Walls of Silence: a stunning historical thriller you won't be able to put down

by Ruth Wade

  ‘Her, not him. I find that if you strip away the easy banter and the apparent interest in whatever topic I throw at him to see if he ever has anything original to contribute rather than simply reflecting back my opinions, then he is rather limited. Whereas Helen is quite delightful.’

  It was as if a completely different woman was standing in front of him. Edith was articulate, insightful, certainly perceptive about Peter’s annoying habit of playing the amateur psychoanalyst in every social situation, positively glowing about her emotional attachment to Helen, and exhibiting no signs of whatever dark impulse had compelled her to deface her work.

  ‘How do you find them when they are together?’

  He felt a blush warming his cheeks but prevented it from deepening by reminding himself that her ability to analyse a relationship being played out in front of her could give him some valuable evidence of her emotional literacy.

  But it seemed she wasn’t so easily fooled.

  ‘Now, now, Dr Maynard. Listening to tales told out of school isn’t nearly as satisfying as hearing them firsthand. It you’re so very interested in the state of their marriage, why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m sure she’d tell you.’

  Stephen did flush heavily now. He could feel her grin etching into his shoulder blades.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I took a glimpse at what you’ve written whilst I was waiting. Is this all you’ve done or do you have another chapter somewhere?’

  Edith walked over to stand beside him. She pulled a pair of glasses from her skirt pocket and put them on. ‘Before you say it, I do know they make me look like a caricature of a spinster. But then I am one, except now I can see.’

  ‘Helen’s doing?’

  ‘Indirectly. I don’t know why you didn’t suggest something of the sort a long time ago; it might’ve saved a lot of misunderstandings.’

  ‘Like you not recognising me with my beard?’

  ‘I doubt they would’ve made any difference to that – but we’ll never know now, will we? As for my fledgling memoir, this looks like the beginning. In the capacity of a literary critic, do you think I’m likely to do the great Dr Potter’s reputation justice if I continue in this vein?’

  Stephen didn’t want to be drawn. ‘As you’ve brought him up I think it’d be good to focus our session today on your relationship with him; when we’ve finished perhaps you’ll be in a position to judge what you’ve written for yourself. Shall we assume our usual positions and make a start?’

  Edith settled herself in the armchair. ‘Amongst all his other accomplishments, he was quite an expert on roses.’

  ‘Did you talk together about horticulture often? It’s obviously an interest you had in common.’

  ‘He’d had a formal garden planted at the back of the Cambridge house – the soil and climate suited the rarer cultivars perfectly – but Granny didn’t like the regimentation of the bushes. And there’d always be a row when she cut the blooms. She considered flowers’ only purpose to adorn the sideboard or hall table whereas he wanted them perpetually kissed by the dew and sunshine. I took his side of course.’

  ‘Would you say that typified how things were between you, a feeling of being as one against the world?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. I always felt he was making an extra effort to include me in his life in order to make up for my being deprived of a mother. But it didn’t take me long to realise that he wasn’t a man blessed with much imagination and consequently not able to indulge in games of make-believe or create the silly nonsenses that would appeal to a young girl. As it happens, it didn’t matter because I was more than happy to sit at his knee solving the sort of mathematical puzzles that fascinated him.’

  ‘A chip off the old block.’

  ‘I did my best to make him proud of me.’

  ‘I’m sure you did, it’s one of the major preoccupations of every child as regards winning their parents’ love and approval.’

  ‘I thought I’d made it clear there was never any question of my having to fight for either.’

  ‘Sorry if you think I misinterpreted or am labouring the point – but it is important. Freud believes our entire development depends on how well the early seeds were sown and nurtured. And our memories and impressions of that process can easily become distorted over time. After all, none of us wants to think badly about, or harbour grudges against, those who were only doing their best given the circumstances of their own upbringing. It’s a never-ending circle, you see, Edith.’

  ‘The sins of the fathers ...’

  ‘That isn’t quite what I meant, except I suppose the premise is the same.’

  Stephen could sense how much control she was exerting not to let her irritation show.

  ‘In fact that reminds me, I have this for you ...’

  She pulled what appeared to be a piece of paper from under the waistband of her skirt. Had their conversation sparked a need to show him something she’d written but self-censored?

  ‘As you can see, the envelope has your name on it.’

  He took it from her and made to slide his finger under the sealed flap.

  ‘I wouldn’t open it now if I were you. I suspect it’s a missive best read in private. Helen dropped it as I was helping her with the tea things. A Freudian slip of a billet-doux perhaps? I decided I’d save her conscience the trouble and elect to play postman.’

  Stephen’s fingers reached up to pluck at his beard before he remembered it was no longer there.

  ‘I see you’re itching to find out what could only be penned whilst her husband was away on farm business. What is it they say? Out of sight, out of mind.’

