As she speaks, Kenneth moves from behind the desk and wanders back to the window. Maggie doesn’t know if he’s heard her.
Will they still be my memories, he says, finally, If you’re writing them?
I’m a very good listener, she says.
And you’ll be my interpreter, he says, catching air in his fist, That’s what you said?
That’s right, agrees Maggie, not correcting him, You see, we’re both good listeners.
five
Maggie opens the notebook at the front, weighting it with her cup of tea. She switches on the electric typewriter, which makes a series of buzzing protests, and feeds a piece of paper into the slot at the back. The machine seizes it from her grip and winds it round the platen. Click, whirr, silence.
ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL, she types. She pauses, looks around her. The prefect’s office under the main stairs is no more than an angular cupboard: just enough space for a shelf, a chair, and a desk. This last is a long piece of oak running the length of the wall. Typewriter, paper, correction fluid. Maggie picks up the bottle and shakes it. Hearing nothing, she twists the top off: the fluid has long ago become solid, and now she sees only dried flakes of white on her fingers. She sniffs them for the faint scent of solvent.
All creatures, she says, staring at the page, All creatures great and small.
Above her is a casement window, glowing with leaded lights: blue diamonds in each corner and a circular motif in the centre depicting a woman in profile. She knows it’s not the Virgin Mary; the robe is rose pink, and there’s no halo. Maggie reaches up and releases the latch, pushing the window wide. Outside is the entrance, a gravel drive cut into a sloping lawn. Beyond lie the rhododendron bushes, their leaves dark and glossy, the space underneath them a deep spill of shadow. Nothing will grow under there. She feels, but cannot see, the river running in a black ribbon at the edge of the estate. Maggie breathes in the soft evening air and the sweeter tang of the honeysuckle growing up the wall. Wood pigeons throb out their song. Resurrect his time, she tells herself, and then your own. But she falters, her hands poised over the typewriter keys. It makes such a racket, the machine. Every key she strikes results in a flurry of noise. She takes up the pen, lifts her cup from the notebook, and turns to the pages at the back.
They spend most of the summer down by the river. My mother sits a little way off from the bank, so she can barely see the water. Ed loves it, though; he jumps in and out, in and out, shaking the droplets off his body like a happy dog.
If she had said nothing, the businessmen would still be fishing here, and she wouldn’t have to spend so much time near the water. But Nell hasn’t learned about consequences yet; there is talk in the papers about the butterfly effect, but she doesn’t understand what butterflies have to do with CND or flood or famine: she simply wanted the fishing to stop. After the man had put his hand on the glass and looked in, she told Ed about it, how it frightened her. She told him about the names they called her.
The day before the men’s next visit, Ed went to the iron-monger’s shop in the market place. He bought two industrial-sized canisters of liquid soap and a long length of rubber hose, which he attached to the outlet from the bath. Early the next morning, he set to work, snaking the hose through the high grass, up to the corner of the field and down through the nettles at the far bank where he settled it at the river’s edge. He filled the bath with soap and water, then emptied it, filled and emptied it, leaning out of the little window to see how the river was looking. He said it was like watching a cloudy sky go by. Nell was worried about the fish, whether it would kill them, but Ed just laughed at her.
There are no fish in that river, you dimwit, except when the river man stocks it. For when the chaps come down from town, he said, in a languid, mimicking drawl. In his ordinary voice he added,
Reckon that should buy us some peace for a while.
Nell is not sophisticated, but she’s not stupid, despite what Ed thinks. She has simple ways – an innocent, Cindy calls her; a child of nature, says Leon – and she does have a childlike quality that certain types of men find attractive, and certain women think is an act to trap such men. But she’s not thick. She knows what she likes.
She likes it when the cow parsley grows tall and the only thing she can see at the bottom of the garden is a mass of nodding white. Then mullein, willowherb, clumps of elephantine dock, all crowding together as if to shield her from the river beyond. She knows the names of the plants and herbs that grow in the hedgerows around the house; to her library of fairy tales she adds books of natural remedies, traditional cures, none of which she ever considers using. She reads avidly. She is not thick.
