Ah, yes, A Very Good Year. Well done, you clever girl. When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year, he sings, For something girls who lived up the stair, with all that beautiful hair . . .
And it came undone, says Maggie, blushing. Kenneth blushes too, putting his mouth to his glass and finding it empty.
If only I was twenty-one again, he says.
Me too.
She expects him to say the usual stuff, about how she has her whole life ahead of her, but he slaps his leg, lifting himself up from the bench with a groan.
Which reminds me. Wine. Come and help me choose a bottle, he says, holding out his hand for hers. She doesn’t think it strange or unusual to slip her fingers into his. Kenneth leads her through the kitchen, pausing at a narrow door in the far wall. It has an ancient calendar hanging on it, a sepia-tone picture of a horse and plough.
The years turn over fast, says Maggie, giving him a look. He raises his finger,
Don’t tempt me, he says, A gentleman never asks a lady her age.
If you must know, she says, I’m thirty-several.
How excellent, he says, tracing the top of the door frame with his fingertips and fetching down a rusted iron key, And that makes me sixty-several. You know, I feel younger already!
It takes Kenneth only two attempts to feed the key into the housing. He stands aside and pulls open the door with a flourish, as if he’s performing a conjuring trick. And it is a sort of illusion, this dark, constricted entrance into the bowels of the house. Maggie tracks him single file along a corridor of sweating brick, ducking through an archway and almost stumbling down the steps into the wine cellar. They pass banks of wooden shelves, stopping when they reach the far corner. The only light is from a square grille of window cut into the outside wall. The smell is damp dog, mushroom.
I keep the decent stuff back here, out of reach. Would you like to choose something? he asks, Something special?
I’d have no clue, says Maggie, squinting in the near-darkness, Unless you’ve laid down a stash of supermarket plonk.
She puts out her hand, gingerly, fearing spiders, or mice, and lifts a random bottle from a rack.
Let me see, he says, taking it from her and holding it at arm’s length, Haven’t got my glasses. Maggie, would you?
He passes the bottle back.
Margaux, she reads, wiping off a skin of dust with her thumb, 1968.
Lovely. That’ll do me, he says, But the question is, will it do my son?
Maggie doesn’t feel the smooth glide as the bottle slips from her grasp, doesn’t hear it explode onto the flags. Doesn’t feel the splash of vintage red spatter her legs and dress. Such is the shock of it. The seconds replay themselves in slow motion.
Your son, she’s saying, as the bottle falls, and her voice is cool and close, and then there is a moment, in the near-darkness, when their eyes meet and a recognition passes between them – of sadness, disappointment – before Kenneth jumps back from the flying glass.
Oh, my dear, he says, Never mind, never mind—drawing her away from the centre of the smash – I should get the light fixed in here, Will’s always saying so. There’ll be another bottle somewhere now, let me see.
Maggie stands appalled, hands on her face, peering down into the spreading shining wet.
But was it really expensive? she cries, I bet it was.
Come away, Kenneth says, ducking through the archway, You’ll cut yourself. Look, I’ll fetch another. Come now. Will should be here quite soon.
At the door to the kitchen, she touches his elbow.
Could he not come over tonight, she asks, Could you put him off?
She’s about to say something else, but then, as if stung, she turns a circle on the threshold, her hands flying around her head. A long grey cobweb hangs from her hair, wafting on the breeze from the cellar.
Get it off! she yells, spinning again, and Kenneth catches her arm to still her, turning her round so he’s looking at the pale nape of her neck, the scatter of freckles there making his stomach lurch. He would not have believed it. Here he is, remembering the straw caught in her curls and putting his hands on her now, removing the tortoiseshell clip with a sudden click, watching the hair fall onto his fingers. He brushes his palm over her head, smooth and quick, catching the web. It feels sticky as glue. And he turns her again.
It came undone, she says, her face flushed this time with relief. The way she says it, it’s an invitation, Kenneth thinks, and she makes it easy, smiling in the dusty light of the doorway, for him to pull her near. Like a kite being wound in. But when she puts her palm up to his chest he understands it’s to stop him getting any closer. Her other hand catches him by the wrist. He feels her grip, tender but insistent.
