The Song House

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Since meeting Ed, Nell doesn’t see many people. Through accident or design, he keeps her close: he says she is his forever, she was meant for him and he was meant for her. He wraps a lock of her hair around his fingers as he says it, winding the auburn curl tighter, and tighter, singing it, crooning it, tugging her near. He couldn’t bear anything to come between them, he says, his mouth so close to her ear she can feel the wetness of his breath. Nell’s happy enough to hear it. She thinks they are what a real couple should be like; not like her mum and dad, who couldn’t stay in the same room without it ending in a slap, or his mum and dad, who live separate lives under one cold roof.

  She enjoys the solitude, and she can put up with the aimlessness of their days, the lack of adventure it brings. Nell’s not one for adventure. Most of her friends are out in the world; they send postcards from stops on the Silk Route, or from Amsterdam, Paris, South America, with tales of their travels: drunken nights on the beach, stoned nights in a blues den, sober nights in a dank cell waiting for word from the embassy. Others, the more serious girls she knows from school, have become involved in liberation and consciousness-raising and protest. The USA is the enemy, the state is the enemy, men are the enemy. Nell understands this, but she isn’t convinced. And anyway, it simply doesn’t apply to her. She is in a real relationship; she thinks she is quietly growing up. She and Ed stay in most days, and only go into the town to buy food or tobacco, supplementing his allowance with their own vegetables, fizzy home brew and elderberry wine. Their friend Cindy visits from time to time, and Ed’s cousin Leon calls in when he isn’t touring with his band. Occasionally, Nell sees Bryce, the water bailiff, with a young lad in tow, patrolling the river. The bailiff has a spaniel called Sonny; sometimes it swims across the river to greet her. Nell tells herself she isn’t lonely, but can count the faces she recognizes on one hand – apart from the men who come down to fish.

  She tries to ignore them until, one day, quite early on in this new, shuttered life, one of the men comes close to the window and peers in, thinking the place uninhabited. He takes fright when he sees her, staring back out at him like a pale reflection. She hears him call to his friends; hears the words ‘squatter’, ‘peasant’, their broad laughter trailing behind them. She would go and have it out with the men, tell them what she thinks of their remarks, but Ed is away, in London. She knows it’s not her place to make a scene. And she would have to follow them down to the river.

  It isn’t visible from the house, but still Nell can feel its presence everywhere; brought in on the stagnant, oily air of a summer’s night, in the wheedling sound of the mosquitoes as they trace her skin in the darkness, that sweeping metallic chill before dawn. In winter, the river seeps into her clothes, her hair, her bones, makes everything clammy to the touch. She’s had to put her books on a high shelf above the fireplace, hoping the rising heat will keep them dry, but she’s wrapped her most precious ones in old blankets, swaddled them like babies: the Shakespeare her mother gave her when she passed her eleven-plus; an illustrated collection of myth and fable; her irreplaceable copy of the Brothers Grimm. Its drawings of goblins and witches terrified and enthralled her as a child, and would do the same to me, later. These are her treasures. She won’t let the river deform them with its slick caress.

  If Nell imagines the river as an infiltrator, sidling its way up the path to spy on her, then she sees the house as her protector. It is her shield, repelling the invasion with its thick stone walls. The world outside can do what it wants; safe inside the house, Nell is queen.

  When she first saw Weaver’s Cottage, she thought it idyllic. Set low behind a thicket of trees, you could miss it entirely. The only visible part was the roof, half-covered in ivy. Up close, there were tall white hollyhocks in front of the windows and a short cobbled path to the door. The place looked so perfect, so unspoiled: a house a child might draw; a house in a fairy tale. The occupant was Ed, and this was where she first met him, just two years before.

  She heard him before she saw him: a steady rhythm of thumping, which sounded to her like giant steps. As she opened the gate, Nell felt the ground tremble underfoot, and paused, almost trembling herself.

  What’s going on? she asked, looking to her friend.

