The Song House

by Trezza Azzopardi

  I wanted to say how very sorry I am about your father. And how sorry I am about me and the way I’ve behaved. I’m really grateful to you, for everything.

  Aaron passes his hands over his face, blinking at the dark shape of her, noting also the dark shape of the dreamcatcher box under her arm.

  Maggie, my father died years ago. What’s all this about?

  He opens the door wider to let her pass through, but she shakes her head at him, turns to walk away up the path.

  I just wanted you to know that.

  His voice comes hoarse, baffled.

  Where are you going?

  I have to find someone, she says.

  Are you coming back? he cries, Only, it would be nice to know, you know.

  Maggie turns again, her faint smile creasing into a frown.

  Yes, I’m coming back.

  Taking a direct route from the Gatehouse, she manages well on the road for a while, then, as the land dips and curves – showing her the standing lake of river spill – she heads for higher ground, only dropping beneath the shade of the rhododendrons for the last half-mile. As she walks, she practises what she will say, the movements her mouth should make, the noises in her throat, casting them out onto the air. They sound guttural, broken, like the cries of a raven. The main roads aren’t flooded any more, and William may have gone by now; if so, she’ll tell Kenneth. And if she can’t manage that, at least she can show him the newspaper cutting and the notes she has made. But she can tell him now, surely? Yet the thought of it makes her throat close up, as if a hand is squeezing her neck, compressing her vocal chords; she has to force the not-quite-words through the narrow opening. She pauses, breathes slow and deep and begins again; steps back from herself to say it.

  That – child – is—

  she begins, her face a mask as she stretches out the words. Her tongue feels thick as a slug. Relax, she says, but the word makes her mouth widen into a tight line. Calm. An open-mouthed word. Easy – a subtle word, a word she can say – Easy.

  That child is still missing, she says, I’ve come to take her home.

  When she reaches Earl House, she goes diagonally behind it, across the field and along the river, past the cedar, its needles sequinned with sunlight, up to the terrace. The water has retreated, leaving the top lawn covered in a plane of shining mud. She slips once, putting her hand out to save herself, then a second time, fumbling the box as she skids. She’s come this far. There’s a ladder leaning against the wall and a spade caked in sludge; someone has been clearing the flood residue from the deck. She finds the kitchen empty, the floor freshly mopped and smelling of pine; she leaves footprints as she walks across it. A neat row of wine bottles are lined up along the counter, a bowl of water in the sink releases a thin veil of steam. At the entrance to the library, she pauses. There’s a figure in the corner of the room, sitting in Kenneth’s wing-backed chair.

  And who might you be, says William, with no question in his voice. She steps backwards, putting space between him and her.

  Maggie, she says.

  The famous Maggie, he smiles, At last.

  I’ve come—

  The words retreat. She feels them slip away inside her, feels them spiralling down.

  You’ve come to see my father, he says, Well, he’s still asleep. Maybe I can help you.

  He never sleeps – late.

  So he says. But I wouldn’t take his word for it. I’m William, his son. Forgive my manners, it’s not every day we get a visitor just walk in off the street.

  Maggie tries to look at him, but there’s stuff falling into her eyes, specks of dirt; gritty, sharp. The effort of controlling her limbs makes her dizzy.

  Would you like to leave a message, Maggie?

  When she doesn’t reply, he rises from his seat.

  Something to give him, she says at last.

  Afraid she might drop it, she rests the box on top of the glass cabinet. Beneath the lid, the sheet music seems to quiver; notes appear and disappear, jumping along the stave like performing fleas.

  William nods at the box, his hands open to take it.

  I can give it to him when he wakes up.

  I want to make sure he gets it.

  He lets out a brief, exasperated sigh.

  Then I’ll make sure he gets it.

  She’s about to lift the box away when the sheet music comes into focus. She takes a sharp breath in, and quotes, very clearly and precisely, as if from memory:

  We have an anchor that keeps the soul

  Steadfast and sure while the . . . billows roll.

  William shoots her a quick grin, close now, almost at her shoulder.

  It’s a hymn, he says, Used to sing it at Boys’ Brigade.

  Maggie snatches up the box as he motions for her to follow him. He strides ahead, brusque and confident, telling her that she’s welcome to make an appointment to see Kenneth, and perhaps she’d be kind enough to telephone first before she next decides to visit. He dismisses her as he might a servant. As he leads her along the corridor, she focuses on the back of his head, the small bald circle in the thatch of hair. Nell was right about power; it releases itself like a vapour, coming off him now in a kind of languorous heat. He couldn’t care less what she thinks of him: she’s nothing in his eyes. It makes her furious, the sensation sparking through her, quick and bright. Not just the arrogance of his clipped heels on the flagstones: something’s wrong with what he’s just said. He breaks his stride, looks back to check she’s following.

  You told me it was pillows, William. You used to sing ‘pillows’. You thought it was funny. Remember? she says, turning away as he opens the front door.

  She takes the stairs, up and up, the light from the windows chopping her into pieces, feeling William gaining on her, a pace behind, calling out. She flings open Kenneth’s bathroom door and slams it shut behind her. William on the other side, the flat of his hand slapping the wood. There’s a rising nausea, full and bitter in her throat, and the room moving around her. A sudden red pain on the side of her head. She turns to find the cause of it. It comes from high up: he was so much taller than her then.

