The Song House

by Trezza Azzopardi

  The first answerphone message came mid-morning: his father couldn’t find the number for the plumber, did Will happen to know it?

  Recently, William has come to dread the sound of the telephone, and, since his father had discovered he could call his mobile too, is equally cautious about answering that. The calls were not merely rambling and disjointed, although that was unsettling enough; they were sometimes strangely impersonal, as if his father had forgotten who it was he’d phoned and was on his best behaviour. More frequently, they were appeals to William to confirm some snatch of a recollection, to restore certainty to an idea. Could you make a steak sandwich with mince or did you need a fillet? Was there any harm in burning barbecue briquettes in the chiminea? Did he have a clue where his boots might be?

  William imagined he could see the holes being burrowed inside his father’s head; pictured it as a labyrinth where beetles gnawed away at the soft tissue. Not for the first time, he felt the irony; while his father panned for long-forgotten moments, what escaped him was the day to day, everyday, unthinking normality of existing. Going on with life, without setting the house on fire or doing himself some serious injury. But to give voice to those concerns was to invite ridicule, or rage, or indifference.

  It made William more determined to spend his day off as planned; searching online for support, finding out what was on offer. He’d discovered a place called a Memory Clinic in Slough, but it was the one in Southampton which held his attention; they had a Specialist Memory Nurse who would do home visits. Nowhere could he find mention of the need for a referral, knowing that his father would refuse to see his GP. He wrote down names and numbers in his diary, invigorated, but cautious enough to realize he would need to speak with him first. If he could implant the idea of a pretty young nurse coming to visit, it might make Kenneth more amenable.

  The second call, in the middle of the afternoon, was a confused, messy recounting of an event William could barely recall; something about a body washed up in a tree. And by the way, had he mentioned he’d found his reading glasses? And by the way, did he remember a song about an anchor? Did that ring a bell? And did he mention the business of the body in the tree?

  If William could only put his own memories to use instead of avoiding them, he might understand that connections were forming in his father’s mind, might detect the synapses firing, creating sparks, reigniting a long-doused flame. But he thinks of his father now as a spent force. It wouldn’t be his first mistake.

  The final call comes as he’s preparing dinner. He has planned to cook seared tuna with a mizuna and sorrel salad, mainly because Nat is coming over and the only other time he’d made her a meal, she teased him about the rice he’d used for the risotto. The wrong kind, apparently, as if there could be a wrong kind of risotto rice. He’d even shown her the box.

  Blame my father, he’d said, trying not to feel hurt, I’ve inherited his culinary skills.

  And she’d said,

  You blame your father for everything; the wine you put away, your frankly obsessive cleanliness – the way you drive.

  And what’s wrong with my driving? he’d asked, knowing what the answer would be. He’d brought her round though, made her laugh. And she ate the risotto without complaint.

  William considers answering the call, but knows from the others, and from the time of day, that it’s better to wait. The booming of his father’s voice makes the speaker vibrate.

  Will, it’s your father again. That water bailiff, he was called Thomas—

  There’s a pause during which William can hear what sounds like pages being shuffled.

  – Thomas Bryce! That was it. Forgot to say the first time. Don’t suppose you know if he’s still about? I wouldn’t mind having a word with him.

  And just like that William is implicated. Two words, a name he pretended not to remember, only for the old bastard to find it in some murky corner of his brain.

  He was first taken on by Thomas when he had just turned ten. It was a proper job, his father had warned, which would take up all the holidays and involve early starts and some responsibility. William didn’t mind; the house had become so miserable since his mother got sick, since Grace had to leave, and the latest nanny, a local woman with fat goose-pimply arms, reminded him of the matron at school. She insisted he call her Miss Sharon, although no one else did, and said things he didn’t understand about birds pecking out little boys’ eyes if they spied on people. He wanted to tell her: I’m not a spy, and I’m not a baby. So there. But she had a look that frightened him. He didn’t even need a nanny any more, but his father had insisted –William had heard him, talking to his mother about it. He wasn’t spying; he was going to her room to see if she was feeling better, and heard, from behind the heavy wood, the clipped, angry tone of his father’s voice. He’d waited before knocking, and that was a mistake – the voice getting louder, then the sound of the door handle, then his father, in a rage suddenly, sending him to his room. Someone to be a mother to him, since you’re not capable – that’s what he’d said. But his mother was sick, she couldn’t help that.

