The older woman narrowed her eyes into two crystallized beads.
He might, she said, But he’s very forgetful. He might not even remember why you’re here. Come suppertime, he might not even know who you are!
Maggie leaned against the heavy wood, listened to the thunk of the car door, the thick roar of the engine. The exchange had left her feeling grimy, impoverished in a way she couldn’t define. Anything but smooth. Catching her reflection in the long glass casing of the grandfather clock, she saw what Alison Taylor would have seen: a blurred person, frayed, someone incomplete. She threw the tray of Dover sole into the oven and went to take a shower; stood for an age under the scalding needles of water, imagining herself rinsed, brand new.
She lifts the tray out and wafts a tea towel over it. The sole are scorched black, and the olive oil dressing has solidified into a sticky brown stain, as though the fish have bled tar. She kicks the oven door shut, and studies the recipe book. The timing was right, nearly; perhaps the temperature was wrong. Maggie stares at the stove as if it’s to blame, and then remembers the tinned tuna in her kitchen upstairs. She can make something with that. Tuna pasta salad, she thinks. If what Alison Taylor says is true, maybe Kenneth won’t remember about the sole. Standing at the back door and breathing in the silky night air, she considers what it would be like if he were to come home and not remember her.
The train fills up at Reading. The man who sits opposite Kenneth makes a great fuss of unpacking his bag, claiming the table with a bottle of water, a cellophane-wrapped volcano of muffin, his mobile phone. He slides his laptop out in front of him and flips open the lid. Now Kenneth can’t see him any more, unless he looks in the window, where he watches the man’s reflection, face lit up, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers flying. Kenneth runs a hand over the front of his suit, tracing the outline of the package in his inside pocket. He has bought a gift for Maggie:a Montblanc fountain pen. The cap is finished with an emerald, nearly the same colour as her eyes. But now he’s uncertain: perhaps he should have got her a laptop to make her notes on. He wonders what she writes about, finds it marvellous that he trusts her. Thinking back to only a week ago – his firm belief that he wanted no interference in his plan, no one making a suggestion, not even a noise – he can hardly credit the person he was. Kenneth stretches his legs out, knocking his foot against that of the man opposite. They both apologize and renegotiate the space beneath the table. Kenneth looks at his watch again.
Alison waits until she gets home before phoning William. He answers on the third ring, sounding brusque and very like his father. She tells him what she found at the house: who she found. William professes no interest, until she adds that Kenneth had forgotten that they were going to the theatre this evening, and then his voice takes on a new timbre. Now he has questions. She delights in her answers; she has thought them through carefully on the drive home.
She’s thirtyish, a bit bedraggled-looking, she says, Slightly gauche, but that’s clearly an act. You say he cancelled you a few days ago?
She pulls the scarf from her neck as she listens, slowly drawing the silk away like a shed skin.
Well, perhaps you should go and meet the ingénue, she says, Make sure your father isn’t getting out of his depth.
When she replaces the receiver, she feels a spreading pressure between her ribs, a sudden stab of indigestion.
twelve
Maggie is nowhere. The dining room, the kitchen, the library, all are empty. The door to the prefect’s office is open. Inside, Kenneth sees the window is thrown wide. He pulls it shut, resting his hand on the papers as he reaches across the desk. He resists the urge to look. Instead, he removes the pen from his pocket and leaves it there for her to find. Imagines the delight on her face. He thinks she must have gone to bed; it’s after midnight.
There had been a long delay just before Reading, then an unscheduled stop at Thatcham station, where the train sat motionless on the track for a full half-hour before grinding to life again. Kenneth had looked longingly at the man with the laptop as he phoned his wife, wishing he’d taken Will’s advice and got a mobile himself. Bring you into the twenty-first century, his son had said, which made Kenneth all the more resolute not to give in. But the waiting – the dismal thicket of bushes outside the window and the way that time sat like sweat on his skin – made Kenneth do something extraordinary. He’d seen others do it, before everyone had their own phone: he’d asked the man if he could borrow his. The handset was warm, and the square screen too small to read. And Kenneth couldn’t remember his own number.
