Ellie and the Harpmaker

by Hazel Prior

  “Vic?”

  “Vic. Your other daughter.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Haven’t seen her in years.”

  I know for a fact that Vic goes to the home twice a week. She’s the dutiful daughter now, living close enough to do that. I am three hundred miles away so it isn’t quite so easy. And the distance is more than just a geographical one.

  “Mum, can I ask you a question? Did you ever think I was musical as a child?”

  “You might be one of several.” She hasn’t understood. The conversation, as usual, is going nowhere. Part of me wants to tell her about my harp playing. The secret would be safe, as she’d probably forget it anyway. But it’s all a bit pointless. How I miss my dad!

  I ramble on for a while, then say my good-byes and put the phone down. The sky has grown a heavier shade of gray. I consult my watch. Clive will be back home if I leave it much longer. I pick up the paper Dan gave me.

  I brace myself and ring the number written on it.

  “Excuse me. I’m ringing to speak to Roe Deer.”

  A peal of laughter.

  “Sorry, but I was given this number.”

  “Yes,” she says. “And I can guess who gave it to you. Was it by any chance Dan Hollis?”

  His name reassures me a little. “Yes, it was, actually. Are you Roe Deer?”

  “Not exactly. I’m Rhoda Rothbury, but Dan likes to call me Roe Deer. One of his little eccentricities. And you are . . . ?”

  “My name’s Ellie Jacobs,” I stammer. “Dan suggested I should contact you. I’m ringing to ask about harp lessons. I’m trying to learn on one of his harps, but I badly need a teacher.”

  “I see.” Her voice is clear and intelligent; sharp, even. “So you’re a complete beginner, are you?”

  We sort out a few logistics. She apparently prefers to give lessons from her house in Taunton, but she might be able to teach me at Dan’s barn once in a while. Her normal rate is thirty-eight pounds an hour. She asks if I’d like to meet up first and take it from there.

  “Oh yes, I think that would be best,” I bluster. I’m not sure how many lots of thirty-eight pounds I can manage without Clive noticing. He goes through our joint account statement with a fine-tooth comb every month. I’ll have to be devious and pay her cash. Besides, I want to meet her first. And find out how well she really can play the harp. And find out if she can teach, which is a different matter. And find out other things.

  | 11 |

  Dan

  Today I’m working on a twenty-two-string Celtic harp. I’m fashioning it from recycled wood from a pew. The reason I’m using a pew is that the committee of one of the local churches decided they needed to set up a coffee-serving station inside the church and the pew happened to be where they wanted to put the station and nobody ever sat on that particular pew anymore because the congregation had shrunk considerably since Reverend Harrison arrived with his long sermons, but the thing the congregation needed more than ever was coffee. Therefore the pew had to go, therefore they ripped it out. My sister Jo (who is always seeking out wood on my behalf) asked if I could have the pew. The church committee met up and discussed it and discussed it. It took them a while, but in the end they agreed on the answer: yes.

  I like this wood and respect it, very much. For generations it was a yew tree, growing through the wind, rain and sunshine of life, expanding steadily in its gnarled, knobbly way. Birds perched in it and little creatures curled up in its roots. Then it became a pew and generations of people sat on it, praying. They must have felt all sorts of things going in and out of their hearts as they sat through baptisms, weddings, festivals and funerals. Now the wood will transform again, and one day some skilled harpist will draw music from it, music that will make hundreds more people feel things. Another miracle.

  The harp is coming on nicely. I’ve made the base, backbone and sound box complete with ribs, liners and spacing bars. The soundboard is ready to be drilled with twenty-two tiny holes. I’ve also shaped the neck and ensured the harmonic curve is curved exactly the right amount. It is all filed and planed to perfection.

  The pillar will bow outward then inward a little before sweeping out at the top, elegant, swanlike. I begin sheering off thin layers with my plane. The yew wood is mellow, yielding, full of interesting swirls, light and dark.