Maggie, I do apologize, he says.
You don’t know what came over you, she says. She sounds scornful, but she doesn’t remove her hand from his chest, and still she holds his wrist in her grip, and both places are unbearably hot for Kenneth, as if she’s transmitting fire through her skin.
I do know what came over me, he admits, You’re very—He pauses, searching for the word. Bounteous was what came into his head; he knows it’s not right but can find no substitute. She fills the space for him.
Very clumsy, she says, I did warn you.
No, no, you are all grace. And I’m a silly old fool.
Not so old, she says, loosing her hold on him, But I can’t comment on the rest.
He’s thankful for the joke, glances away as she brushes a remnant of web from the front of her skirt. She lifts the hem to inspect the zigzag splashes of wine, and as he looks back, Kenneth catches sight of her knees, so awkward, so vulnerable, and has to look away again.
I’ll clear up that mess and then cancel my son, he says, As we’ve completely ruined your dress.
And disposed of the wine, she says.
He starts to say, I’ll fetch another, when she nods at the fridge.
I’d quite like some white, really, she says, Nothing fancy.
Kenneth turns the key in the lock and places it back on the top of the door frame. His expression when he faces her is severe again.
Now, Maggie, he says, in a scolding voice, A wine can be unassuming, it can be modest. Sometimes, we say it’s a friendly wine. Fancy is not, as far as I’m aware, a technical term. I can see you have much to learn.
Shall we start with where the glasses are kept? she says, A girl could die of thirst round here.
Patience, my dear, he says, pulling open one drawer after another, It’s here somewhere. I may be forgetful, and silly—he breaks off, brandishing a horn-handled waiter’s friend – But there are some things a fellow never forgets. You have to open the bottle first, he says, And release the genie!
She doesn’t remind him about the broken glass in the cellar. She’ll clear it up herself tomorrow; she knows where he keeps the key.
But now it is today: yesterday’s tomorrow. Maggie shivers as she creeps down the stairs;despite the promise of another warm morning, the house at this early hour is chill. Only the tick of the grandfather clock breaks the silence. She walks in time with it, through the hall and into the kitchen, fumbling along the top of the cellar door for the key until she finds it. Inside, she gets only as far as the archway: a waft of cold air blows on her face, stalling her, making her blink. The grille at the far end casts a square of dismal light onto the floor, showing where the wine has soaked into the concrete. All that remains is a flat black stain and a jagged crescent of glass, surrounded by a halo of glittering splinters. Maggie retraces her steps and puts the key back where she found it.
Outside, the morning sky is a soft pearl grey, a score of red slashes marking east. She’d slept badly again: her recurrent nightmare – of a flash of white light burning into her eye – seemed to repeat itself on an endless loop. She was woken by the sound of a dog barking, but couldn’t tell whether it was real or part of her dream.
Her plan is to walk off the noises in her head, the dull ache behin
d her eyes; both the result, she thinks, of too much wine. She has hours before work – before Kenneth plays her more of his memories. She chooses not to think about what he will say, what piece of history he will attempt to resurrect. Instead, she aims directly east, moving swiftly now through the middle of the rhododendrons and down the lane, entering a dewy copse. It’s lush inside; full of waist-high nettles and bindweed, overhanging branches strung with silver spiderlines. She hears a woodpecker drumming a tree, distant traffic on the motorway. Maggie sinks further into the thick silence of the copse, feeling a change in the air on her arms. She follows the descent of a narrow track this way and that, scenting out the river.
The mooring on the far side is home to two boats; a rackety narrowboat and a sleek white pleasure cruiser. She scans them both for signs of life, and finding none – it’s early still – turns her eyes to the water. The willows at the river’s edge chop the surface into black strips; further into the middle, the reflected sky lies flat as a pan. It’s impossible to judge the depth. Maggie takes off her boots and socks and slips quickly down the bank, her fingers finding purchase in the gritty mud and small stones, until her feet are in the water. It is burning, numbing cold. She moves slowly forwards until she feels the ledge begin to fall away, then she stops. Her skirt rises up around her like a water lily.