Now he consoles himself with the thought that Maggie probably wouldn’t have answered the phone, anyway. In the kitchen, he goes to the fridge and sees the champagne is untouched. He pours a large glass of wine to take to his den, thinks again, and opens the back door; he will drink it in his usual spot. Then he sees her. She’s lying on a blanket on the grass, her legs bent up under her skirt and her bare feet white as chalk, her head resting on her arm. He continues as planned, sits quietly on the iron bench and lets his eyes wander over the sweep of lawn shining in the moonlight, the silhouette of trees beyond. He’s completely at a loss;worse, he doesn’t know why. He wanted to find her still awake, would have liked to talk with her, hear her low voice mocking or scolding or just asking a plain question. He doesn’t know why the sight of her alone out there in the darkness fills him with such sorrow.
I’m not asleep, she says, I’m watching.
She gets up onto her knees and turns around to look at him. Her hair swings low over her shoulder.
What are you watching? he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.
Come and see, she says.
Kenneth goes and sits with her on the blanket, noticing the empty plate on the grass, her half-full glass balanced on top.
You have to lie down flat, she says, sinking back onto the blanket. It takes Kenneth a little while to accomplish the manoeuvre, holding his wine aloft, feeling the night air on the exposed skin between his trouser-bottoms and his socks. Maggie’s arm glides across him as she takes his wine glass and puts it with hers.
Hope you don’t mind, she says, I finished the Chablis.
Of course not, he says.
His face feels constricted with blood, as if he’s lying on a downhill slope.
And then I opened another one, she says.
Good girl, he says, That’s what I would have done.
He can feel Maggie’s body quivering beside him. He turns his head; watches a silver tear run down the side of her face and around the curve of her ear. It takes him a second or two before he realizes she’s laughing, and it’s such a relief, he laughs too.
I burnt the fish! she cries, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, And then I thought I’d make us some pasta, and I came out here to sit until it was done and then I forgot all about it. Burnt the pasta.
Was it tasty? he asks, which makes her roll sideways and beat her hand on the ground between them. She is very close to him now.
Uh—
She’s trying and failing to speak. Her face is creased with effort.
I’m sorry I’m so late, he begins.
Shh-shh, she says, Now, we have to concentrate. Look up, she says, and he does as he’s told. She clears her throat, lifts something from her side and holds it high in the air between them. Kenneth sees it’s a wooden spoon.
Is this some sort of magic, Maggie? Are we dowsing for soup?
He’s delighted when he feels her trembling again.
Watch, she whispers.
They lie quite still together, Maggie subduing a hiccup, offering the spoon to the sky. First there’s one, then another, and a third, spiralling above their heads before winging into the black.
Bats! says Kenneth, Maggie, you’re a witch.
The bats flicker in and out of the space; they weave, dive, and drift away like cinders of night.
Aren’t they incredible, she says.
Who taught you that? he asks, when finally s
he drops her arm.
My mother. They’ll home in on any vertical object.
Home in, sighs Kenneth, And fly away again.
Sometimes they come back, she says.
Can you make them come back?
She passes over the wooden spoon for him to take, and he looks at her steadily for a moment, sees how pale and delicate her hand is in the light from the kitchen door, and how dark her eyes, before accepting it from her. He holds it up as she did, and they wait again. It’s not long before the bats return, a sudden swoop of one, two black flashes, circling above the spoon and vanishing again into the night.
Wonderful thing, radar, says Kenneth.
Echolocation, says Maggie.
Kenneth shifts himself up onto his elbow.
Do you think you could echolocate my wine, my dear? All this excitement has made me quite parched.
The touch of their glasses chimes on the night air.
To bats? she offers.
To the grape outdoors, says Kenneth, waiting for her laugh. But she doesn’t laugh, she keeps her eyes fixed on his, puts the glass to her nose and sniffs into it.
See, she says, I have been paying attention.
