The Song House

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Where else would I be?

  Only, I wondered if you’d had to move out. I heard the estate were thinking of selling it. I could put a word in for you.

  He turns to face her again, weighing the pot in his hand.

  They won’t kick me out, he says.

  Maggie clenches and unclenches her jaw.

  And why’s that, Thomas?

  They won’t kick me out, he repeats, That’s mine for life. I told you before, I’ve got nothing more to say to you.

  He puts the pot back and walks away, leaves her standing there at the shelves. As soon as he is gone from the doorway, the assistant fetches a can of air freshener from under the counter. She moves past the till and into the aisle.

  He’s a bit ripe, that one, she says, flapping a hand in front of her face, I dread it when he comes in. Only spends about a pound a week.

  She holds the can aloft and squirts a spray of lavender rain into the space above their heads.

  Don’t suppose you sell antiseptic? asks Maggie.

  Father and son sit facing each other. Earlier, Kenneth had erected a picnic table under the cedar tree and covered it with a white cloth. He’d brought out the cutlery and the napkins, trudged back in for the side plates: he wanted everything to go smoothly, was afraid of dropping or smashing things. Last time he had William over, for dinner, Kenneth had forgotten the forks, and then, after he’d gone back and fetched them, had to make a second trip to get the wine glasses. Grist to William’s mill, the small details.

  When they first went outside, William with his sunglasses covering his eyes again and carrying the drinks, and Kenneth with the salad, he noticed something was different; couldn’t fathom what it was. Now he sees: there’s a jar of wild flowers in the centre of the table. He doesn’t remember putting them there; in fact, he’s certain he didn’t put them there.

  Kenneth glances over at the flattened oblong of grass where the blanket had been, trying to recapture the memory of the night before. But instead he revisits that scene in the library. He was horrible. He sees again the terrible look on Maggie’s face; pain, and fear, and bewilderment: he caused that. Bullying her, being an oaf. And then, stupidly trying to win her back with a song. Some hope. And what does she do? She leaves him flowers.

  Throughout lunch, he glances surreptitiously at them. One has hairy stems and purple petals; another, long dark stems with flat white petals springing from a bulb of green. The other sprigs are rosemary. He would never think of putting a herb in a bouquet. Maggie, you’re a wonder, he says, in his head.

  William does most of the talking. He’s telling his father about work, the latest gallery opening, but neither of them is fooled; he hasn’t come to discuss work. As he speaks, William pulls absently at the purple flowerhead, dragging the others with it and almost upending the jar.

  Careful! says Kenneth, You’ll have it over.

  What’s this then, Dad? he says, drawing out the stalk.

  Kenneth looks at it, pretends to be thinking.

  It’s called, um, I’m not sure of the common name.

  But you’d know it in Latin?

  William raises an eyebrow as he says it, shoots his father a quick grin.

  Not your arrangement, then, he says.

  What would you like to know? Kenneth asks. He waits, wiping his hands on his napkin.

  Well, does she have any other talents, William says, Apart from floristry?

  He resists the urge to put the stalk in his mouth.

  She has, says Kenneth. He would like to list all that Maggie does, realizes that what she is to him is not definable.

  I don’t expect you to understand, or even like the idea, but it’s a professional relationship.

  I bet. So what is her profession, exactly?

  William tosses the stalk on the table; the texture of it on his fingers is hairy and rough, and the peppery smell gives him an odd sensation at the back of his throat. He feels his father’s eyes on him, flicks a greenfly off his shirt.

  Dad, I hope you’re not going to make a fool of yourself.

  Why change the habit of a lifetime? says Kenneth.

  Ali thinks she’s a fraud.

  Kenneth turns away from the table, unable to still the energy in his legs, kicking them out in front of him.

  Bush telegraph works fast round here, he says, How dare you discuss my private business?

  William leans back in his chair like a poker player, raising his sunglasses from his eyes and sliding them onto the top of his head.