  He forced his hand to slip the envelope into his open briefcase. He had to tackle the existence of those poisonous phrases. But his concentration was faltering, his mind focusing its energies on why Helen would feel the need to write to him at all when she knew he’d pop up to the Hall before leaving. Had she wanted to prepare him beforehand? Confess her ... tell him something she found easier to put into words on paper? The briefcase pressed heavily against his leg. On reflection, perhaps the best approach with Edith – given that she did look a little tired – would be to say a little about the topic in general terms and let her come to her own conclusions about its relevance to those journal pages. Yes, that was infinitely the better way. Besides, there was the added advantage that she might not erect immediate defences against the notion if she thought he’d chosen to talk about it because of Helen’s note. She had been the one to bring up Freudian slips after all.

  Stephen cleared his throat prior to adopting his favoured tone when posing a theoretical problem a split second before the end of a lecture. ‘Have you ever heard of automatic writing, Edith? That the phenomenon exists is backed up by an abundance of case studies – even though I’ve never come across it professionally myself. Essentially, it is writing that’s produced without the author being aware of the content. The circumstances of how it is automatic varies. Some subjects write in a trance or sleep-like condition; some are awake and alert, aware their hand is moving but unaware of what they are writing. Others are reported as having their hand totally anesthetised during the process and, if it has been screened from view, believe it to have been motionless. Some are aware of the strokes contained in each word as it is being written, but have no idea of the word itself or what sentences it will form a part of; there appears to be no intention, planning, forethought, or concept of what is about to be written. In all cases, it’s as if the conscious patterns in the brain have been bypassed or switched off.’

  ‘Fascinating. Now why would someone want to do that, do you think?’

  ‘And that’s the question I’d like to leave you with, Edith. Mull it over while you’re tending your garden perhaps. You can let me know what you come up with at our next session. Except that won’t be until the Sunday after Guy Fawkes because I’m taking myself off for my annual busman’s holiday in the Lake District – I work the first week
in the rehabilitation centre up there and get the next fortnight to tramp the Fells.’

  ‘It really makes no difference to me when you plan to see me again. Please do get going, Dr Maynard, you’re making me fidgety just watching your eyes flick to the escape route of the door every few seconds. Enjoy your break if it won’t be too much of a wrench to be absent from Beddingham Hall. Although I trust you’re about to be the recipient of a delightful send-off that will keep us at the forefront of your mind ...’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Stephen read the note standing on the doorstep. Then he virtually ran up to the Hall, slipping and sliding on the wet grass as he veered from the path for the shortest route.

  *

  Stephen felt as though a train had hit him when he saw Peter Hargreaves sitting on the sofa. He’d knocked and entered the flat in the space of one breath. Hadn’t Edith said he was away? Or had he taken everyone by surprise – including Helen – by returning early?

  ‘Greetings, old son. I see you’ve done something about that fungus crawling over your face at last. Helen will approve. You look as though a bottle of pea-shuck wine is called for. One of my best, if I say so myself. I’m sure the vibrancy of the bouquet will be wasted on you but a lip-smack or two of appreciation wouldn’t go amiss.’

  The oblivion of alcohol had never held more appeal. Stephen accepted the tumbler Peter offered him and drained it in one draught.

  ‘Well, you certainly needed that. Another?’

  Stephen held his glass out – his hand steadier than he would’ve thought possible. He took a mouthful.

  ‘Better leave you the bottle then if it’s going to one of those sessions.’

  Peter placed it on the floor by Stephen’s feet and returned to his chair.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s eating you?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Okay, have it your way ... Raining a lot for the time of year, don’t you think? But at least it’s good for the allotment.’

  Stephen searched for something to say. But he couldn’t find anything that didn’t lead back to his feelings for Helen. He finished his wine, and then poured himself some more.

  ‘Hey, go easy, it’s potent stuff.’

  ‘How do you set about making it?’

  It was the best he could do. And it was safe. His senses were growing foggy already so he thought he could just about bear having to listen to the answer.

  ‘If I told you, then I’d have to kill you; the entire process is a closely-guarded family secret.’

  ‘I thought you told me you picked it up in France.’

  ‘I didn’t say from whose family, did I?’

  Peter was looking insufferably smug for having dug the trap.

  ‘What caused them to consider you worthy of the knowledge then; were you knocking up the daughter?’

  He was gratified to see Peter blanch. Deuce.

  ‘I was married to Ellie by then, as well you know. If you can’t make civil conversation then I suggest you keep filling your mouth with wine and shut up.’

  ‘Is it civil to bring up France?’

  Stephen was beginning to enjoy himself; there was a lot to be said for this needling lark.

  ‘I’m going to find Helen, and leave you to stew in your own neuroses.’

  ‘No point. She’s down at one of the cottages for the evening. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘All you did was waltz in here as though you owned the bloody place, and help yourself to my booze.’

  ‘What’s yours is mine; isn’t that the way between old friends? By the way, Helen told me there’s some food I’m welcome to put my hands on. Not that I’m hungry but it was uncommonly thoughtful of her, don’t you think?’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Stephen, and I’m not playing. Here, hand me what’s left in the bottle. If you’re going to be in this mood, then I think I’ll join you.’

  ‘Good idea, dear chap; it’s all rather pleasant on this side of sobriety.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have forgotten what it’s like to be otherwise.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You drink too much.’