  Thomas wasn’t like the other adults. He didn’t speak to him like they did, like he was a small child, or worse, an idiot. Thomas’s words were plain and direct and had nothing hidden in them. He’d worked with Thomas that first summer, then every holiday afterwards. At school, when things were bad, he clung to the memory of it: gliding down the river in Thomas’s boat; hooking worms onto the line the way Thomas showed him; lying under the trees with a ham sandwich and Sonny at his shoulder, waiting patiently for the last crust. He loved the dog more than anything. During the first year, he’d petitioned his parents for a spaniel of his own; obliquely with his mother, who was so pale and tired and stayed in her room all day, suggesting in his sly, boyish way that a dog would be company for her too. Just a small one, a cocker, perhaps. He was more honest with his father, who would see through any pretence at altruism. And who would look after the animal while you’re at school? his father demanded, Take it for walks, feed it, all that? William didn’t have answers to the questions. Later, he thought Sharon could have done it, but by then the idea had been dismissed. Still, there was always Sonny.

  The job was easy at first; all he had to do was sit with Thomas in the boat and call out when he saw anything unusual – like the time he’d spotted an upturned bicycle in the reeds, and that morning when he saw his first heron flying like a pterodactyl down the middle of the river. Sometimes he’d follow a step behind as Thomas surveyed the trees or checked the licences of mute fishermen, with nothing else to do; but by the second year, he was entrusted to take water samples. Thomas complained about the new regime, about the factory discharge, about the levels, about how much more work there was. William happily volunteered himself for any task. He was never late, never spoke out of turn, laughed in the right places, knew when to be still, silent, stealthy. He was strong, he could lift things, heavy objects: a fox, a fawn, a sack of logs.

  He remembers Peel and Flynn, Thomas’s drinking buddies. The River Rat gang, Thomas had called them, and Flynn especially looked rodent-like, with his long nose and his pointed, eager face. During their last summer, William had been allowed to sit out in the pub garden and ‘keep the bench warm’ for them while they went in the New Inn for a drink. They would appear a while later with a treat for him: a packet of smoky bacon crisps, and a half of bitter shandy in a knobbly glass. William loved the taste of it, and the way the men would smile as he drank, nodding encouragement. He’d have to make it last, that was the trouble. One drink and you’re on your way, my lad, Thomas would say, but if he took small sips, he could stay with them and listen to their talk. Often it was uninteresting stuff about the river, or the latest plans for the golf course, but now and then their voices would sink into whispers as they discussed the latest events at Weaver’s Cottage. That was their chief delight: what the foolish boy had done now, how that girl went about half-starkers. Next time they passed the spot, William made su
re to have a good look. That was when he first noticed Birdie.

  Kenneth puts another record on – Keith Jarrett, the Köln Concert, because he’s always considered it to be the most languid, summer-rain music. Not, he tells himself, that he’s thinking of Maggie, of what would be the perfect piece to listen to at this moment, but because he wants to hear it. He sits again in front of the typewriter, takes a sip at the dregs of his whisky and positions his fingers above the keyboard, like a pianist about to perform. At this moment he believes – because he’s read it somewhere, because he wants to believe – that the words will flow through his veins in a river of harmonious notes, spill from his fingertips in a cascade of meaning. But his mind is blank. There is just the sound of the concert in his head. He should be grateful for this after the day he’s had; it would be reviving simply to follow the notes, as he would have done the first time he’d ever heard it; that intricate, vital quality, like a promise, like heartache, like nothing words can ever begin to describe. And he knows this piece will change even as he listens to it; recognizes the sleight of repetition, the subtle way it opens, spreads, like ripples on a pond. That’s partly why he chose it. He has stopped fighting; has given himself over to whatever may come to mind.

