Night Music

by Jojo Moyes

  When he considered the brutal truth of his situation, Byron couldn't quite believe it. It was the kind of thing you imagined happening to someone else. Then again, several years ago he had found himself living in circumstances that he could never have envisaged. What was that saying about making God laugh? Telling Him your plans?

  Byron no longer had plans, other than to find some temporary place to stay. In desperation he had thought of taking the puppies to an animal shelter so that he could more easily find somewhere for himself. But they were so young that it would have meant leaving the bitch with them, and he couldn't bear to lose either Meg or Elsie. They were pretty much all he had.

  He could have asked his sister if he could sleep on her sofa for a few weeks, but it didn't seem fair. She had started a new life and he was too proud to sabotage her first few weeks as a proper family. He had friends in the village, but none close enough to ask such a favour. He had discovered that a whole stratum of people were in a similar position; none would have labelled themselves homeless, but they were somehow between homes, sleeping on friends' sofas, in temporarily unoccupied beds, mobile homes, calling in favours to ensure another week with a roof over their heads. He might, he supposed, have driven the two hundred miles to his parents' retirement bungalow on the coast, but what would that solve? He would have no job, and their house, with its immaculate, carpeted floors and endless knick-knacks, was not somewhere he or the dogs could reasonably fit in. He would not ask them for money, knowing how little they survived on.

  Besides, the thought of confessing how far he had fallen - of disappointing them a second time - was untenable. No one wanted to describe themselves as homeless; he did not want others to see him as that word would label him. Byron's face set in a mask of despair. He thought until the sky darkened and the dogs whined with frustration at their confinement.

  Finally he started the car, and began to drive.

  It was dark by the time he parked his old Land Rover in the clearing by the pheasant enclosure. He had chosen this spot because it was on Matt's land; the presence of his car would elicit no comment, no curiosity. It was almost eight o'clock. He loaded the puppies into a cardboard box, and then, hoisting a bag over his shoulder, his two adult dogs at his heels, he set off.

  Byron knew the land so well that he did not need a torch. He had walked it almost daily for many years, had grown up in the neighbourhood, so he could traverse every rut, every fallen branch with the unthinking surefootedness of a mountain goat. He moved through the thick darkness, under the canopy of the trees, accompanied by the distant hooting of owls, the desperate shriek of a rabbit pinned by some predator, but he heard nothing except the whisper of the rain, the relentless tread of his soil-clagged feet.

  Finally he saw the lights. He stopped at the edge of the field, wondering, briefly, whether he could really do this. And as he looked up at the window from that distance, the woman stepped forward, her silhouette fluid against the light of the room, to draw the long curtains, slowly removing herself from view. Afterwards, he realised, that had been the nadir: as he had watched that one domestic task, he had never felt more shut out, more alone.

  The puppies were wriggling in the damp cardboard box. It won't be for long, he told himself, wiping his face with his free hand. Just till this lot are weaned and I can sell them. Just till I get myself on my feet. He hoisted the box under his arm and, instructing his dogs to be silent, walked round the black edge of the field until he saw the door he had been aiming for, a brick-and-weatherboard lean-to, jutting out from the main body of the house.

  The lock had been broken for as long as he could remember, the wood around it rotten, barely able to support the cast-iron catch. Silently, he opened it, hearing the distant sound of a violin, the briefly raised voice of a child. He slipped in through the gap and went down the stone steps. It smelled oily and vaguely sulphurous under the house, but at least it was dry, and several degrees warmer than the night air outside, which still held the chill of winter. In the distance he heard the dull roar of the boiler but only when the door was closed behind him did he feel brave enough to turn on his torch.

  It was as he remembered it: the L shape of the boiler room under the house, the dilapidated contraption in the far corner, the old woodpile by the door, large enough to shield him from casual view. The dirty old sink, for tradesmen, and the door that led up to the kitchen via the back stairs, which was padlocked shut. There was no risk that one of the children would pass this way, no reason for anyone to come down here. It was entirely possible that the widow didn't know the room was here.