  Someone has to look out for you, he says, I’m just asking you to be cautious. You don’t know what the world’s like these days. There are lots of charlatans out there only too happy to con you. A lot of vile individuals, he continues, nodding, You hear about it all the time, old people robbed in their living rooms, shootings on the street, happy slapping . . .

  Happy what? says Kenneth, incredulous.

  William throws his arms wide.

  You see, you’ve no idea what goes on. You just let this woman walk in, give her free rein. And you don’t know the first thing about her.

  Some things you take on trust, says Kenneth.

  As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. Kenneth watches as William turns his head away, his response delivered with feigned outrage.

  No, Dad, you must never take anything on trust. Where’s she from? What did she do before? How much are you paying her?

  She’s just working for me for a few months, Will. You don’t have to feel threatened. I’m not some old codger, he says, and then, as if it might lighten the tone, I’m sixty-several, he adds, with a laugh.

  What day is it today, Dad? asks William quietly.

  Don’t insult me, says Kenneth, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate.

  OK. Something easier. What did you have for breakfast?

  He leans forward again. Kenneth leans forward too, conspiratorial, a look of amusement on his face. He places his hands on the table, making the glasses rock gently.

  An egg, lightly boiled, two pieces of toast. A cup of tea. I believe it was Twinings.

  They haven’t noticed the sky thickening overhead, but the two of them are sweating in the stifled air. They see the sheen on each other’s face, the colour rising at the throat; both interpret these signs as victory. Kenneth feels the tremor in his hands and keeps them pressed on the cloth.

  Let me meet her, then, says William, lightly, If she’s no threat. Bring her up to town.

  Actually, I think an evening here would be better, have some people over. Before the summer disappears entirely, Kenneth says, looking at the sky, You can meet her then.

  He stacks the crockery onto the tray and carries it back into the kitchen. He’s smiling to himself, humming a tune under his breath.

  seventeen

  She takes care removing her shirt: the fabric has stuck in places; she will have to soak it off. Standing in her bathroom, Maggie drenches a cotton wool ball in warm water and presses it against her sleeve, feels the water run down her arm and drip off her fingertips. A cluster of smeared brown stains indicates where the puncture wounds have rubbed. She notices a few more further down the sleeve; at some point during the day, it must have ridden up and opened the wounds again. When she judges it won’t be too painful, she snakes her arm out and inspects the damage; gently touches the places where the ink has got under the skin. She will be left with a few black dots as a reminder, but for the most part the wounds will come clean. She dabs on the antiseptic cream she bought in the shop and covers the skin with a large square of plaster. Immediately, she feels better: healed, less frayed.

  That’s the very last, she warns herself in the mirror, ignoring the smirk of the woman staring back.

  When William phones Alison, she sounds distracted.

  Is it a bad time? he asks, hearing her struggling with the phone.

  Terrible, I’m trying to learn how to play golf, although why is beyond me. Bloody wasp! she shouts – a
rush of crackle on the line – Hang on.

  There’s a pause, a thunk, more rustling, and then her voice, low and ordinary again.

  That’s better, she says, Killed the bastard. Now, how was he? William tells her about lunch with Kenneth, and his father’s plans to hold a party.

  A soirée, she says, How elegant. Let’s hope he remembers to actually invite people. That is, of course, unless he was making one of his jokes.

  William feels the truth of the remark. Of course it was a joke. His father was just trying to fob him off.

  What did she say her name was again? he asks.

  Maggie, she says, That’s all.

  And she was a lot younger than him, you said? And pretty? Alison gives a little cough.

  I didn’t say pretty. I think I said ‘bedraggled’. Much more your type than his.

  Meaning? says William, sensing a trap.

  Meaning a lot like those women who hang about the private views hoping for a free drink. You know, intense faces, intense mannerisms – intense bloody hair, she says, exasperated.

  Ah, laughs William, Just my type. So, she is pretty then. That explains it. What we need to do is give the old man a project, something to divert him, to occupy his time.