  Go on, urged Cindy, waving her towards the door, You’ll see.

  Inside, the air was choked with dust, like an explosion of flour. Ed emerged from a cloud, separating himself from the background in two strides. He had a mallet crooked in his arm, and was completely white from head to foot, except where the sweat ran down his bare chest in shiny brown tramlines. He released the mallet with a clunk onto the threshold.

  You must be Nell, he said, dipping his head to accept Cindy’s kiss. He held open a grimy palm,

  Won’t shake hands.

  He led them down the side of the cottage, through the long grass to the trees at the far end. Cindy, smiling, was wiping the dust from her cheek, picking her way through the rash of nettles at the edge of the riverbank. She turned to look at Nell, but Nell was craning her head, her eyes fixed on Ed’s retreating form. Without stopping, he strode up to the bank and leapt into the water. He was under for such a long time, Nell began to worry. When he resurfaced, he had his shorts in his hand and was scrubbing them over his head. He pulled out the elastic from his ponytail and dived back into the depths.

  What do you think? asked Cindy, wanting approval.

  I’ll let you know when I can actually see him, Nell said, relieved, waiting for Ed to reappear.

  My mother loved this story; she’d tell it to me over and again. The odd detail might be added, a memory modified. Sometimes, Ed looked like a ghost coming out of a haunted house, sometimes like Windy Miller. Once, he was a bronzed prince; only once. But always, after he’d washed himself off in the water and pulled himself naked and dripping onto the bank, she’d end the story with her happy-ever-after: And that was it, my Bird, love at first sight, seeing as that was when I first actually clapped eyes on him, properly, I mean, without all the plaster dust and filth. Cindy wasn’t best pleased, of course. But I’d made my mind up: I was there to stay.

  Maggie hears footsteps, quick, almost military in their rhythm, coming along the corridor. She turns the notebook over and closes it, just as Kenneth enters the library.

  Ah, Maggie, there you are, all ready with your pen poised, he says brightly, I trust you slept well?

  Yes, thank you, she says, and to cover her guilt, holds the book up for him to see, I was just wondering about this badge.

  Veritate et Virtute, says Kenneth, The old school motto. Truth and courage. Quite apt, I think, for the journey we’re about to embark upon. Didn’t you study Latin at school?

  I didn’t really go to school, she says, and seeing the surprise on his face, adds quickly, My mother taught me at home. But I went to the comp for my O levels. No Latin, though. It was quite . . . progressive. I don’t think we had a school motto, unless it was ‘Wake up, you at the back!’

  Kenneth rewards her with a quick laugh. He moves to the window, fumbling at the shutters until he manages to open them; light spills over her and across the floor.

  You know, you’ve given me an idea, he says, Because I was wondering where to start. Well, of course, we should begin at the beginning.

  Lesson one, says Maggie, but Kenneth’s not listening.

  He scrutinizes the wall of vinyl, drumming his lips with his fingers.

  Schooldays, he says, to himself, Music lessons.

  His fingers track the row, stop, go back, until he finds the record he’s seeking, slipping it out of the sleeve and holding it by the edges. He places it carefully on the turntable of the record player. It’s a slow benediction, him bending over, mouth slightly open, dropping the needle onto the edge. In the stillness of the room, Maggie waits.

  four

  Lesson one begins with a click and a hiss. Kenneth, standing in shadow at the far end of the room, bends slightly at the knees, holding his arms out at either side of his
body. He looks as if he’s about to jump into the abyss. Nothing happens, neither of them moves; but Maggie listens hard for a sound. As he lifts his arms up high, it begins. To Maggie, the music sounds as if it starts in the middle, building too quickly to a crescendo.

  ‘Jerusalem’! cries Kenneth, breaking into song: And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green!

