Alvin Robinson
A sound that smells like a swamp, says Kenneth. RIP Alvin, lie deep.
Robert Johnson
Not much of a name for the devil. You don’t scare me. Dead and gone, dead and gone.
Ike Turner
You’re dead too but you don’t sound it. Kenneth likes dancing to you. He says the spaces in between are as important as the sounds. Listen to the gaps, he says, They are music too.
I’m doing that, Kenneth, I’m listening to the gaps and I’m trying to fill the spaces. Not dead yet.
Upstairs, Kenneth sits at the desk in his office, his ear cocked to the open door. He can hear, with bright satisfaction, the stabbing sound of the typewriter keys, amplified and hollowed by the wooden staircase. From the irregular stops and starts of noise that Maggie makes, he can tell that she’s a far from expert typist. And he has looked over her shoulder in the library: despite her claim to have shorthand, her notes could be read by anyone. So, she is a fraud. So what? He’s a fraud too. And none of that matters to him now, if it ever did. From his first glimpse of her, he knew that she belonged here, with him. There is a pause, a vast, empty stretch of silence, where nothing seems to happen and Kenneth wonders if she’s finished for the day. He presses the nib of his fountain pen onto the blotter and marks out his shortcomings in furry blue blobs: his age; varicose vein like an elver climbing up his leg; hair falling out where it should be growing and growing where it shouldn’t. How big his earlobes are. The terrible, irrevocable whiteness of his pubes. Spreading his hands in front of him, he studies the familiar tremor. If he could remember where he’d stashed that half of whisky, he’d have a steadier now. He rummages through the desk drawer, scrabbling beneath the piles of CDs and abandoned papers to the very bottom. He put the photographs in here. It was almost the first thing he did after he saw Maggie down in the field: crossed the room, straightened his tie in the reflected glass of the painting on the wall, then had second thoughts and removed it altogether. He took the two silver-framed pictures from his desk and hid them away in the back of the drawer. Slung his tie in there after them. He is meticulous in his vanity: he didn’t want her to see him as he used to be; young, with Will hanging off his neck, like a proper doting dad. And he didn’t want her to see the Vogue portrait of Rusty in her off-the-shoulder wedding gown.
He would like – he thinks it through carefully, feeling the words slip away from him even as they’re forming in his head – he would prefer Maggie to love him for who he is now. For what he is now.
The sound of her fingers on the typewriter keys, like Morse code, comes up the stairs. He tells himself again: what he is now is an old fool. He doesn’t care a bit.
Maggie rips the page from the machine and puts it with the others in a box file on the desk. She will have to be more careful; he could find any of this. She will take the file to her rooms each day, and be vigilant when writing down his notes. He was playing a game this morning, but she knows he is more than capable of spying on her. She stretches across to open the window, pushing it as wide as possible to let in the light. The air that greets her is green and fresh, blowing up from the river.
September has always been my mother’s favourite month. She used to say it was the last gift of summer. And of course, I was conceived in September. The best gift of all, she used to say, although at the time she felt it was more like a hex.
Nell’s pregnancy isn’t the sort they tell you about in maternity classes. She is violently sick, almost from the first week. She staggers from toilet to bedroom and back again, resting one hand on the mossy brick of the lean-to while she pours the slop of bile from the bucket with the other. She thinks it’s the vegetables they’re growing. She’s seen the farmer spray his land; perhaps the chemicals have carried on the wind. Or it’s too much local cider. She’s heard it said that anything goes into the mash – rotten apples, unfortunate rats. She thinks if she doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, there’ll be nothing to throw up, but she couldn’t be more wrong; the sickness gets worse and my mother gets thinner. She’s so dizzy, she has to lie down to stop falling over. Even Ed starts to worry. He enlists Cindy to come and help; one look at Nell, and she diagnoses pregnancy.
Despite the women’s movement, or maybe because of it, Ed thinks these matters are strictly female. My mother never had these problems, he brags to Cindy, And this—he gestures to the empty pantry and the dirty plates – It’s, y’know, a bit of a drag.