You should use just one nostril, he says, showing her, But I don’t think it counts if you’ve already had half a bottle.
True. It all tastes the same to me.
The palate must be educated to notice the difference. The bouquet is critical.
He makes a pretence of sniffing, swirling, and sipping. He’ll go to any lengths to amuse her, and finally he gets his laugh, followed, as seems to be the pattern with her, with a rebuttal.
I’m not doing all that slooshing.
He looks over the rim of his glass.
What does it remind you of? he asks, with the voice of a schoolmaster.
Kenneth sees her open mouth, and the rim of her glass catch the moonlight as she tilts it, and has to look away.
Vanilla? she offers, her tongue on her lip. She smiles at him, a flicker of comprehension in her eyes.
OK. It reminds me of when . . . when you’re down at the beach and you pick up a pebble and you lick it, she says.
Water over stones, he says, with a small nod of assent, Quite so.
And you, she says, It will remind me of you, one day.
Kenneth can’t read what she means; it sounds like a goodbye. Her eyes are distant, now, as if she’s hunting out words in the dark.
Do you ever swim in there? she says, flicking her gaze to the trees.
In the river? No!
Nor me. I was never allowed, as a child. And when you’re grown up . . well, it’s just not something you do.
Isn’t it? says Kenneth, Why not?
Suddenly he can think of nothing more wonderful than to swim in the moonlight with Maggie. He gets up, holds out his hand.
I will if you will, he says.
Not at night, that’s daft. And I’ve been drinking.
And now he feels ridiculous, and as if he hasn’t been drinking nearly enough.
Of course it is, he says, and just as he leans forward to retrieve his glass, Maggie takes his hand and pulls herself up.
I quite like daft, she says.
I adore it, he says.
Shall we?
From inside the house comes the sound of the telephone: seven rings, and they wait, listening, looking at each other.
It’s been ringing all night, she says, Ever since – oh, I should tell you, Mrs Taylor dropped by.
Kenneth keeps his face.
Did she? What did she want?
She wanted you, Kenneth, says Maggie, drilling a finger into his chest, And she wouldn’t leave a message. She looked a bit put out to find you’d gone away on a secret mission.
That’s her usual expression, says Kenneth, then, feeling he’s betrayed his old friend, Actually, she’s all right. Did Ali say that? About a secret mission?
No, I did, says Maggie, grinning, And I couldn’t find the answerphone. I presume it’s in your office. Your locked office.
I’ll call her tomorrow, he says, It’s too late now.
Too late now, echoes Maggie, her voice ghostly.
I believe you are in your cups, says Kenneth, A man could take advantage of a lady in such a state.
But a gentleman would not take advantage of a lady, she counters, lifting her chin high and looking up into the sky. She blinks, leans in a fraction so her shoulder butts against his.
You know, I think I must be a bit drunk, she says, Because that moon looks three-dimensional.
Kenneth gazes up with her.
That’s earthshine, he says, Also known as the ashen glow.
You’re making it up, she cries, trying to stand straight, Not very romantic is it, ‘By the light of the ashen glow’?
Kenneth finally gives in to his thoughts. He tries to make his voice sound bluff and cynical.
Well now, if you want romantic, he says, which makes Maggie lean in to him again, If you want . . .
But he won’t finish. Maggie puts her hand on his.
Go on, she says, If I want romantic . . . ?
Kenneth closes his eyes, defeated, and lets out a small puff of breath,
They also call it, ‘the old moon in the new moon’s arms’.
He feels the lightest brush against his lips. When he opens his eyes, she is just as she was, looking at him intently. He must have imagined it.
Later, he will think it felt like the flutter of a bat’s wing, or a stray lock of her hair as she turned her head, or a faint breeze carried on the night. He is willing to believe anything but the kiss, which is, to him, beyond belief.
thirteen
I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with D.
Dark!
