is what my son Ed said next.

  I bent over and started picking up lots of pebbles very fast without even registering what shape and colour they were. I told him that if it was up to me I’d say yes, of course, but I didn’t think it was up to me. It wasn’t even up to him, which isn’t very logical at all, but then you have to accept that because lots of things in life aren’t. It was up to Roe Deer and Roe Deer’s parents and the laws of the land; and probably all three parties would not take kindly to the fact I was penniless and living out in the wilds and not quite like other people, and also I was not (and never had been) married to Roe Deer, which seemed to make a major difference about how much of a father I was allowed to be. I knew all about it because Jo had given me a briefing just in case the subject should crop up.

  I noticed Ed’s look of intense concentration while I was telling him this. I said I didn’t really expect him to understand and I didn’t fully understand myself. However, if he was sure he wanted to come and live here (and I would love it myself if that happened – in fact, I had begun to feel recently that my life was maybe lacking in some way, which is a thing I had not thought previously; not at all) then it was probably worth mentioning the fact to his grandparents. There was a slight possibility they might consider it was a good idea too. At least, Jo had said so. And who knew what his mother thought? I certainly didn’t.

  ‘Shall I ask her what she thinks next time I see her?’ he said.

  ‘You could,’ I replied. But I wasn’t sure. Sure is a thing I am not feeling much these days.

  Ellie’s harp sits under its sheet in the little room. Nobody has touched it for months now. It looks lonely there, shrouded in white. The sight of it fills me with feelings as sad as November rain. It is looking as if Ellie’s harp will sit there unplayed for ever.

  54

  Ellie

  Water. This is a city of water. Water surrounds me. I am aware of it all the time, everywhere I go. The constan
t lap and plash, the transparent colours, the moving ripples. Water becomes more and more seductive. It is so golden, so peaceful, so full of light. Like music, like a dream-world. How would it feel to plunge in, to immerse myself completely, to breathe in that sweet forgetfulness? How many breaths would it take?

  The idea is alluring. No more decisions. Present, past, all my problems dissolved and washed away. Beautifully simple.

  For the first time I really understand what Christina is talking about when she describes her bouts of depression. It is like huge black weights loaded on to your heart. Beauty and sunshine only serve to make your own darkness darker. While the outside world becomes brighter and busier week by week, I feel I’m sinking ever deeper into hopelessness. I tell myself to get a grip, to move on … and the weights only get heavier. I am tired of life.

  I watch the water for a while, then retreat from the balcony. I still have a sister. I still have at least one friend.

  The most recent letter from Christina is lying on the bed. I bring it out and adjust the wicker chair so I am sheltered a little from the Italian heat of the April sunshine. Then I sit and reread.

  Christina writes that, despite the disappointing lack of beach bums, the holiday in Thailand worked wonders. Although her tan has now faded she’s keeping her spirits up. She even mentions trying to quit smoking. Miaow, who still hasn’t forgiven her for the prolonged stay in the cattery, is at least glad on this count. Christina’s son, the irresponsible Alex, has been on a visit, bringing the Swiss girlfriend. It seems an announcement was made at the girlfriend’s house in Geneva on Christmas Day – an announcement which they had tried to relay to Christina but she was unobtainable. However, now that they’ve met, Christina approves of her daughter-in-law-to-be and is excited about the prospect of becoming a grandmother, even though she says she feels far too young for the role.

  Christina sent me a cutting from a local newspaper too. The headline caught my eye straight away: TAUNTON HARPIST AND GUITARIST TIE THE KNOT. In the photo was a handsome couple: she, immaculate and svelte in a close-fitting, low-cut wedding dress, cleavage on display; he, suited and smiling, the cat that got the cream. I wonder if little Edward was there at the wedding. I am not surprised I wasn’t invited.

  Everyone else seems to be moving on with their lives but I can’t seem to do that. It has been two months since I left England. As a long-term guest I have a reduced rate at the pensione but my stash of money is dwindling. When the house sale goes through I’ll have to get myself sorted but now my mind shuts down every time I attempt any plans for the future.

  I stir myself to action. I’ll go and visit San Marco. For now I’ll satisfy myself by drowning in splendour.

  The air is balmy, but I take a jacket anyway; I’m not sure how long I’ll linger. I walk down through the palazzo and out on to the front steps, bidding buona sera to the lady at reception. She is listlessly turning the pages of a fashion magazine.

  ‘Buona sera,’ she returns, lifting her head briefly. Then, ‘Signora Jacobs!’ she calls after me as I reach the bottom step. ‘There is letter for you!’

  I come back inside. The letter is from Vic this time. I decide to take it with me and open it on a bench somewhere. I put it in my pocket.

  It would be quicker to take a vaporetto down the canals but I take the long route along the streets and over the bridges because the walk is as important as the destination.

  At last I find myself in Piazza San Marco. The paving gleams white in the sunlight. Pigeons swarm and strut hither and thither in a vast bedraggled congregation. The basilica looms in front of me.