  The hotel idea? she asks, I thought he wasn’t interested.

  He wasn’t, says William, But with you on board, he might be persuaded. You know, you can be very persuasive.

  A long silence follows where all he can hear is what sounds like wind butting against the handset. Just when he thinks the connection is down, Alison speaks again.

  I care about him, Will. I wouldn’t want him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. If he agrees, I’ll help. But I’m not going to try to force his hand. Is that clear?

  You’re breaking up, he says, Thanks Ali, I’m counting you in.

  In the prefect’s office, Maggie rolls a sheet of paper into the typewriter. Looking at the notes from the morning, she hears again her own hysterical voice rising above the soft slow gravel of ‘Lay Lady Lay’. The light from the window isn’t helping her to see; nothing here will help her see. It’s too dark.

  You mustn’t talk, he’d said, Do you understand? No talking. Put his face close to hers, repeated the words very slowly. His breath smelled of spearmint. No talking, he’d said, The dog will rip your heart out.

  Big Girl Now

  Not your surprise, Kenneth, but mine, to see how desperate you were to bury the past. Like father like son like son like father.

  I didn’t say a word in that place, Kenneth, but I sang; I sang my heart out.

  Just like that bird.

  Maggie lays the typed sheet down on the desk, and strides through the hall, along the corridor, into the atrium. She has a clear image in her head, and she holds it there; it won’t escape from her now. She knows where she’s headed and what she will do. The French windows lead her out into the courtyard, and in the courtyard is the tree, and its eyes seem to slide sideways, beckoning her on. Beyond, there will be a wall with a low wooden door. And she will open it and go inside and see for herself what the fear looked like.

  Here she is, standing in front of the tree, and beyond it, there is the wall. There is the wall but there is no door. There is only a tree. There are only bricks. There is no door.

  Kenneth leads her slowly across the back lawn. He has one hand round her waist and holds her wrist with the other, daintily, as if any pressure would cause her to snap in half. She leans against him and he catches the warm scent of her hair and an astringent, more medicinal smell he can’t define. Really, he would like to carry her, pick her up bodily and crush her to him and wrap himself all around her, like a suit of armour, like a shroud. He wants to bury himself inside her. He wants to eat her. The knowledge makes him breathless. Kenneth understands for the first time how vast love is; how savage; how appalling. He sits her at the table under the cedar and goes to fetch her some water. A moment to think, he tells himself, to compose himself. But in the kitchen he doesn’t think, he turns the cold tap on full and pushes his face under the flow, dashing up the liquid in his hands, coughing out the water like a drowning man. Still he feels a raw heat bubbling in his blood. If anyone has hurt her, if they’ve hurt her, he thinks, I will kill them.

  Picking his way back across the lawn with the tray, the glasses chattering and the light sparking off the crystal facets of the jug, he sees her bent double, a clear stream of liquid spilling from her mouth. Even this, he would own. In the shadow of the tree, her skin is the colour of ash.

  It’ll be too much sun, Maggie, he says, You walked all the way into town. And back! No wonder you don’t feel well.

  She doesn’t speak. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips. When he offers her the glass of water, she turns and splashes it in quick arcs over the grass, erasing the evidence of her sickness, then holds it up for a refill.

  Perhaps you should lie down for a while, and I’ll concoct something adventurous for supper. What do you say?

  Maggie opens her mouth, sucks in a breath, closes it again.

  Was it that scary tree, the one with the eyes? he asks, desperate now for a clue, Because I’ll have it chopped down if necessary.

  It’ll have a restraining order, she says. Her lips are flecked with sticky blobs of white.

  A preservation order, Maggie, he says, pointing a finger at her, Are you trying to catch me out?

  He drags his chair nearer to hers, removes his handkerchief from his pocket and tilts the jug of water so a thin trickle runs on and off the cotton and drips through the gap between his knees. He dabs the handkerchief against her lips, and when she doesn’t protest, he folds it over and wipes the flecks away from the corners of her mouth. The look of her: he could howl.