  ‘Ha. That’s rich coming from a man who always has a bottle on hand for every occasion.’

  ‘I only make it, Stephen, not store it in my liver.’

  ‘And what did you do in France then? Refuse the pastis and confine yourself to holy water?’

  ‘I’ve asked you before not to blaspheme. And you know very well what I was doing there; let’s not go over all that again.’

  ‘Yes, let’s. You were simply patching men up to send them back to The Front, weren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘Is there any other? What was the routine: sew a poor sod’s arm back on then stick a gun in his hand and exhort him to resume fighting for King and Country and never darken your door again? I wonder you can sleep at night.’

  ‘That’s bloody offensive, and you know it.’

  ‘Pretending you were trying to save lives is offensive. The whole charade was nothing more than a brief intervention in the butchery.’

  ‘I did my duty, Stephen. And the soldiers knew they were doing theirs; not one of them cried to be excused.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. They’d have all been warned that you’d only have them court-martialled.’

  ‘And I would’ve done. They were there to fight, and every gap in the line could’ve got their fellow soldiers killed because they were too cowardly to go back and stand beside them.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have someone court-martialled?’

  ‘An artillery gunner who shot his toes off.’

  ‘I bet he was young, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Not the youngest.’

  ‘Had he even started shaving?’

  ‘Stop it, Stephen. He was guilty of gross cowardice in the face of the enemy.’

  ‘So, firing squad for him, was it? How does that work then? Because there’d still have been a gap in the line.’

  ‘He had to be made an example of, to stop others doing the same. War is a brutal and inhumane business. And yes, I can sleep at night as it happens. You’d have done exactly the same in my position.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’

  Peter got up and fetched another bottle from the sideboard. He re-filled Stephen’s tumbler without asking, then topped up his own. Stephen took delight in watching the great connoisseur pour the pinkish wine on top of the remains of the old. Sacrilege. He laughed quietly but couldn’t be bothered to point it out. Even in his befuddled state, he knew the skirmishing had moved way beyond that stage. And the bottomless pit of resentment that lay behind his part in it. Obviously he envied Peter being over there with Helen and all the heightened emotions brought about by the close proximity to death at their disposal, but that was too shallow and self-serving to be at the core of Stephen’s bitterness. It was the sheer, bloody, sausage-machine of war itself that really grated. It hadn’t crossed his mind to register as a conchie but he had, instead, done all he could to draw limits to the carnage. He’d taken a post examining shell-shock victims with the remit of passing as many as possible as fit to resume active service. So far, so Peter Hargreaves’ war. But the difference was that he’d signed so few off his sick list that he’d been summoned in front of the Board of Medical Directors to be read the riot act. Not that it’d made any difference. He just became more adept at coaching the men in how to exaggerate their symptoms – except they didn’t really have to try very hard; most were on the edge of insanity already but the official line was that if they could walk and understand orders and knew which was the business end of a gun, then they were on a troop ship almost before the ink was dry on their papers.

  The skin on the inside of Stephen’s mouth shrivelled under the acidity of the wine. Bu
t he needed more. Bottles more if he was ever going to forgive and forget. Because the poor bastards who hadn’t the wits to follow his instructions were very probably the same ones who abandoned all survival instincts and got themselves wounded and on the slab under Peter’s knife. Then he did his patching and sending back up the line in the name of duty routine, and that was their fate signed, sealed, and delivered. The irony of course being that it was the truly shell-shocked ones – the ones who couldn’t remember their own name but could still pass muster – who were unable to grasp the concept of how to beat the system. And so they died. Or ended up here in Beddingham Hall. It had all been such a callous, futile, pointless, empty fucking waste of what could’ve been ordinary and decent lives well lived.

  He felt tears bead on his lashes and wiped them away with the back of his hand. He saw Peter staring but didn’t care. He was so close to the descent of blissful anaesthesia that he no longer felt the need to defend himself. He closed his eyes.

  *

  Ten minutes later (or it could’ve been three hours) he woke up to find Helen in the room with them. He watched Peter stand up and greet her with a kiss.

  ‘He’d reached the maudlin self-pity stage before he passed out. He’s all yours. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘I’ll join you in a bit; I just need a little time to unwind. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of him, that’s all. His incessant need to compete for the moral high ground. But we’ll be back to being friends again tomorrow. I wouldn’t bother trying to get him into the spare room, just throw a blanket over him.’

  He kissed her again, and then left.

  Stephen was pleasantly surprised to realise he was still drunk. But the room wasn’t spinning. He heaved himself into a sitting position and picked up the bottle Peter had thoughtfully placed within his reach. He waved it.

  ‘Want one?’

  Helen fished a glass out of the sideboard and came over to join him. ‘Shove up.’

  He poured them both some wine.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of, did you have a bruising encounter with Edith?’

  ‘I’m fine – well I was before I started drinking this stuff.’ He swallowed another mouthful and pulled a theatrical face. ‘God, I’m tired. And more than a little confused. Damn and blast him for being here. Why did he have to be?’