Standing quite still, feeling the slow drift of the current nudging her body, Maggie watches the way the growing daylight is mirrored on the water. She thinks of her mother, of the river, and of how the two will always be connected. It would be the last thing Nell would want, to be bonded to her fear. But she never moved far. Maggie considers it again; how Nell ended up in Field Cottage, only fifteen miles from Weaver’s and still in plain sight of the river.
As if I have a choice, she’d said, shrugging, I just go where they put me. They have all the power round here and don’t you forget it. They don’t just uphold the law, they make it.
And then, a second reason, as if the first one wasn’t enough:
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Maggie understood her mother’s anger over the Cranes and their kind; her father had abandoned them, with hardly a look backwards, but Nell never forgot that Maggie was Ed’s child too: she was a Crane. Nell would live on the moon if it meant she could keep her daughter. Maggie knows it now, what an enemy fear can be, what a bully; waiting round the corner, spying, turning up when you least expect it, when your defences are down. Far better to keep it in plain sight. But the river isn’t Maggie’s enemy: she loves it, her only rebellion against the force that was Nell. And Kenneth loves it too, she knows he does. The way he sits there, watching it, breathing it in. The certainty is oddly pleasing to her; the thought that they should be so different, but share something ordinary. She was grateful that he told William not to come. And the evening had been enjoyable, despite the awkwardness of the pass he’d made, despite the burnt stew. She tells herself not to think about him, but like the current, he tugs her back. If she is to stay, she must prepare: she has to be ready to meet his son. She knows there is a right moment, but that it isn’t now. Today she will be cheerful, she won’t try to lead Kenneth anywhere in particular, and it’ll be easy, he makes her feel easy. Easy, she says, pulling herself up onto the bank. Her skirt clings like river weed to her legs, black spots of mud freckle her shins and feet. It’s then she hears the sound: a low, rumbling growl behind her. She turns to see a man standing on the deck of the narrow-boat, with a face so tanned and lined it looks like a mask. His eyes are squinting at her, the fingers of his left hand are buried deep in the scruff of a large red dog. In her ribs a quick, intense stitch of pain: the spiteful poking of the fear.
seven
Skiffle, Maggie! cries Kenneth, as she enters the library, Can’t beat it to get the blood flowing!
He’s bending from side to side, shaking a pair of imaginary maracas. He looks ridiculous. Clearly, the wine they drank last night has had no effect on him. She perches on the edge of the armchair, opening the notebook slowly and emphatically, hoping he’ll take the hint; but he merely circles her, smiling, and leans over the wing of the chair.
It’s a very fine morning, don’t you think?
And you are very fine, he says, in his head.
It’s a lovely day all right, she agrees, But all that drink last night; I’m just not used to it.
Maggie expects this statement to be met with solicitous dismay by Kenneth, but he surprises her.
What you need is a bit of something to pep you up, he says, raising his arms again and twisting his wrists, Something . . . life-affirming.
He follows Lonnie Donegan with Buddy Holly with someone she thinks is called Tubby Hairs; but when she asks, Kenneth shouts over the frenetic sound,
Never mind that now, just listen. That sax. Miraculous!
Despite herself, Maggie is transfixed by Kenneth: by the sight of him, his pure joy. He dances round the room like a child. Possessed, she thinks, that’s what he is: he’s been taken over. He announces an Alvin Robinson song, following it with another three or four bursts of music, half-played and snatched from the turntable before she can find out what they are.
Kenneth, I need some help here, she says, What should I be writing?
Robert Johnson, he cries, Just listen to this.
A sound of thin wailing, dry and dusty guitar, as if the man is locked inside an old tin can. Maggie writes down the name and asks Kenneth for the title.
The devil himself, he says, not hearing her.