  Were he to have the conversation William so desperately wanted, he would tell him that he’s not forgetting at all; on the contrary, he’s just making room, letting the past take precedence for a while. He’s discovered that his memories aren’t fixed, that he can’t control what comes in. It’s like the weather; he can watch it, he can feel it, but he can’t alter it. But nor can he fix on how he would like his memories to look, how he might describe them in words: thinks if only he could it would be easy. He imagines seeing inside his own head, into the inner workings of his mind. There was a programme about it once, how you can have a scan which shows the brain lit up like a fairground ride. Kenneth thinks his brain would be dark, with winding corridors, trapdoors, like the ghost train, or a dungeon. He follows this thread, now, satisfied he’s found a way to visualize the invisible, and puts up no resistance to the thoughts meandering in and out. Here’s his mind then, a dark cell – no, many, many cells – the shape of a panopticon; each cell positioned so that the prisoner is available for scrutiny. A thousand former Kenneths jostling for space. He would be the gaoler, too, an idea he relishes for the power it bestows. He’s there as overseer, to keep his memories from escaping, wreaking havoc, murdering each other. He thinks he’s the only person in the world to have this thought. He considers making a note of it but can’t be bothered to move.

  For now, he listens to the hollow, emptied-out sound of the opening bars, more an ending than a start, and lets it sweep over him. He feels the music as he never has before, with perfection, and anguish. It’s only sensation; no rainy-day memory to examine or relive, although he knows he first heard the piece the year after its release, and played it regularly for months, to calm him sometimes, sometimes to take him away. Still nothing occurs to him. As he holds his hands up, waiting for the words to drop out of them, he understands that he has no words. A welcome wave of fatigue laps over his body. Closing his eyes, Kenneth rests his head back, drops his hands into his lap, and listens to the change in tone; cautious now, full of doubt: the spaces in between seem to ask him questions.

  Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? What about the boy? How will he cope, at this difficult time? Kenneth’s answer is to remain silent. He doesn’t know how Will might feel about him going away, only that he must. Rusty has revealed herself and he, in turn, has been honest with her. At first, wanting to patch things up – because they always patched things up, didn’t they? – he thought there might be a way forward. But she was so contemptuous, so reproachful when he mentioned Grace.

  Grace? The nanny? How unoriginal. It’ll be the stable boy next.

  There was no stable boy, of course, no horses. She was being ridiculous. But then he realized that it was he who was ridiculous. And stupid, and vain, so utterly selfish. His answer was to run away. Except at the time it didn’t feel like running away; he was simply trying to make a life out of a mess.

  The knocking on the record becomes his footsteps echoing through the hall, and Will, a slight, shadowy figure behind him, anxious, it seemed, for his father to be gone. And then he was in the cab, being taken off up the drive, his son waving briefly from the step, then dashing off quickly, like a cartoon boy. The knocking is louder, more emphatic; and here’s the lull now, a not-quite-silence, just as suddenly eclipsed by the euphoria, the swift ecstatic cry of release. He was on his way to Bahrain; he was going to be free! There would be no more Rusty, the charade that was his marriage, the stifling presence of the boy. Such blissful release, whooping for joy inside, and his body jittering with the pure joy noise coming from the record, pure joy, only that, all that, joy so immense and sublime it is also a sorrow: and slowly he travels over the curve of sorrow; so many tears, so much rain, the widest ripple on the pond, a gradual expansion into nothingness.