  Today is Ellie’s birthday. Yesterday we ate cake and planted birch seeds to celebrate. Ellie will be out today, she told me, eating at a pub with her husband and then going for a nice walk, also with her husband. Her husband’s name is Clive.

  I do not like the name Clive.

  I look at the pillar of the harp and I realize I have planed off too much. The pillar is now too narrow at the top. I don’t usually make mistakes like this. Now I’ll have to cut a fresh piece of pew wood and start it again. I’m not happy about what I’ve done. I don’t like to waste the precious wood, because I love yew.

  * * *

  • • •

  Thomas and I have been friends for twelve years and he always knows what’s in my letters.

  “A letter from your sister and a fuel bill and an order of harp strings,” he says to me as he hands them over four days after Ellie’s birthday and the planting of the birch coppice. We are just outside the barn, standing in the lane. Thomas is wearing his green fluorescent sweatshirt with his shorts. He also has on very large-sized sneakers, green and white with orange laces. The weather is misty and you can’t see much beyond the first hill. It is very quiet. Even the birds can’t be bothered to sing much today, apart from one solitary crow—and I’m not convinced he knows much about singing.

  “Thank you,” I tell Thomas, taking the letters. “I don’t need to open them now.”

  I do, though, because that’s what you are supposed to do with letters. Thomas leans over my shoulder and reads them too.

  “Your sister is still working at the school, then,” he comments as I peruse the first letter.

  I nod. Together we read that the teachers are snotty to her, that there is one who she particularly dislikes, that this one never says hello because she is only a cleaner, which in his head means a lesser mortal.

  “Shameful,” mutters Thomas. “Poor Jo!” He has never met my sister Jo but has read a lot of her letters and so feels he knows her quite well. He shakes his head sorrowfully. “She deserves better. Next!”

  We look at the fuel bill.

  “Ouch,” he says. “Oil isn’t getting any cheaper.”

  He is right about this. It is not getting cheaper at all. It is doing the exact opposite.

  Thomas sighs and points a long finger at the package. “How many harp strings have you got in there, boyo?” he asks.

  I open it to check. “Four sets. Three sets of thirty-six and one of twenty-seven. A hundred and thirty-five in total.”

  He whistles. “I bet they’re not cheap and all!”

  I agree that they are not cheap.

  “Stag’s Head tonight?” he suggests.

  “Good idea!” I say.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  * * *

  • • •

  He came to collect me at eight thirty-seven in his red van. I got in next to him. The three Alsatians were leaping about in the back sounding as if all hell was let loose. When all hell is let loose it is a very noisy experience and hurts your eardrums. Eventually one of them stopped barking and started licking the back of my neck instead. It felt quite nice. Wetly warm and warmly wet.

  Thomas was grumbling, as he likes a good grumble. His grumble today was all about how lemonade just didn’t do it for him and tonic without the addition of gin was a whole load of no fun. As we parked, he started saying that alcohol did not actually affect his ability to drive at all. If anything, it sharpened his perceptions. As we got out of the car and approached the pub door he was concluding that drunk-driving rule
s did not apply in the countryside in any case because there was nobody to run over. He also mentioned that he was particularly parched today and a little tipple would be welcome to calm his nerves due to the fact that he had had an argument with his missus. In fact, a pint of cider would be of great medicinal value.

  “Are you saying you’d like me to buy you a pint of cider?” I asked, as he was being a bit obscure about it.

  “Oh well, if you’re offering, mate . . .” is what he said.

  The people working behind the bar were two in number. One was the woman who blinks many times a second and who wears S-shaped dangly earrings and who has plucked out all of her eyebrows and painted them on again a bit higher up. The other was the shiny-faced man who says “No worries” a lot. I asked him for two pints of cider. “No worries,” he said.

  I took the ciders back to the corner table where Thomas had settled himself. Thomas tipped half a pint of cider down his throat, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  Our conversation went like this.

  “So I see you have a new girlfriend?”

  “What?” I said.