Ed keeps busy, devising a plan to make paintings from the colours of the earth. He’s bored with the art scene and its labels; tired of the conceptual, of the minimal, the performance; fed up to the back teeth of fluxus and navigus and all the other us-es; he won’t be pigeonholed. He tells anyone who will listen: his art transcends all that; it is transcendental. It’s a transcendental-active-nature vibe. He calls the movement Trans-Act and declares himself the sole practitioner of the group.
Can you have a group of one? asks Nell, innocently snipping the heads off a bunch of dandelions.
We used to call them piss-the-beds, he says, nodding at the weeds, But you’d know that.
Ed’s art is indeed very active. He digs holes in the garden, squatting over them naked, pouring in water and swirling it to mud with a stick. Finding a new use for his mallet, he pounds up nettles and berries and throws them into the mix. Soon, the garden is pocked with muddy hollows, so to venture out at night is to risk a broken ankle. Inside the cottage a collection of jam jars clutters the draining board and kitchen table, in shades of green and brown, algaeous and putrefying. After a while, the jars give off the same stench as the river. Ed won’t allow Nell to throw them away; he paints pictures of rainbows in these hues, on the walls and occasionally on canvas, every one of which dries to a dull khaki brown.
My mother is productive too; she makes dreamcatchers, which sell well in the craft shop in town. She finds the feathers in the neighbouring fields, striped golden-brown and shiny blue-black ones, tiny white chick down clinging to the brambles on the verge outside the cottage. She uses the feathers sparingly, even though they’re not hard to find; sticky clusters of them lie on the main road at the end of the lane, buzzing with flies. She leaves these alone.
Ed’s cousin Leon comes to live with them. His band is finished, he says, the guys have had musical differences. He brings his tabla and a rucksack and a case of whisky, and overnight, Ed’s Trans-Act movement comes to an end; he and Leon decide to form a duo. They sing to the tall grass, to the birds, to Nell and Cindy; and they swim in the river, drink whisky, roll six-skin joints that leave them parched and motionless under the shade of the trees. The evenings are long. Leon patters accompaniment on his drums, while Ed composes songs, inventing chords on his guitar. He calls to Nell to write his lyrics down, quick! before he forgets them. Nell is never still at this time. She treks in and out of the cottage, bringing fish-finger sandwiches, charred toast disguised with baked beans, anything left over in the pantry that she might pass off as edible.
The men like to sleep out in the open, like cowboys; it’s not warm, and most nights they need to light a fire. When they’ve used up the stock of logs in the shed, they saw branches from the trees that border the property. Nell realizes she can be seen from the road when, one day, the water bailiff and the boy pass by and shout hello.
It gets too cold, or the wood they’ve cut is too green to burn; whatever the reason, they move back indoors. Now Nell can’t listen to her records at night, because they want to sing – to rehearse – and cannot be disturbed by her noise. Gong and America replace Joni Mitchell and Carole King. The smell of Ed snoring next to her is the sweet and sour of hash and whisky.
Leon takes to sleeping on the couch in the living room under an Indian blanket. When Nell gets up to make
breakfast in the kitchen, she can see him, wrapped up like a mummy, through the gaping hole in the wall. The improvements Ed has started don’t progress: in the daytime, the hole becomes a serving hatch; in the evenings, they light the candles stuck onto the exposed brick ledge, and it becomes a kind of altar. When Ed peers through it, he looks to her like Christ bestowing a blessing. Nell’s not unhappy: she has Ed and Leon, and sometimes Cindy, for company, and soon she’ll have me, although she doesn’t know it yet. Summer lags into autumn.