  Maggie writes it down, the shout that comes over like a war cry, and the breathless reminiscences that follow. The next – ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ – is accompanied by more of Kenneth’s full-throated singing, until he finally gives up, overwhelmed, and beats a teary retreat to a darkened corner of the library. Maggie makes notes, trying not to be distracted by the way he paces the room; he’s not so much listening to the music as parading it in front of her. There’s a sudden break in this activity. She pauses, waiting for the next stream of talk, a white noise whine in her ears. Kenneth stands with his broad back to her. He’s muttering something about apple scrumping which she struggles to decipher.

  Can you repeat that? she asks, but he waves away her request.

  Never mind that now; listen to this.

  He places the record on the turntable, turns up the volume. Maggie hears a few simple opening bars, the asthmatic wheeze of an organ. Church music, she thinks. Kenneth slips behind her chair just as the choir starts to sing. The voices rise high, fall low: it is the singing of children. He’s near enough for her to hear him, and speaking quite clearly, but Maggie can’t put pen to paper. Her hand is stunned on the page.

  Something wrong, Maggie? he says, seeing her rigid posture.

  This song, she says, tilting her head like a bird, What is it? Kenneth moves back over to the record player and plucks the stylus off the record. He looks aggrieved at her interruption. The silence that follows is thick as wool.

  ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, he says, I was put in mind of it – if you’ll forgive me for saying so – when I first saw you. He sees her again, down in the field, spread on the barrow. Despite the knowledge that she can’t read his thoughts, his face reddens at the memory.

  And I was saying, he continues, That this was a hymn we used to sing at school. Harvest festival time, I think. It’s got such an innocent theme, so full of optimism. Don’t you agree? Maggie holds her right hand with her left to steady it. She feels last night’s supper repeat in her throat: bitter courgette, acid onion. Perhaps his cooking has given her food poisoning.

  Did they sing it here, she asks, The children?

  What? he says, frowning now, Oh. You mean when they came to practise. Quite possibly; I wouldn’t know. It’s a popular hymn; this version’s by the Winchester Cathedral choir.

  Would you like me to write that down? she asks, tasting bile.

  Kenneth closes his eyes and sighs, as if dealing with a recalcitrant child.

  Only, I can’t actually hear you over the music, Maggie adds, quick with the lie.

  Kenneth hadn’t thought of this; she can see it in his eyes. His response is tense, commanding:

  I will speak now. Please write down exactly what I say.

  It was quite an amazing experience, made all the more amazing by the fact – extraordinary – that everyone brought something; fruit in baskets and what else was there – um – there was fruit, and vegetables. The day boys only brought tinned stuff, tinned stuff, of course. Mr Vaughan at the piano. He erm, anyway, the singing was the thing. All things so very bright and so very beautiful in those days, the colours and the church—

  Kenneth stops reading. They are in his office on the top floor, a late sun slanting through the room. Outside, the fields are nearly in shadow; the barley burning copper, wheat the colour of pewter. Maggie has presented him with her afternoon’s work: two closely typed pages of his words. He stands at the window, holding the papers in his hand, while she sits on the sofa behind his desk. Kenneth can barely bring himself to look at her, with her face lifted, and that expression she has; so solemn, so eager to please. She has done well, he should praise her efforts: she has given him precisely what he’s asked for. Except he can’t get beyond the first page.

  Something wrong? Maggie asks, fighting the urge to get up and go and stand at his shoulder, Only, you tend to speak quite quickly.

  Everything’s wrong, he says, It’s terrible.

  He sees her head twitch, her hair fall over her face.

  Not you, he cries, Me! It’s so . . . God. I sound so awful. ‘The day boys only brought tinned stuff.’ Did I really say that?

  I couldn’t make it up, says Maggie.

  And I go on and on, two pages of . . . utter tripe.

  Kenneth removes his glasses and runs a hand over his eyes. Maggie sees the age in his face, the lines and creases magnified by the low sunlight.

  Well, this won’t do. We’ll have to have a rethink, he says, Change of plan.

  It’s just for you to read, she says, feeling a rush of pity at his crestfallen look, That’s what you said, didn’t you? It’s only for your eyes?