  “You have a new girlfriend. Brown haired, slim, cute. Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes, mate. I’ve seen her. I’ve coincided with her leaving the Harp Barn a couple of times now, you dog. Come on, what’s the story?”

  I told him I had no intention of pulling wool over his eyes. Moreover, I was no dog. And as for having a new girlfriend, I didn’t. Not at all. I was quite happy with the old one, Roe Deer. Not that Roe Deer was old, I hastened to add—just that she had been my girlfriend for six years now, which just went to prove how serious our relationship was. The woman that Thomas had seen emerging from the Harp Barn was none other than the Housewife of Exmoor and the story was that she had a list of things to do before she was forty but it was looking as though she was not getting through them very fast; in fact, it was looking distinctly unpromising, as she had reached the age of thirty-six years and four days (I now knew this exactly) but when I first met her she was thirty-five years and three hundred and thirty-three days and at that time not even one of the items on the list had been achieved. So I had given her a harp.

  Thomas sucked his cheeks in and then blew them out again.

  “You gave her a harp? As in—gave? As in—no cash?”

  I confirmed that no cash was involved.

  “You must like her a hell of a lot, boyo.”

  I told him that indeed I did.

  “Well, now, that sounds like a beautiful relationship, if you know what I’m saying—nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I’m sure she must find you difficult to resist after that one, you dirty dog!”

  I assured him for a second time that I was not a dog, and certainly not a dirty one, and I told him that she was a married lady who ate triangular sandwiches and she was quite able to resist me. And as I had mentioned before, I had a girlfriend already, Roe Deer.

  “Oh yes, of course, Mr. High-and-Mighty, so you do! OK then, let’s switch to her. Another tasty morsel. How are things with the gorgeous Roe Deer?”

  I said that things were just fine. Also that I hoped Roe Deer would shortly be teaching harp to Ellie at the barn on a regular basis so that Ellie would become a more confident harp player. I added that Ellie was the thirty-six-years-and-four-days-old Housewife to whom I’d given a harp.

  Thomas’s eyes had a bit of a glazed look. “So the Roe Deer might be coming to the Harp Barn more often?” he asked.

  I asserted that I believed this to be the fact.

  “How do you do it, mate?” he said. “I’m stuck with a thirteen-stone hormonal harridan who does nothing but moan at me, and you have two gorgeous goddesses at your beck and call.”

  I pointed out that they were not goddesses, they were harp players.

  “Same difference,” he said. “Harpists, angels, goddesses, whatever. But I’m guessing they’re not that holy. Especially Roe Deer. Nobody can be holy who dresses like she does. Nobody can be holy with breasts like hers. Her breasts are—well, not to put too fine a point on it, they are bloody marvelous!”

  I agreed that Roe Deer did indeed have very marvelous breasts.

  “Ah, so you admit it! You are like me. You have a . . .” He paused. “. . . a high regard for large coconuts.”

  I said that yes, I did. I liked coconuts whatever size they were. And also, I did like women’s breasts.

  “Especially Roe Deer’s?” His eyes were a bit fuzzy. He took a slosh of cider.

  Yes, I told him, I did especially like Roe Deer’s breasts. I had spent many a happy moment studying them and wondering what wood I would use to carve them out of if ever I carved them in wood. I had come to the conclusion that maple might be best.

  He laughed and slapped me on the back and called me a good man.

  I commented that Roe Deer’s breasts were also satisfactory in that they were very nice to stroke when she was lying naked in bed.

  He choked and a spray of cider spurted out of his mouth and across the table.

  “The next round’s on me, boyo,” is what he said after that.

  On the way home there were three deer on the road, their eyes shining in the headlamps. They did not linger for an instant but pranced away into the woods, their white bottoms bobbing up and down. It made me think of Roe Deer again.