Maggie reads through what she’s written: her handwriting, neat and right-leaning, looks like soldiers on the march. She takes pleasure in imagining her mother’s past, and thus far, it’s been easy: tales told and retold by Nell, at bedtime, to help them both sleep. It was a funny and sometimes strange amusement for Maggie – at only five years old an attentive listener – but welcome relief from the silence and the dark. Through the history Nell created, they could both visualize a life only one of them knew. It avoided talk about the one they shared.
She turns to the typewriter and the heading – ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL – at the top of the page. Beneath it, her fingers on the keys crash out just two lines:
He gave us eyes to see them
And lips that we might tell.
six
They spend the evening together again. Maggie hadn’t intended it. After writing up the music notes, she wanted to be away from Earl House for a while. She caught the bus into town and bought food at the supermarket: pasta and tomatoes and tinned tuna; easy, thoughtless stuff. She treated herself to a bottle of Fleurie, planning a night in front of the snowy television screen. Just her and the remote control and the wine. But on her return, she found a note had been slipped under the door: Kenneth’s writing, looping letters in a stylized, old-fashioned hand, requesting the pleasure of her company. It ended with a large flourish for the K. Underneath his signature he’d added, almost as a plea, ‘Come and try my latest concoction!’
Maggie finds Kenneth at the stove, peering into a rise of steam wafting from a large metal saucepan. As she falters at the kitchen door, he stretches across the worktop and switches off the radio.
No music, he says, Not after the choir this morning. He looks directly at her, a stern expression on his face, which softens when he sees the paleness of her skin, the shadows under her eyes. It’s enough confirmation for him to pursue this line of enquiry.
You found it troubling? he asks, Something in that hymn affected you?
She makes to shake her head, to deny the plain truth of it, but then her words betray her.
Yes. It was a bad feeling, that’s all. I’m sorry. I won’t let it affect our work.
Kenneth lifts the wooden spoon to his mouth and blows on it.
Here, tell me what you think, he says, holding it out for her to taste. He watches as she puts her open mouth to the sauce.
Because I hadn’t planned on that, Maggie. I mean, I thought the music was simply for me to have feelings about. Silly, isn’t it? Of course, you would have a response too, even if you didn’t know the piece.
Maggie flicks her tongue over her lips.
It needs salt.
She observes him as he searches about amongst the jars and pots scattered over the worktop. He’s dressed casually, mustard-coloured slacks, a white linen shirt undone at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. In contrast, Maggie has forced herself to make an effort. She feels like a gauche teenager, standing in a strange kitchen with a strange man, in her yellow flower-print dress. Her hair is squashed under a wide tortoiseshell clip; every time she turns her head, she feels it dig into her scalp, as if to remind her that her natural self has been disguised. She takes a moment before she delivers her speech, blinking at the sight of his forearms, the hairs on his tanned skin glistening under the kitchen spotlights. He looks so capable, so full of life and confidence; no sign of the trembling hands she’d witnessed last time. Her own hands are sticky with heat.
Kenneth, I must apologize for this morning. This is your history we’re writing, not mine, she says, I’ll try to be more professional from now on.
Finding the bowl with the salt in it, he takes a pinch between his fingers and dashes it into the stew. He wants to say, Please don’t be more professional, just be who you are. Instead he says,
And what about your history, Maggie? You didn’t give much away in your letter.
What would you like to know? she asks. She crosses to the sink as she says this, turning the cold tap on full. He follows her, puzzled at the way she puts one wrist under the flow, then the other. He ducks his head slightly, looks into her face.
Cools the blood, she says.
There’s the scar again, a silvery strike on her brow.
Well, if we’re talking about music, he asks, What kind do you like? What moves you?
I like all kinds. But what moves me? Maggie gazes into the running water, considering her response. Kenneth takes a step back from her to bring her into focus again.
Singing, choral music, and—she breaks off, unnerved by the intense way he’s listening – I suppose voices affect me most. Music my mother used to play to me when I was little.
And your mother, he says, reading the answer in her face, Keeping well, is she?