When Cindy relates this anecdote to Nell, my mother lifts her sweated head from the bed and cries,
Poor Ed, it’s a drag is it? Should have kept his cock to himself!
Leon is kinder. He fetches spine-cracked novels from the charity shop, bunches of fireweed picked from the meadow; or he’ll sit on the end of her bed and play her their latest composition. Nell could do without the singing; to her ears, their songs always seem to be about a dark lady and a river, and even the raindrop sounds of the tabla give her a headache. She has more pressing matters to worry about than whether Misty Lure, as Ed and Leon have called themselves, will have enough material to go on the road.
At night, Nell hears them in the kitchen below, their quick laughter rattling like gunshot off the ceiling. Cindy sings harmonies in a West Country burr, her eyes closed, her hand cupped over her ear. She has grown her hair, she wears long gypsy skirts with a petticoat below the hem, tie-dyed blouses revealing her shadowy cleavage; bangles up to her elbow. Ed remarks that she sounds like Sandy Denny; that their duo could be a trio. When Nell does venture downstairs, clinging to the narrow rail, afraid of falling, splitting her belly open on the stone floor, she finds the kitchen table awash with empty cider flagons, sticky glasses of pale liquor, nests of newspaper holding the savaged remnants of fish and chips, sausage in batter. She doesn’t have to see the food; even thinking of the words makes her retch.
At other times she might find them blissful and out of it, a sheet of blue smoke above their heads, and then she’ll notice Cindy is sitting on Ed’s lap, a jingling arm snaked round his neck. Nell doesn’t mind this at first, because she has her own private duo now: me and her. Let Ed do as he pleases, she thinks; it’s a free country. But one night, after she has endured hours of churning nausea, Ed comes to bed late. A hint of patchouli oil on his skin; a flush of red at his throat. Lifting his hand to her face, Nell finds the rare damp earth of another woman’s smell on his fingers. She dreams, sleeping and waking, of a terrible accident; Cindy floating like the Lady of Shallot through the river weeds, Cindy diving down and smashing her head on a rock. Cindy, drunk on elderflower wine, wading to her death, the water lapping around her legs, waist, chest, until she is vanished from sight. Nell gives a good deal of thought to consequences these days; of what will become of her, what will become of us.
Kenneth knows by her scent that’s she’s been in the library. He stands quite still in the afternoon heat, filling his lungs with her, breathing her in. A sound from the far end of the room makes his heart bang in his chest. Through the gloom he sees Maggie straighten up from behind the stereo. She too takes fright when she notices him, half-jumping sideways, hands flying to her face.
I saw this earlier, she says, with a voice like water, And I just wanted to hear it again. I hope you don’t mind.
He shakes his head.
Never, for you, he tries to say, but the shock of finding her steals his words.
Maggie moves slowly towards him through the semi-dark, just as the music starts. Time beaten out like a drum, a medieval rhythm, slow insistence. The peculiar feeling he has, watching her faltering steps: as if he’s invisible. No: as if she is blind. He almost puts out his hand to guide her, but is stopped by a pure voice rising up into the coffered ceiling of the library. They listen together, Maggie smiling, Kenneth shivering slightly despite the heat. She’s looking at him but her eyes are remote. She’s seeing a memory. Kenneth understands perfectly how that is, and is jealous of it. The words of the song are spun out, slow and careful and full of
dread, and even though he would rather not listen any more – such is the awful feeling he gets from the sound – Maggie is close enough to touch: he wouldn’t break the moment for the world. Kenneth doesn’t recognize the song, or that he is panting slightly with the heat, with her proximity, with the strange cast of light in the room. He watches her open mouth, her lips shaping the words, and feels his breath desert him.
And then she went onward, just one star awake
Like the swan in the evening
Moves over the lake.
It’s hard to look at her and impossible not to. It should be awkward, and he checks her face for any sign of embarrassment, or irony, something that would tell him how to react. But her eyes are fixed on his and he is unable to feel anything, now, only a wretched and hollow longing, rising like a sickness, for this woman and the faint sounds coming from her lips.
When the song is over and the next one begins, Maggie moves swiftly back to the stereo and lifts the needle off the record.