  He emerges to the sound of applause, and to repetition, repetition, such insistent repetition; the insistent repetition of the rhythm, and the rhythm becomes music, and the music sings the motion of a train on a track. From the window of the carriage he sees Maggie, very small, very far away, standing on the river towpath, a bright red stain on the collar of her blouse. From a crushed insect, a spider mite or beetle. And then she’s gone and there is just sweeping scenery, yellow and brown and arid and baked, and the insistent repetition of the rhythm returns and inside it there’s singing, there’s shouting; it’s William, in his Boys’ Brigade uniform, cradling something in his arms. He’s landed a carp. The river man’s at his side, squinting at him with those eyes of his just two slits under his cap. They’re on a dredger. Not a carp, a man’s arm, a tear in the shoulder, ready to spill. Blood pooling in a long line from the sleeve. No. He’s holding a child. Pink mouth open and wet. The rhythm pauses and resumes and the image of the child is carried away by the insistence of the rhythm. And the clouds race over the sky above the big house on the hill inside which in the library in the chair sits Kenneth. Kenneth sits in the chair in the library inside the big house on the hill and the clouds race over the sky.

  He is fully awake now. He remains entirely motionless, eyes wide, his mind fixed on the images in his head. The concert is in its third phase, the rhythm still insistent, but the melody plaintive, full of longing. A different picture emerges with the sound: here is the countryside, in darkness, lights from the towns flying past, a covert bonfire glowing in a field, a funfair in a valley where the big wheel is lit like a jewelled crown. Here is the train again, but he’s returning this time, suitcase forgotten, probably still on the tarmac at Heathrow, and he’s stepping back down onto the platform at Newbury station and the stale air hits him in a blast of fumes and failure. He was so close.

  His mouth is very dry. He leans forward and finds his glass.

  The heat: the impossible, unremitting dryness of the heat that summer he’d decided to leave. Fish drowning in dry riverbeds, the fields going up instantly, as if sparked from under the earth. Words couldn’t describe it, though the very same words were used over and over, as if repeating them brought them closer to the truth: baking, scorching, flaming. It was dryness and tiredness, and the air was second-hand and there was the smell, constant and toxic, of burnt paper in the atmosphere. There were no clouds. There was no breeze: standing on the porch on the morning he left, looking over the lawns into another clear sunrise, saying goodbye to the house, and struggling to get a breath. People said, At least you’ll be prepared for Bahrain, and laughed, as if the heat was a joke, or he was, or the idea of going. He knew there would be something to stop him; understood there would be no escape, that no one escapes, not really, try as hard as they might to climb out. In the end they just fall back down into the hole.

  Keith Jarrett plays on. Kenneth hears the piano as the bells of the church in which he and Rusty were married, and hears how
much he loved her. How pale she looked as the bells rang out, as the photographer posed them here and there in the shadow of the lychgate. Just as a new bride ought to look. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  The house felt empty on his return. It was filled with darkness. He paused in the hall like a stranger and the clock ticked and the sound his footsteps made on the staircase beat time with his heart.

  Rusty was in her room. He didn’t forget to knock, he just chose not to, opening the door and finding her at the dressing table. She was drawing the spike of an earring from her earlobe.

  He’s in his room, she said, turning to look at him and then swivelling back to her own reflection, I do not want to see him.

  Kenneth noticed she was heavily made-up, and dressed as if she’d just returned from an evening out.

  What have you done?

  Did he say that? Didn’t he mean, What has he done?

  And she swung round again, her beautiful face a long thin strip of hatred, and said,

  Me? I lost a baby. Hang me for it.

  William has cancelled Nat; he thinks about calling his father, holding the handset to his chest as he paces the living room. The view from his window is slashed with diagonal blurts of rain. Through it he sees the surrounding towers have lost their shape; they are flattened by the darkness, the individual apartments illuminated here and there into a mosaic of colours, like a Klee painting. He imagines the people inside them going about their lives, cooking, watching television, arguing, making love, and he is sick with loneliness and longing. He thinks of Sonny, how thick his fur was, how trusting his eyes, his soft mouth; wonders how anyone could have believed him.