  Thank you, she says, and taking this as an instruction to stop, he closes his fist around the handkerchief and then stares at it, mystified.

  A handkerchief, a handkerchief, who said that? he asks.

  Othello, she says.

  They fall silent again. Kenneth stuffs it back into his pocket, gazing around for another distraction. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it in one.

  Now. Tell me about these, he says, pulling the flowers from the jar and laying them like specimens on the tablecloth.

  This one’s rosemary, she says, touching the needles, For remembrance.

  When she doesn’t continue, he picks up another and holds it out.

  And what’s this?

  She smiles faintly,

  Purple basil. To keep the flies away, she says, Also, for love. At this, he smiles back at her.

  And for banishment, she says.

  Banishment? Did you say banishment? I thought it was just for making pesto. And this white one? he asks, stroking the petals with his finger.

  Bladder campion. It’s a weed. Grows all over here.

  I’ve seen it, says Kenneth, nodding, Horrible name for such a beautiful thing. They do say a weed is just a flower in the wrong place.

  She doesn’t answer that. They sit together under the tree. The sky has gone the colour of putty, there’s no breeze to be felt, no air. He doesn’t take his eyes from her, watches her sip at her water, watches the dance of light and shade on her face. He asks her once, twice, if something – someone – scared her. She must tell him, he says, he has a gun. When she meets his eye, he can tell it’s to look for the joke.

  I do, Maggie. And I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you.

  There, he’s admitted it, and the admission is a pure release. Her mouth moves but still she says nothing; something has shocked her, if he can only find out what.

  I’ve tried to write up your song notes, she says, finally, It was hard for me.

  Kenneth passes his hand over his face and feels how greasy his skin is. He’s still quite tired. After William had left, he took a nap in his den, fed the fish, tried and failed to work on his catalogue of objects. He’d like a gin and tonic now, or better still a vodka martini. He can almost taste the tight, glacial p
itch of it. He glances at his watch: half past four. Pours himself another glass of water and drinks it. But still he’s thirsty.

  I didn’t really say anything, he says, Not very encouraging.

  Maybe you should write them yourself, she says, Without me. Because – well, I’m not cut out for the job, am I?

  Kenneth detects an edge in her voice.

  Perhaps I don’t want someone ‘cut out for the job’, he says, sounding petulant, Perhaps I want you.

  You don’t know anything about me.

  With her head down again and her hair hanging over her face, Kenneth can’t read her expression. He wants to lift the hair away, he wants to say, Don’t do that, don’t hide inside yourself like that, like a frightened animal. You’re too good for that. Instead, he bends forward, trying to meet her gaze.

  I know three things for sure, he says quietly, One, I do very much like having you here; two, you like music, thank God in Heaven; and three – and this is crucial – we both like Chablis! Maggie gives a slow blink.

  Not the best qualifications for the job.

  When I interviewed you, I said I wanted someone to sit in a corner and listen to me. What a frightful old bore I was. But look at me now, he says, bouncing his feet on the grass, You’ve taught me all sorts – how to get rid of unwanted gifts, how to cool the blood with cold water . . . and about herbs, and bats, and echo-thingy.

  Echolocation, she says.

  Echolocation. Exactly. I’ve read up about it. Bats use sound to see. They’re like me and you, he says,We see things in sounds. How wonderful is that? Now I’ll admit, I’ve no wish ever to replay that period in my life again, when Rusty wasn’t well. But it’s a small setback. Shall we just draw a line under it and move on? Nineteen seventy-six. That was not a very good year, he says.

  It was a terrible year, says Maggie.

  But surely you weren’t born? he says, Or – or you were just a baby?

  Not quite a baby. I was four.

  She looks at him directly. Her eyes on him are full of light.

  Seems a lifetime ago. Being four, that is, he adds quickly, I can’t say I can recall anything before I started school.