  Byron placed the box on the floor and unrolled his sleeping-bag. Meg lay down and, with an air of contented exhaustion, began to suckle her pups. He would fetch the rest of his belongings tomorrow. He put out food for her and Elsie, filled a bowl with water, and attempted to wash in the little sink. Then, finally, he turned off his torch and sat in the corner, beside a grille that revealed a patch of the night sky, listening to the dogs, and trying not to think about his surroundings. He tried not to think about anything. It was a knack he had learned long ago.

  He was about to climb into his sleeping-bag when he caught the glint of metal. Bright, new metal, not like the rusting, tarnished catches and fastenings that characterised the old house. Byron reached for his torch and switched it on, pointing the beam to where he had seen it. A pet-carrier stood in the corner on the ground by the door to the kitchen. A new pet-carrier, made of wire but with a solid tray at the bottom, the kind you might use for a small cat.

  As Byron picked it up, he noticed droppings in the corner. The carrier had not been used for a cat.

  The lock to the kitchen corridor was broken.

  Byron sat down, his predicament briefly forgotten. He was thinking of an unexpected visitor to the kitchen above him.

  Thirteen

  She had been told that a house so large, so dilapidated, so isolated, would be testing in the winter months. That the endless chill, the leaks and draughts would penetrate what remained of the roof, and damp would seep along the ground from the lake. But now that summer was here, she had found that warmer weather brought its own brand of insurgence to her home. It was as if Nature knew that the last Pottisworth had died, that a usurper was in his place, and had decided to reclaim the Spanish House for its own, brick by brick, inch by inch. Bluebells, tulips and hyacinths, their bulbs bunched and replicated, had sprung up, and between the flagstones that surrounded the house weeds revealed themselves briefly as green shoots before towering into unfriendly thistles, rosettes of poisonous ragwort or rampant chickweed. The weeks of rain left mossy outcrops on the rendering, while the hedgerows swelled, woven with brambles and ivy. The grass, a sparse, threadbare carpet, became lush and long, flecked with dandelions and buttercups, obliterating pathways and gravel. A couple of aged fruit trees simply fell over and lay prostrate, a mute accusation of her inability to manage the garden. As if in answer to Nature's call, rabbits dug networks of warrens, the ankle-twisting holes hidden by the grass, while moles left piles of freshly dug earth dotted at intervals, great full-stops of organic subversiveness.

  Inside, things were little better. Matt and his accomplices came and went daily, knocking holes in walls and apparently filling them in again. In some places she could see improvement: the roof was now secure, and the chimney no longer leaned precariously to one side. She had a soil pipe that transferred bathroom waste without the risk of typhoid, some new flooring and a decent sink in the kitchen. There were several new windows, intermittent hot water and a partially installed heating system, which promised warmth next winter but for now leaked water into the new floorboards.

  But she had no working bathroom, no power point for the fridge, despite her repeated requests. And, more importantly, she had a pile of bank statements that detailed the spiralling costs, and a book in which she wrote down the works Matt McCarthy had told her needed doing, with the amounts he had quoted scribbled opposite. The multi-zero totals shocked her
daily.

  She sat at the kitchen table all morning, putting her statements in order, seeing in print the reality of her financial situation. What she saw made her feel almost unsteady, as if she were balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff. There's only this left, she thought. And there's only me. I'm responsible for everything. The children depend on me. They hadn't seemed to consider the possibility that she might not be up to the task.

  At that moment Matt walked into the kitchen with a bag of croissants from the baker. He sat down in front of her. 'Go on,' he said, holding one to her lips. 'Delicious. Take a bite.' She felt oddly self-conscious, aware that he was watching her mouth as she opened it. He grinned. 'Good, aren't they?' He had large, square-fingered hands, the skin scuffed and dry, roughened by years of hard work. And as she nodded, chewing, he smiled again, as if asserting something to himself. He often brought her things now: real coffee, so that she could make it for him, eggs they had been given on a previous job, chocolate muffins and teacakes when one of his crew disappeared to the town. She never knew whether to feel glad of his presence, as it meant she was not alone with the possibility of rats, leaks or a failing range, or to dread it, as he always seemed more in control of her home than she was. He had charisma, which somehow persuaded her to agree with his course of action, even if she had originally intended the opposite.