  The adjoining door, the one she knows will give her Kenneth, retreats as she moves towards it. Maggie sinks onto the edge of the bath. Someone’s hand on her face, and then the river man, holding her, wrapping her up—

  the river man

  In a piece of cloth, see. Just here, round your head. Just to stop that running now. You’ve got very nice hair, young lady. Who’d you steal it off ? That’s it, you’re all right, I’ve got you. Don’t take no notice of him now, he’ll make a fuss but he won’t hurt you. He’s a good old boy, Sonny. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Thomas’s eyes are wide and his breathing shallow. The knuckles of his right hand are satisfyingly swollen, the pink blotches deepened now to black and purple. He dangles his hand over the edge of the chair for Bramble to lick it. She must be hungry; he should get up. He will get up, in a while. In a little while. Should have done that at the time. Smacked him one, the lying little runt. A dog can bite, but a dog can’t put a child in a hole. The distant past is yesterday, and then it’s today, right now, and as he relives the moment, Bramble waits at his side. He’ll get up, in a minute.

  thirty-eight

  Kenneth’s touch is gentle. She would like to tell him why she came back, but her mouth is filled with dirt. He moves her over to sit on the chaise longue, the briefest caress of his fingers on her hair.

  I’ve sent William for a glass of water.

  He looks bleary and ruffled, a man emerging from sleep, and he smells that way, warm and faintly acidic. He’s smiling at her; even now he can’t contain his delight. Fighting the urge to be sick, Maggie lowers her gaze to his feet: one bare, the other with a bandage hanging from it. She puts a hand up to her head to check. Strewn across the tiles are the contents of the dreamcatcher box. The newspaper cutting, a sodden remnant, disintegrates as she lifts it, but the picture of Nell is safe, the notebook is s
afe. She gives it to Kenneth.

  I want you to read this, she says, her voice echoing in the space, and Kenneth simply nods.

  When William arrives with the water, Kenneth tries to snatch it from him, jealous, guarded. His look is accusing.

  You can leave us now,Will. We’ll be fine.

  Why don’t you get dressed, Dad, and I’ll look after Maggie for a minute? he says, and only then does she see that Kenneth is wearing pyjamas. He retreats to the far door, but leaves it open. From inside the room, he talks to Maggie, telling her how astounded he is to see her again, overjoyed, how he’ll take care of her. He pokes his head through the doorway now and then, eager to share the moment. She has to sit back to drink the water, afraid she will topple if she doesn’t concentrate, and her eyes take in the plain white wall and the outline of the frieze beneath it.

  Birdie Crane, says William.

  This used to be the nursery, didn’t it? she says, giving back the empty glass. They both look at each other, William and Maggie, and what passes through them is something that Kenneth can never share: the same memory.

  Rusty is standing at the window. As they enter, she turns around, and sees the dirty child that William has beside him; a child like a vole, like some kind of subterranean creature, with her smeared face and her pinprick eyes. A horror. Rusty takes in how abhorrent the child is, and says to William,

  Wherever did you get that from?

  From across the river. I got her for you.

  And why would you do that? she says, pulling her chin back, as if avoiding a bad smell.

  They said you wanted a child. You said. I heard you! And they don’t look after her.

  You are going to return the child immediately and I am going to contact your father, she says, her voice rigid and controlled, You are in serious trouble.

  But I got her for you, he says, a tremor of panic coursing through his body.

  No. You found it. Do you understand?

  Rusty turns back to the window – she won’t face them again – and says,

  Go now.

  Maggie and William look at each other and their look remembers how dark it was outside, another warm, dark night, and how they went down to the kitchen and William – quickly, because he was afraid of his mother’s strangeness and needed to get Birdie away – washed her hands and face with a dishcloth and she stuck her tongue out as he washed her to taste the moisture. He stopped at the garage door and told her to stand there and he went inside and fetched the big torch, not because he was frightened of the dark but because she was, and he didn’t want her frightened. They held hands crossing the field and their hands were hot. William didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t put her back in the boat and push it across to the other side; people would be searching for her, they’d be waiting and they’d catch him doing it. He’d thought she belonged here. He’d convinced himself. He’d thought his mother would get better, that he could make her better.

  He would have to be quick, now, but she was so slow, she couldn’t move fast like him and it was annoying, how slow she was, and the torch was heavy and he switched it off, thinking at the last minute that someone might see the light. And in the darkness, a new thought: he could leave her; he could just put her in the culvert and tell her not to move and then – and then what? What if she wouldn’t stay? What if she tried to follow him? He didn’t know. It was hard, trying to think what was best. What if she told on him? Best if she couldn’t tell.

  He was trying to think, and it was so hard, standing there, clicking the torch on and off in the culvert and worrying about everything, whether she would be afraid out here on her own, what his father would do to him, and whether she would tell on him, holding her hand very tight, squeezing it. And over the hill, with his twisting low run, came Sonny, scenting him, excited, racing towards them.