  I perch on a bench overlooking the water and pull Vic’s letter from my pocket. I’m disappointed to see she hasn’t written much, but there’s a scrawly picture in crayons, evidently drawn by a child. I assume it’s from Zoe, the younger of my nieces. I don’t pay it much attention but read what Vic has written.

  Hi Ellie,

  Not much time to write, but will send you a proper letter soon. I was surprised when this arrived in the post yesterday. Jo sent it. She said she was babysitting for Ed the other day and he drew it while she was getting tea. The guy in the picture is Dan, as you might see by the dark eyes and hair. Jo asked Ed if the woman was Rhoda and he said no. Then he told her it was you, the kind and lovely woman called Ellie. Jo kept the picture for a while then decided to send it here as she still has my address. She said the picture had got her thinking about you and maybe she’d been a bit harsh or something? Anyway, she said I could forward it to you if I thought it was a good idea. And – well – here it is!

  Very much love,

  Vic

  I take the picture again, touched, but wondering why on earth they’d bothered.

  In the background is a big, brown triangle, presumably the Harp Barn. A yellow sun sits in the sky, surrounded by ragged rays. The stick figures are standing close together at the front of the drawing. Dan has huge eyes and I have a mop of scribbled hair. Our spiky fingers are intertwined. Big smiles are on both our faces.

  How did Ed get this image in his head? Dan and I have never held hands. Did I let on to Ed in any way that I loved his father? No, I never did – I was careful not to! How could a child so young have gleaned such a thing? I fold the paper up and shove it back in my pocket.

  I cross the piazza and step into the vast, vaulted portico. At once I am aware of music, wonderful music like a distant chorus of angels. I push the heavy door and walk into the main body of the basilica. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see there’s a choir assembled at the far end, some fifty or sixty singers. They have no uniform but are carefully arranged with the women in front and the men behind, tallest in the middle. Their voices rise, echoing and surging through the vaults. A small, sweaty-looking conductor waves a baton at them and leaps about. I stand and listen.

  ‘Bello, no?’ says a voice at my shoulder.

  ‘Sì, bello,’ I answer. It’s about as far as my Italian will stretch.

  ‘You are English?’ he asks. He is a tall, smartly dressed man with glittering eyes and a curved beak of a nose.

  ‘Yes. Is it that obvious?’

  ‘To me, yes. You have that – how do you say? That certain freshness that is very, very typical.’

  I presume it’s a compliment so I smile politely.

  He indicates the choir. ‘They practise for a concert tonight. It will be good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely music.’

  ‘Will you come this evening to hear them?’

  I shake my head. ‘I think not.’

  He is standing too close. ‘Where are you from? London? Birmingham? Brighton?’

  ‘No,’ I answer. ‘Exmoor.’ As I say the word the singing soars to an almost impossibly high note.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know it,’ says the man. ‘You are all alone here in Venezia?’

  I wish he would stop talking. I want to listen to the music. I have a feeling it is trying to tell me something.

  ‘You are married or no?’ Only an Italian could be so blatant.

  ‘Yes,’ I say impatiently, although it won’t be true for much longer. I don’t wear my rings any more.

  I am aware of the man searching my face for signs of encouragement. I don’t give him any. I fix my eyes on the choir.

  ‘Your husband, he is a lucky man,’ he says finally.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  At last he is gone. I can give the music my undivided attention.

  It is golden and opulent, like its surroundings. Every note is polished and perfected by the joint expertise of the conductor and the choir. The harmonies are a mosaic, full, rich and complex. The effect is dazzling.

  I feel a twinge inside me. It will not leave me alone as I stand there in the vastness and listen. I turn my eyes inward and examine the twinge. Finally I recognize what it is. It is a longing to make my own much simpler music. It is a longing to play the harp again.

  I have left my harp in Dan’s little room in the Harp Barn
on Exmoor.

  Why did I do that? I could easily have taken it with me. It isn’t so very heavy and I don’t exactly have much other luggage.

  I know the answer. Without realizing it, I was clinging to the tiniest, last shred of hope that one day I’d go back. Crazy. It’s time to let go of that now. Let go, Ellie. I must and I will let go.

  My footsteps are heavy as I walk out of the building, through the porch and into the light of the piazza again. Ed’s drawing is still in my pocket. I pull it out and take another look. Such a sweet picture. A picture of my own lost dream: so simple, just two figures, me and Dan, together. If only it had been his dream, too …

  I fold the paper – and for the first time I notice there are a few words written on the other side. Words in a child’s large, loopy writing.

  If this wud happin my DaD wud be happi agen.

  55

  Dan

  Spring is here. Catkins blow on the hazels. The birds tweetle loudly in the bushes. Clouds roll across the sky and days come and go. There are new beech leaves everywhere. They are meticulously folded like tiny fans. Once they uncurl themselves they are the palest of emerald greens, pleated and perfect. Their edges are trimmed with fur, downy and white. I look at them and I stroke them. My fingers are too big and rough. I show them to my son Ed. He looks at them and strokes them too. His fingers are more like it.