She died a little while ago, says Maggie, and before he can offer condolences, she rushes on, She liked all kinds of stuff, blues, and soul, lots of folk. John Martyn, mainly, Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan—
I adore Dylan! says Kenneth, And Joni, too, of course. Not sure I’m familiar with the others. You must play me some.
And hymns move me, as you know, she says, shaking the water off her hands, Some of them. But maybe not in the way they’re meant to. What about you? What did you like, as a child?
Kenneth tips his head up, thinking, and bites his lower lip. Under the lights his teeth gleam large and yellow and perfectly even.
Let me see. Um, jazz, something with a bit of combustion in it.
He does a little sideways feint, like an old boxer, as he says it.
My father used to play Cab Calloway, and there was Dizzy Gillespie, Satchmo, Earl Bostic . . .
No relation? asks Maggie.
What? Ah, very good, yes. I mean no.
He smiles, enjoying her teasing, but not the feeling it produces in him. Maggie raises her eyebrows, nods her head towards the stove.
Something might be combusting right now, she says.
Kenneth grabs the pan off the gas, quickly swapping from one hand to the other until she passes him a tea towel to wrap around the handle.
What do you think? he says, tilting it towards her. She stares into the volcanic mass of bubbling brown, feeling a wet heat on her face.
Caught it just in time. What’s in it?
Top secret. But this beef will need a while longer. Could you pass me the wine?
Maggie fetches him a half-full bottle of red, from which he takes a long swig.
That’ll make it taste better, he says, smacking his lips. She reaches out and cuffs him lightly on the arm.
Oh, all right then, he says, pouring the wine into the pan. The light drops suddenly as the sun outside the kitchen window slips behind the trees.
So, what did you write about the hymn? he asks, In the end? Maggie decides she will answer him truthfully.
Just two lines. But very fitting. I thought it might be an idea to save them up.
Once the stew is bubbling again, Kenneth stirs it, scrapes the gunge from the sides and turns the heat off. He seems not to be listening, until he looks at her.
Why don’t I pour us a G&T, Maggie, this’ll need half an hour to meld. Save them up how, exactly? he says, crossing to the fridge and fetching a tray of ice.
Again, they take their drinks out under the cover of the terrace and sit side by side on the wrought-iron bench. The sun has sunk away completely now, but the sky is pink and blue and shimmering, like the skin of a rainbow trout. The river below it is a lash of fractured purple. Kenne
th sits so near, Maggie can see the small bobbled graze of a shaving cut on the line of his jaw; she can smell his cologne, cedarwood and spice. So, he’s taken trouble for her, too. She glances at him from the corner of her eye as she explains.
I thought – you’ll say if you don’t like the idea – that we could record your music story chronologically, from childhood to now. That way, you could read what I’ve written at the very end. I’ll still type it up. It’ll be like a . . . musical memoir.
He lifts his glass and takes a long drink. She wants him to look at her now; she could easily bear it.
Like This is Your Life, she says finally, with an anxious smile. Kenneth nods, gently swirling his tumbler, making the ice clatter. She clutches her drink, feeling the beads of moisture sliding under her fingers, the crisp scent rising up. She hasn’t tasted it yet. When he smiles too, she takes a quick, choking gulp. The chill and burn of the gin on her tongue is wonderful.
That wasn’t the plan, Maggie. The plan was to be random, to have one piece of music trigger off another. Spontaneous, indirect. Like the way memories flood in and out.
Not much flooding today, she says, My fault.
They are silent for a moment. In her head, Maggie hears the hymn again, the sad wheeze of the organ before the children’s voices cut in.
But, d’you know what? I think it’s a rather good plan, he says at last, We don’t have to work in sections, but maybe you could organize them later? Childhood, adolescence, young adulthood—
It was a very good year, she says, swaying into him and laughing. Kenneth looks askance for a moment, then his face lights up.
The Song House Page 4