Not this one, she says.
I didn’t even know I had that, says Kenneth, Who is it?
Fairport Convention. Their first album with Sandy Denny. Maggie turns to the wall, searching out another record.
Oh. And she’s dead, she says, matter-of-fact.
That’s sad, he says, sensing a sudden awkwardness between them. Maggie slides an album from the shelf, turns it over to read the sleeve notes. When she speaks again, his suspicions are realized.
My mother used to love Sandy Denny. Then she hated her. Here’s another dead one, look. It’s like a morgue in here, Kenneth.
A minute ago she sang to him, now she’s accusing him of something. The cellophane cover glitters darkly in her hands. Ordinarily, he’d fight back. What business is it of hers? Ordinarily, and he feels the knowledge like a pinch, he’d tell her to go to hell, that most of the great music, like art, like literature, like everything, belongs to the dead. And she’s an employee, and her opinion counts for nothing. But here she is, and he’s buried in her hand, in that unnerving look of scorn she wears. And he says,
Well, they’re immortal really, aren’t they? And they’ll always be alive in here.
Maggie swings round to see him pressing his chest. He raises his chin, peering over at the record.
Who is that?
Otis Redding. Also unplayed by the look of it.
Shall we hear it now? he asks, moving slowly closer, You could play me the good tunes.
They’re all good tunes, Kenneth, she says, curling her tongue over her lip, This is Otis we’re talking about, not Cliff Richard. But no, she says, her eyes scanning the room, It’s not the right weather.
Not the right . . .?
Maggie turns away to search again, her fingers tripping along the spines.
It’s not just alphabetical, he says, It’s alphabetical by genre.
I know, she says, dipping down into a crouch, so that he can only see the top of her head.
What do you mean, ‘not the right weather’?
Otis is rainy day music.
Kenneth draws closer, staring down at the shadowy curve of her cheek as she bends her head this way and that.
Oh yes, he says, I see. Like my spring morning, my Poulenc. So, something we both know? he offers, confident that they’re on easy terms again. Maggie straightens up and faces him, sucks air through her teeth.
Well, it’s not quite that simple, she says, There are all sorts of variables. Time of year, time of day, place, mood, of course—
Company, offers Kenneth.
Good, yes, we must always consider company.
Maggie, are you making fun of me again? Because as you know, I take my music very seriously.
She ignores him, crossing to the nearest window and unclasping the shutter. She lets in a long finger of sunlight.
For example, what’s the most perfect music for this moment? This one right here, she says, pointing at the floor. Kenneth swallows hard. His mouth is dry. He looks about him, at the woody softness split by the light, and the heat it brings in. There’s the buzz of summer outside the window, and Maggie in shadow, but smiling again. He feels he’s being tested.
One song, Kenneth, she says, Just one. I’m not asking for the world here. Don’t knock yourself out.
Oh, but she is asking for the world, and Kenneth would easily give it to her. His mind races through all the romantic summers he’s known or dreamt of, all the times he’s sat alone and daydreamed of such a moment, with a faceless woman who now has a face and is asking a small price for him to pay. No, a love song is too obvious: he veers into neutral: simple music for a hot day; Tailleferre, or Schubert’s ‘Nachtviolen’. But he doesn’t want to bore her, that would be a mistake. A song, she said; it should have meaning. Bound to be someone dead, but he can’t help that. Then he hits on just the thing, just the perfect thing, for this mellowness and promise. The perfect thing for him. But would she agree? He crosses to the wall and finds it immediately: his Nat King Cole collection. There are four blasted records! He removes the one he’s looking for, angling it to the window, squinting at the tiny words on the label. Maggie waits, dancing her sandalled foot in and out of the light, like a cat teasing a sunbeam. In the silence Kenneth fumbles, tries to steady his hands; she must surely hear his breathing, cutting the air like a bellows. The violins save him, the violins and then a voice pouring out like cream. ‘Stardust’ fills the room. Maggie listens carefully, her eyes on him, but he disguises the flash of alarm on his face with a raised eyebrow, a practised smile: he’s got the wrong track. He meant to play her ‘Unforgettable’.