  I saw him too, her eyes say, And I screamed, didn’t I, because he was going to eat my heart out. And that’s when you hit me.

  Birdie Crane, William says again, and Maggie nods at him.

  thirty-nine

  Dear Nell,

  You’ll know about the flooding, I’m sure, and I’m sorry about the state of your bed and your records – and everything, really. It’s a terrible mess. At least that awful gas smell has gone, although I can’t say I prefer the new one; eau de sewage, Aaron calls it. You’ll understand why I have to leave, and why I’m writing to you now. Can’t stay and talk, not yet, anyway, not here. I won’t be far away, though; I’ve finally decided to quit my job with that slave-driver Leon (that’s a joke, Mum). I’m only going up the hill a bit.(We never travelled far, did we?) And don’t worry about this place going to rot – Sam Moore’s having it. He breeds sheep for the estate. Next time you look out of the window, there’ll be a flock of them in that field. And his wife’s expecting a baby, so there’ll be a family here again too. It’s only right.

  I miss you, Nell.

  Maggie pauses. She has more to say, but Aaron sounds his horn again, impatient to be gone. As if Nell is reading her thoughts, Maggie adds a postscript:

  He’s local, but don’t worry, he’s a good friend. I know, you don’t approve.

  I love you,

  Birdie

  She folds the letter once and kisses it before she stows it in the box. She doesn’t know yet what she will do with the box, or with the notebook, and listens hard for Nell to advise her. She can’t carry it around forever, can’t keep clinging on to it like a piece of driftwood. She has to let it go. There’s only silence at first, and then, very faintly beneath it, a soft burring sound: the gradual shift and settle of the house, the water’s retreat, and her own withdrawal, an eliding of all that’s gone before in preparation for what’s to come. She picks up the box and goes to join Aaron in the truck.

  forty

  William finds his father in his office, asleep in the chair, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears. He studies him for a minute before tossing the postcard onto the blotter, waiting for him to sense the change of air. Kenneth opens his eyes.

  That, says William, pointing at the card, Cost me ninety-seven pence.

  His father removes the headphones and leans over to scrutinize the picture.

  What? What’s this?

  It’s daylight robbery, says William, and seeing his father’s bewildered expression, explains,There was no stamp on it. You have to pay extra. It’s addressed to you.

  Kenneth’s hands swim about on the desk, shifting papers and CDs until he finds his glasses.

  Water over stones, recites William, Pretty cryptic, if you ask me.

  The handwriting is familiar to Kenneth, but he just can’t place it. He pushes his finger behind the lens of his glasses and rubs his eye, trying to press it into focus. He’s seen the writing recently somewhere, searches his mind until he finds the loose thread.

  What time is it, he asks, not waiting for an answer, Why didn’t you wake me, boy? I’ll be late for Maggie.

  She’s hearing things: the noise of her shoes being sucked into the sodden earth, the regular sweep-squeak of her jacket as she moves, a crow laughing in the treetops. There’s a melody playing in her head: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. A right bend leads her to the clearing. From here, set back behind the rhododendron bushes, she sees the upper half of Earl House, its tall windows full of purple clouds. The wheat on either side of her is battered low, as if parting the way, but further on it’s alive, swaying and bowing in the stiff breeze. When she gets to the bowl barrow, she climbs up and sits on the mound to wait.

  It had been her idea to have the burial. They were in Kenneth’s den when she made the suggestion, inspecting the fish, scooping the dead ones from the surface with a spatula. He was upset by the sight of their dimmed bodies, and by William’s accusation.

  I had not forgotten to feed them, he was saying, But the power had gone off and I don’t know how to reset this thing. What shall we do with them?

  And then she asked him, straight out, if she could bury the b
ox at the bowl barrow. She gave him no reason, although she imagined he would think it cathartic, or therapeutic. She really didn’t mind what he thought.

  It’s an ancient monument, he said, Protected. I don’t think it’s allowed.

  But only we will know, Kenneth, and it’s not as if it would be the first time. People were buried there, once. I’d like to bury the box, and the notebook, when you’ve finished with it.

  Burying the past? he suggested.

  Burying what remains, she said, because she knew, once he had read what she’d written in the notebook, that the past would be anything but buried.

  Here he is now, making his way down the sloping lawns, half running, a garden spade under his arm. They meet at the barrow, where Kenneth, pink-faced, leans his weight on the handle and tries to get his breath back.

  I’m not late? he asks.

  I’m grateful you’re letting me do this. I thought we could put it here, she says, tapping her foot on the turf.

  They both look at the box for a moment, the wood split and swollen, the lid cloven.

  Oh! I got your postcard, he says, Which reminds me, don’t worry about the song notes.

  He takes the notebook from his pocket and hands it to her. She studies the crest, the front page striated with watermarks. Her name, written in capitals, is smudged out of all recognition.

  The ‘song notes’?

  Yes, in there. They don’t matter. Like you said, I shouldn’t be wasting my life worrying about the past. Time to get out in the real world again.

  He looks intently at her.

  We have more important things to think about now. We must plan our trip! You will come, won’t you, Maggie? Say you’ll come?

  She stares back at him, taking in the measure of what he’s just said.