He pauses, his face questioning hers.
Maybe something a little more upbeat? Maybe the devil isn’t for you. Rusty never liked him either.
He ducks down beneath the stereo and brings up a battered LP with no outer sleeve.
How about this? he says, You gotta like Ike.
Maggie watches as he stares into space, begins to dance, then stops, then starts again, like a robot with a faulty circuit. She can’t help but smile, even if he is in perfect time with the guitar, even if it makes sense. He catches her eye, smiles with her.
C’mon, Maggie, twist those strings.
And he pulls her out of her chair.
The silences are important, he says, stopping with one finger in the air and then jumping about when the music kicks in again, It’s the spaces in between things that count. Listen to the gaps. They’re music too.
She tries a self-conscious hop from one foot to the other, until he takes both of her hands in his and swings her round, and round again, round and round, until the room is turning too and she’s in free fall, and the feeling is like sherbet fizzing on her tongue; it makes her laugh out loud with delight. Then the music ends and Kenneth drops her hands and slumps, sweating, into the window seat. Still weightless and elated, Maggie sits down too.
Better than a workup at the gym, he says, wiping his forehead with his arm, Haven’t boogied like that in years.
You were good, Kenneth, perfect timing.
Oh, that’s me, he says, tapping his brow, Upstairs for thinking, downstairs for dancing.
When, she says, When was the last time you danced?
She picks up her notebook, feels her hands trembling. Kenneth scratches at a bead of sweat on his nose.
They have ceilidhs in the village sometimes. Probably a few years back.
And they dance to jazz? she asks.
He leans across the seat and pushes the window open; cool air fills the room.
They dance to violins – fiddles – you know what a ceilidh is, surely?
It’s a barn dance, she says, I’m just asking.
And then she releases a truth.
I used to go to festivals in Charmouth. You know, free festivals, like raves. Didn’t matter if you couldn’t dance so well, nobody minded.
Kenneth frowns at her.
Raves. They’re a nuisance, all that noise and litter. All that destruction. Can’t say I see you enjoying that.
They weren’t illegal. It was folky,
Kenneth, like, um, like an outdoor barn dance. It was very peaceful. Lots of tree hugging. She has his attention again.
You’ve actually hugged a tree?
Don’t knock it until you try it, she says, It’s quite soothing. But not with that monster in the courtyard – the one with the scary eyes.
She’s about to ask him about it when Kenneth swipes the notebook from her hands. A leap of panic as he takes the pen. He bends away from her, shielding it with his arm like a schoolboy as she tries to snatch it back. On the cover he writes, in broad capitals, THIS BOOK BELONGS TO MAGGIE. IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO—
Where? Bilbo Baggins at Bag End?
Har har. Give it back. You’re not allowed to see it until we’re finished. And we’ll never get finished if we don’t get on.
Relax, he says, waving her away, We’ve got all day. We’ve got all summer. Haven’t we, Maggie, the whole lovely summer ahead.
When she doesn’t reply, he scrawls two more words on the book and makes to give it back, holding the edge so it’s trapped between them. EARL HOUSE is written beneath her name.
You will stay, won’t you? The Fates have ordained it. Or the fairies, if you prefer.
Where were we? she says, finally gaining possession, the book safe again. She won’t be sidetracked by his teasing.
We were dancing.
You said something about Dusty, she says, and guesses, Dusty Springfield?
Rusty, he says, First met her in the Sunset Strip. He raises his eyebrows, Soho.
Was she a performer? asks Maggie.
Kenneth smiles, puts his head on one side in what looks like a gesture of forgiveness,
Not exactly, he says, Dear old Rusty. She was my wife.
eight
Every time she touches the keys, the noise of the machine drills into her head. Maggie works quickly, not checking what she types, keen to be out of Kenneth’s memories and back into her own.
Lonnie Donegan
My Old Man’s a Dustman, but he wasn’t was he, Kenneth? Your old man was a high court judge, and he knew my grandfather. They’re both dead now; presiding in Heaven.
The Song House Page 5