  'Look at your hands,' he exclaimed, as she picked up the croissant again. Byron stood in the doorway. 'Look at them, Byron. Ever seen fingers like that?' She blushed as he took one.

  'They've been protected,' she said. 'They've never done much, except play the violin.'

  'Not a mark on them. So smooth. They're like . . .' He turned to Byron. 'Like the hands of a statue, aren't they?'

  Byron muttered agreement, making her feel ridiculous. Matt finished his coffee and got to his feet. 'Don't eat them all at once,' he called back as he left the kitchen.

  Isabel gazed at her thinned cheque book and the crumpled paper bag next to it. She didn't think even the delights of a croissant would make this day any better. Her statements had told her the incontrovertible truth. She swept them into a pile. Outside she could see Matt supervising the man driving the digger. They were laying a secondary pipe to the outside supply.

  It had to stop, she told herself. It didn't matter how bad the house was, there was almost nothing left.

  Isabel was trudging across the grass from the house. She was wearing a full skirt and a bulky woollen cardigan. Her hair fell loosely round her shoulders, stray fronds whipped about her face by the stiff breeze. Matt went to the digger and put Sven's plans inside it.

  'I've brought you both some tea,' she said, holding out two mugs.

  Matt grinned at Byron. 'Mrs D here knows how to look after us. Not like some, eh, Byron?'

  'Thank you.' He watched Byron take the mug from her, his fingers still black with earth.

  'We were just saying, there used to be a kitchen garden over there before that wall fell down.' Matt pointed at an area enclosed on two sides by soft red brick. He could still picture it, remembering espaliered apple trees, with names like Gascoyne's Scarlet, D'Arcy Spice and Enneth's Early. 'There's still a few fruit trees. You should get some nice produce off them this autumn.' If you're still here, he thought suddenly.

  Byron lowered his mug. 'There's a few raised beds at the back. What used to be the vegetable patch. Thierry might like to sow a few bits and pieces. My niece likes to grow things.'

  It was one of the longest speeches Matt had ever heard him make unprompted.

  'I'll show him how, if you like,' he went on. 'Sweet-peas are easy enough.'

  'He might like that,' said Isabel, pushing her hair back from her face. 'Thank you.'

  Byron stepped forward, shuffling his boots, which were thick with mud. 'Also, I wanted to say I'm sorry about the business with the rat. I've put the gun in your loft where no one can get at it.'

  'Thank you,' she said again.

  'I don't suppose you'll be bothered by rats again.'

  'You can't say that for sure,' Matt interjected.

  'I think I can,' said Byron, firmly, his eyes on a patch of ground just in front of Matt's feet. 'I think I can safely say that it was a one-off.'

  'Well . . . that's a relief,' Isabel conceded. 'I've had nightmares about that rat. I couldn't sleep for nights . . . Actually,' she turned to Matt, 'can I have a word? I need to talk to you about the work.'

  Wordlessly, Byron began to busy himself with the digger.

  Isabel opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finally she looked up at Matt, one hand keeping her hair off her face, her expression apologetic and slightly defiant. 'I have to bring this to a halt.'

  Matt raised an eyebrow.

  'The building work,' she said. 'What you've done so far has been wonderful, but I can't do any more. Not for now, anyway.'

  'You can't just stop,' he said. 'We're in the middle of all sorts of jobs. You can't leave them half finished.'

  'Well, that's the way it has to be. I've been over the figures and it doesn't make sense for us, for me to continue, not just now. I do appreciate what you've done, Matt, really, but I have to think about what's sensible.' She blushed as she spoke.

  'But it's not sensible to stop right now.' He gestured at the digger. 'The works we're doing are mostly essentials. You're not going to get far without a new mains feed. And we've only half finished putting in that bathroom. I guess you can do without the heating in the top rooms over the next few months, but my advice would be to finish it - you'll never get anyone out when we're heading towards winter, and once I leave you I'll be booked solid.' He noticed suddenly how pale she was.