  I hope Roe Deer will come and teach Ellie the harp. It would be nice for them to play harps together in my upstairs room. I could bring sandwiches for them both, cut into triangles. Jam sandwiches, made with the frilly-hatted jam that Ellie made from my plums. When Ellie gets good enough at the harp, perhaps her husband will want to come and listen, and I can make sandwiches for him too. And Thomas can come as well, although he will probably not listen to the harp much, he will just look at Roe Deer’s breasts. I don’t think she will mind. She is very tolerant that way. She is not like my sister Jo. If any man looks at her breasts (which are also of a notable size) she slaps him in the face. I must never introduce her to Thomas.

  I have not told my sister Jo that I have given Ellie a harp. I considered telling her about it after the radio interview because she was pleased with me about that—she said it would generate business. But I didn’t get around to it. In fact, I don’t want to think about Jo’s reaction if ever I do get around to it. It is easier to just make another harp.

  | 12 |

  Ellie

  That scent of earth and vegetation, that crispness in the air; the unmistakable sense of autumn stirring. The beeches at the end of the garden are smattered with coppery red, but the sunlight only manages to reach their top branches. Much as I love my home, I sometimes need to escape out of our shady valley and up onto high ground.

  My heart accelerates as I change gear and climb the steep hill out of the village, the sky widening out beyond the pines. On the brow of the hill I honk my horn several times to disperse the usual crowd of pheasants who are wandering aimlessly around in the road.

  I’m twenty minutes early. It’s nosiness. I want to see if Rhoda—Roe Deer—is there already. Not that it would mean anything. She can see Dan for as long as she wants after I’ve gone anyway. Maybe evenings are their times together. Or nights.

  When I arrive there is no other car parked.

  Dan is in the back of the barn scrubbing pebbles.

  “Look, Ellie!” His sleeves are rolled up, his hair a shambles. His glee is infectious.

  I drag my eyes away from him and focus on the pebbles. “From this morning’s walk,” he tells me. “The orange one is almost a perfect oval. And this one has a silver streak across it if you hold it in the right light. And this one’s rough, but look at the colors of all the speckles!”

  I’ve never been that interested in pebbles before, but in Dan’s presence I begin to see them with new eyes. They are artworks of infinite variety and beauty. Later perhaps I’ll write a poem about them. N
ow I have other things on my mind.

  “Will you help me to tune up before Rho—er—Roe Deer arrives?”

  “Yes, all right. Good idea!” He dries his hands. He’s shown me the tuning-up process a few times, but I’m far from confident.

  I follow him upstairs. He takes a tuning key from his pocket and tries a few strings, adjusting them by placing the key over the pegs and turning it an infinitesimal amount.

  “Now, why don’t you try this one?”

  I lean in to pluck the string.

  “Sharp or flat?” he asks.

  A week ago I didn’t even know the meaning of the words. Now my ears are beginning to distinguish tiny differences.

  “Sharp.”

  His smile is dazzling. He presents me with the key. I loosen the string slightly.

  “There!” He plays a long arpeggio with his left hand. His hands are large and tanned, with roughish skin, but his touch is sensitive.

  I’m captivated. “Are you sure you don’t play the harp? That sounded amazing!”

  “I only tune up and play chords and arpeggios.”

  “Aren’t you tempted to learn some tunes?”

  He shakes his head. “Tuning up, chords and arpeggios.”

  As I straighten up, my arm brushes against his. Inevitable, unstoppable, a tide of warmth floods through me. His face turns quickly toward me as if he felt something too.

  “Dan!” calls a voice from downstairs. “Are you there?”

  I follow him down. He darts across the barn to kiss the woman of the photo. As he draws back, I get my first glimpse of her face. Even from this distance it looks airbrushed. Her skin is flawless, her golden hair swept back and pouring over one shoulder. She’s dressed in a figure-hugging wraparound dress and a long, loose coat of deep turquoise reminiscent of a summer sky. Her hair shines against it like a wheat field. Every detail has been carefully put together. I come closer and introduce myself. I watch her lips curve into a gracious smile and her sapphire eyes fasten on me with interest.