It’s very sad, she says, So much loneliness. So haunted by memories.
Kenneth bends his head. He’d wanted to woo her, and be plain about it, he’ll admit that; he was going for a definite message. He’s made a mistake after all: now she’ll think he’s maudlin, stuck in the past; an old man.
Would you like to choose something? he asks, turning away.
Nope, she says, turning him back to her, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt so that he almost stumbles over her feet, I think this is pretty near perfect. Pretty much right for now.
nine
The summer mornings were the worst: endless hours, the endless day, drinks ticked out by the clock. No alcohol before eleven, that was his rule, but eleven seemed an eternity away when you were awake at 4 a.m. In the wintertime, Kenneth could put on his bedside lamp, take up his book, and read. Or he’d find the World Service, some tedious discussion about global warming, and fall back to sleep again. But as soon as the clocks went forward, he’d be sharp awake; the blackbirds startling him with their police sirens, and the wood pigeons mocking: get up you fool, get up you fool. It hurt the most then, when he’d forgotten how old he was, only to be reminded too quickly, staggering from his bed with a dead leg, bursting for the lavatory. Then there were simply too many hours to wait until the clock struck eleven.
Since Maggie has arrived, Kenneth hears the dawn chorus differently. These days the blackbirds sing fabulous, intricate jewellery songs; a shower of emeralds, a cascade of silver. The pigeons in the trees woo each other with throbbing purrs. He lies in his bed, fondling the sleepy damp nest of his penis, and thinks of the day ahead: what he will play her, what he might cook for supper. The air tingling, the light so fresh he could bite it. He takes his time showering: hot, a bit hotter, then cool, cooler; and he shaves carefully, using the magnifying mirror Will bought him one birthday, the one that shows him how hideous he is close up, but minimizes the nicks and rough estimates that result from shaving blurred. A dab of cologne on his jaw and wrists – another gift from his son, another birthday ago. Kenneth cleans his teeth twice over, first with paste, and then with bicarbonate of soda, dabbing the toothbrush in the powder and trying not to taste the grit of it. He would like to gleam as bright as the birdsong.
That’s why, Maggie, it’s incredible, that you something unforgettable, something something unforgettable too.
She hear
s him singing; she hears him forgetting the words. Maggie pauses in the slatted shadowlight of the wrought-iron stairway, waiting for his footsteps on the other staircase to recede; imagines him walking through the hallway, jaunty, a pocket of cologne trapped on the still air. She sees it start to move, slowly, like a vapour, then more urgently, wending its way up the stairs, seeking her out. Come and find me, it says, Come and be with me.
Nine-thirty. Another hot promise of a day. She finds Kenneth with his eyes closed, his head nodding faintly in time to the music: solo piano, a tune she doesn’t know. He looks quite relaxed, sitting in his wing-backed chair near the stereo, hands in his lap. The scent of him, like a bridge, carries her over to his side.
Maggie, he smiles, You slept well?
Yes, she says, taking her seat.
Another beautiful you, he says, so she looks up sharp and checks him.
Another beautiful day.
Is there an echo in here? he asks, cupping his hand round his ear and opening his mouth in a silent laugh. And so, they resume. Kenneth takes the record off the turntable and replaces it with another: again the click, again, the hiss.
It begins with a single sustained note, like an idea being formed, gradually developing into a certainty. Over the sound, a distant horn, calling. Then a darker note: the reply, weaving through the forest. Maggie sees two people climbing down a steep set of stairs, hesitant and careful, as if they don’t know what they will find at the bottom. One person drawing the other on, telling her to be careful and – Shh! Be quiet! – then a sound like a door opening. They are moving through the garden now, past the dead bonfire and the shed, through the long grass at the river’s edge. A plucked violin string, like raindrops falling from the trees. It is very early in the morning. On the record, a cuckoo cries. Maggie sees the black earth, spongy underfoot, sees her slippers soaking up the moisture. She would like to tell the boy about it but she’s afraid he’ll shout at her again. Her legs are cold, her feet are getting wet.
The Song House Page 6