The answer is always the same. I’m playing on my own, and that’s all I can see. D for dark. And black: B for black. It’s not cold, it’s stuffy, and I have to wipe my nose on my pyjamas because it keeps going wet. My eye is wet too, like crying, but I’m not crying. Leon says only babies cry. M for mouse, which I can only hear so it doesn’t count. I can’t tell what time it is. At home we have a clock on the wall in the kitchen but it only has one hand on it because Nell tried to move them back for winter and the little hand snapped off. Leon says, Oh look, it’s twenty past something, I’ll be late! about six times a day. There’s another clock next to Nell’s bed. The numbers go green at night, so no matter how much dark there is, you can always tell the time, if you know how to do it. And you can see Nell’s face in the light when her head is near the edge of the pillow, green like Kermit the Frog. I’m not crying. The boy said I must wait until the Time is Right. He said he will fetch me when the Time is Right and I mustn’t be sad about anything. But I am sad. I want Nell and Leon. I don’t know how to do the time yet. I don’t know when it will be right. He said, Don’t cry, you’ll meet your mummy, and I said, My mummy’s Nell, I’ve already met her. He said, Not that whore, I mean your proper mummy.
Maggie pauses, raises her head; in a corner of the window, a pale-blue dawn is breaking: she is thankful for this. She sits up straight at the long desk and breathes deeply, mouth open, listening for any sign of movement above her. Earlier, she had tracked Kenneth’s footsteps on the staircase, slow and steady, a door opening and closing; listened to the rush of water in his bathroom, his happy tuneless humming. Nothing now, no sound except the quick low rustle of a breeze in the bushes outside. She pushes away the dark, pushes away that child in the dark, and immediately feels a wrench of guilt: she’s only just found her and already she wants to forget again, wants to put her away in the dark again. She’s no better than him. Maggie clenches her jaw, holds out her left arm in the half-light, twisting it, bending the wrist backwards and forwards. Her skin looks as blue as the sky. Getting up from the desk, she closes the notebook and picks up the fountain pen, exposing the pale soft flesh of her upper arm, offering the skin, like a sacrifice, to the morning. She feels a chill air blowing off the river. She stabs the
tip of the pen, once, twice, into the soft underside of her flesh. And then again, again, the point jabbing, black, black, pockmarks of black surrounded by fresh pink haloes of trauma, and quickly now, black, black, blocking out the thought of the child, burying the thought of the child, pushing her deeper and further in, until finally, she is without thought. A rush of saliva fills her mouth. It’s a glorious taste. Like Chablis. Like water over stones.
fourteen
Today, Kenneth plays her what he calls cool jazz: Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Miles Davis, moving not quite seamlessly from Dave Brubeck to the Alan Price Set. The sounds are interesting, but his reminiscences involve a detailed, lengthy and, to Maggie, stultifying potted history of the music. But he speaks and she takes notes; lets him ramble on. Neither of them has referred to last night, although she can see in his eyes that he thinks they have moved beyond friendship. He is quieter this morning, looks tired and elated. He talks about London clubs, and fast cars, and his college friends and business associates, buying his first house and the view of the park and painting one room entirely purple; about driving a Bugatti down to the south of France, being propositioned by a princess in Cap Ferrat, meeting Jimmy Stewart in Nice. He’s making it up, she thinks, he’s creating a fantasy. Not once does he mention Rusty or William; the avoidance hangs like a stink in the air between them.When he starts another long monologue about cars, she interrupts.
You can tell the truth, Kenneth, she says, These notes are for you, remember?
He looks directly at her as she says this, gives her a tense smile.
Am I so transparent?
’Fraid so. Why don’t you tell me about meeting Rusty? She was a performer, wasn’t she?
Kenneth retreats to the chair in the corner. He would like to say that he doesn’t want to think of Rusty now, sitting here on a blue summer morning with Maggie so close. But she has asked the question.
Rusty certainly liked a performance. She was a singer, but frankly – well, she wasn’t that talented. Good-looking girl, though, stunning. A captivating presence, he says, in an affected tone, as if he’s quoting a review, All the men adored her. Maggie writes down the exact words, trying to ignore the quick spike of envy.
The Song House Page 9