  Kenneth’s voice is very faint,

  I suppose, he says.

  Then what does it matter how it sounds? Maybe you just need a few words, you know, to get the feeling again.

  Maggie looks keenly at him, her green eyes cool as glass. Kenneth flips the papers, moving towards her so quickly, for a second she thinks he’s going to hit her with them. He scrunches the pages into a ball.

  Maggie, I don’t know what the prompt is. They came back to life, you know, those moments? But it wasn’t just hearing the hymn again, it was—

  It was telling me, she says, finishing the sentence he can’t bring himself to utter, Telling me about your past brought it right back.

  And why should that be? he asks, You don’t know me, or my past. Why should I care about that?

  He throws the ball of papers at the waste-paper bin, misses, picks it up again and dashes it into the basket. Maggie is silent for a second, waiting for his anger to subside before she continues. She weighs her words; she wants to make them count.

  Because what’s the point of memories, if there’s no one else to share them with? You might just as well use a Dictaphone if that’s what you believe.

  Kenneth drops himself heavily into his chair, smoothes his hands across the blotter on his desk. He finds the truth of her words baffling.

  But you don’t believe that, do you? she adds, You want to share them.

  Kenneth’s laugh is cynical.

  Oh yes, Maggie, I want to share them all right. I want to share them with me.

  The pause that follows is a kind of reckoning. Kenneth’s gaze wanders over the blotter, the leather-topped desk, his knuckles and his blunt fingernails. He won’t look at Maggie. In the waiting, a shiver of fright courses through her, as if she has been found out, as if he’s known right from the start who she is and why she’s here. Her mind races back over the past two days; she’s given nothing away. She could be anybody, nobody. He can’t know, and he mustn’t know, and she must keep courage. Truth from courage, she thinks, misremembering the motto. She jumps when he speaks again.

  Why I hit on this scheme . . . I was standing down there in the library, a few months back, and I was watching the blackbirds bouncing over the lawn, and there was the morning, the sharp air, and the light, everything rinsed and – it was brand new, you know, the way only an early spring morning can be – and I was listening to a flute sonata. It’s by Poulenc. Some of his stuff is quite austere, but this is—

  Kenneth throws his hands up,

  The piece, for me, is how spring feels.

  Maggie is nodding, calm enough to find her voice, Sounds good, she says, I’d like to hear it.

  But I wanted to record the moment exactly, so that I could remember it again properly, without any . . . interference. So other thoughts won’t sneak up on me, catch me off guard. Because that was when I realized. There are fewer spring days left now, for me. Who knows, maybe I won’t ever see another spring day like tha
t. So in the gloomy winter, I’d like to relive it. Properly.

  Maggie searches for some conciliatory words. Finding nothing to stem his self-pity, she simply looks at him.

  I’ll let you into a secret, he says, My mind these days, it’s a runaway train. One minute I’m doing something ordinary – opening a tin of tomatoes or writing a memo – or, or listening to music – and the next, I’m thirty, forty years away from what I’m doing. As if I’ve been invaded. And I have to find some way to control it. Contain it. I want to bottle the memory, I want to pull the cork out and be back in that same time. That shining time. It might be hard for you to understand now, but one day, you will.

  She doesn’t know if she understands, but she knows there’s no way to bottle a moment and keep it as it was; there’s too much stale air trapped between the memory and the cork. Best to let it breathe, she thinks, but doesn’t say.

  So I have to get it right. And that— he gestures to the wastepaper bin – That is not how I wish to relive my life. I want the good stuff. I’ve read plenty of memoirs, Maggie, politicians and film stars and suchlike. And they’re interesting – not like that drivel.

  That’s because they’re ghostwritten, she says, You don’t think celebrities spend their days dictating their life stories, do you? They tell them to other people, and then the writer goes away and does the research. Why don’t we try it? You tell me your memories and then I’ll write them up. I’ll write a story for your story. I’ll be your ghostwriter.