  'You don't understand, Matt.'

  'So tell me.' She smelled vaguely of citrus.

  'Okay. It has come to a lot more than I expected, and we can't afford for you to continue. I can't pay you for any more work.'

  She was on the verge of tears. The lashes at the outer edges of her eyes glistened, little black points of stars. 'I see,' he said, shifting slightly. Piles of earth lay around the newly dug trench, with pipework still to lay. The new bathroom suite sat in its packaging against the back porch. He had picked it out several months ago, an antique cast-iron Victorian bath with claw feet and an oversized basin. It was just what Laura had wanted. Quite often, these days, he forgot it was Isabel's house.

  'Believe me,' she said quietly, 'if I could afford to carry on, I would.'

  'That bad, is it?' he said.

  'Yes.' She did not meet his eye.

  They listened to the crows cawing in the distance.

  'You all right, Isabel?'

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  'Well, let's not worry too much for now. I'll get the boys to finish off the jobs we're doing and then we'll leave it.' She made to interrupt but he held up a hand. 'Don't worry about it. You don't have to pay me for everything right away. We'll come to some arrangement.'

  Afterwards he decided he had not chosen his words carefully. In fact, he had barely thought about what he had said. Because although he had anticipated this moment for months - almost since he had grasped the unworldliness of the house's new owner - Matt could take no pleasure in it. He had been distracted by Byron - by the younger man's tone when he had mentioned the rat. By the way he had looked at Isabel when he had taken the mug of tea from her.

  Matt McCarthy felt unbalanced.

  As Isabel walked away, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind, he strolled over to the other man. 'A word,' he said casually.

  Byron looked up.

  'The widow,' he said. 'Don't get too involved.'

  To his surprise, Byron didn't protest. He didn't even try to pretend that he didn't understand what he was saying. He stood up straight, so that he was a good half a head taller than Matt and their eyes met, for longer than Matt had expected. Byron's were unreadable.

  'You're warning me off,' he said, low and even. Then walked away, but his expression had said clearly what he had
failed to say aloud: Even you can only warn someone off what is actually yours.

  In the late afternoon the wind picked up, and Matt and the men, spattered with rain, and struggling with the increasingly claggy ground, left early. The digger sat immobile on the lawn in a swelling sea of mud. Now and again Isabel would look at it, then away, reminded by its glaring yellow presence of their financial position. In an attempt to lift her mood she had made some biscuits, but it was impossible to tell when they were ready in the range and, diverted by a Schubert symphony, she had forgotten them. By the time the children came home they were the colour of burnished leather, with an aroma not dissimilar.

  Thierry hurled his schoolbag over a kitchen chair, picked one up from the wire tray, sniffed it and put it back. Kitty merely looked at them and raised her eyebrows.

  'Good day, lovey?' said Isabel.

  Thierry shrugged. Kitty was rummaging through her bag.

  'Kitty? Did you have a good day?'

  'Just the same as any other,' she said offhandedly.

  Isabel frowned. 'What does that mean?'

  Kitty's sharp little face spun round. 'It means that stuck in a new school where I don't have any friends, in a house I hate, in an area I don't know, one day is as crap as any other. Okay?'

  Isabel felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Kitty had never spoken to her like that before. 'What's the matter?' she said. 'Kitty, what on earth's got into you?'

  Kitty's eyes showed contempt. 'Don't pretend you don't know,' she said.

  'But I don't know.' Isabel's voice rose. She could not cope with this today, not on top of everything else.

  'Liar!'

  Isabel grabbed a chair and sat down opposite her daughter. She saw that Thierry's wide, dark eyes were darting from his sister to herself, his mouth clamped shut. 'Kitty, tell me what you're so angry about. I can't help if I don't know what's going on.'

  'You!' said Kitty, venomously. 'You go on and on about how much you love us, and when it comes down to it you don't love us at all. Even now Dad's dead, we're still second to that bloody violin.'

  'How can you say that? I gave up my career to be with you. I'm here every morning, every evening, waiting for you to come home. I haven't worked since we got here.'