by Hazel Prior
“Anyway, let’s talk about you!” she cries, settling into a chair at last. “Have you told Clive about your harp yet? Do you still want me to lie about my very dangerous can opener?”
“Yes, please keep lying,” I say. “And no, I haven’t told anyone about the harp except you.”
She looks flattered. “Meow,” she says, scooping the struggling creature up in her arms and nearly singeing it with the cigarette, “she hasn’t told anyone except me!” Then she eyes me suspiciously. “Not even your sister?”
“No. Vic would tell her husband and it might get back to Clive somehow.”
“And if it did?”
I take a deep breath. “I need to tread carefully. You know what Clive’s like!”
“Yeah, I know: sweet and sour. Good when he’s good, but when he’s grouchy . . .” An extra note of worry leaps into her eyes. “Ellie, you’re playing with fire, you know. Clive isn’t going to like it. And you can’t keep it a secret forever.”
I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to think about consequences.
“Talking of secrets, I’ve found out something about Rhoda,” I tell my friend. “Well, I think I have.”
“What sort of something?”
“Something big. But I’ve got some investigating to do. I may need your help.”
“Tell me more,” she says.
| 21 |
Dan
I make eight sandwiches. I cut them into diamond shapes because Ellie says variety is the spice of life.
Over the sandwiches she asks me if I know about Roe Deer’s concert next week.
I tell her yes.
“Are you going to it?” she asks.
I give her this answer. I say that in the past I used to go to all of Roe Deer’s concerts because she was keen to have my support, and that she made such wonderful music it was always a pleasure to listen. However, the thing that was not such a pleasure was the fact that there were always lots and lots of other people at her concerts too.
Other people are fine when they are sitting in rows and quietly listening to harp music. But they are not fine when they surge around everywhere in a cacophony of roaring words and sentences, as happens during intermissions. I get shredded by it. So whenever I went to Roe Deer’s concerts I always used to reserve the seat nearest the back if I could. I nipped in at the last minute, nipped out just before the intermission to go and sit in my Land Rover, nipped in again just when the second half began, then I nipped out as soon as the concert had finished. All that nipping was quite exhausting. And I had to be very exact in my timing, and so did she. Only sometimes she wasn’t. Which led to a problem or two.
Eventually Roe Deer said not to bother. It was costing me a lot of effort and she explained that she didn’t actually need me there anymore. In fact, my presence was beginning to stress her out. It was not good for her to be stressing just before going on to perform with her harp in front of an audience.
So I haven’t been to any of her concerts for five years now.
Ellie contemplates one of the diamond-shaped sandwiches. It has hummus inside. She picks it up. Then she says an odd thing. What she says is this: “Tell me, Dan, is Rhoda really your girlfriend?”
I blink.
“Don’t be offended,” she hastens to add, “but you don’t see very much of each other, considering you are geographically not that far apart. And she doesn’t even seem to want to come here for my harp lessons; it’s always in Taunton now. I would have thought it would be nice for her to have another excuse to come and see you, but no. And when you were shot she didn’t come to see you at all to check that you were all right.” Her eyebrows are drawn very close together. “I just wondered. Boyfriends and girlfriends usually make a bit more of an effort to meet up.” She waves her sandwich in the air and a bit of hummus drops out and lands in her lap. She gets a tissue out of her pocket and scrubs at it. “Sorry, Dan, it’s none of my business really, but I can’t help wondering.”
I do not say anything, but I put down the sandwich I am holding and I start thinking.
“Another thing,” Ellie says, then she stops. I am too busy thinking about Roe Deer to lend her much attention, but I sense she’s examining my face intensely. “No, that’s enough for now,” she mutters.
Twenty minutes later I hear her say that she has to be off now and take care, Dan, and she pats me on the shoulder and off she goes. I am still sitting there, thinking.
I think for a while longer.
After this I get myself downstairs. I am supposed to be starting on the Fifi harp because the pushy man called Mike Thornton has brought the apple wood to the Harp Barn now and he wants me to give him weekly progress reports. But I don’t feel in the mood for starting a new harp. I thread twelve strings onto my nearly completed Kestral harp instead and tighten them bit by bit and I carry on thinking hard. I think especially about boyfriend and girlfriend definitions.
Two hours later I ring up Roe Deer and ask her if she is still my girlfriend.
“No, Dan,” she says. “No, I’m not.” And her voice sounds very clear, clear as hailstones. “Not for many years now.”
* * *
• • •
I was sad. Sad with a sadness I’d never felt before. The sadness chewed me up and swallowed me bit by bit. I was so sad I wanted to spend the whole day walking and looking at trees and gathering pebbles, but I couldn’t. My leg wouldn’t let me.
I also wished that Roe Deer had told me this news before. If she has not been my girlfriend for many years, why didn’t she inform me of the fact earlier? As far as I remember we did not go through a breakup and I’m sure I would remember something like that. I don’t watch TV except when I go and visit my sister Jo, but when people on TV split up, they shout and throw plates at each other. Roe Deer has never once shouted or thrown plates at me. I have never shouted in my life at all, or thrown anything. That is, I have sometimes skimmed stones across water, and I did throw a tennis ball once when I was a boy, but I don’t think that counts. I didn’t know Roe Deer then anyway.
Roe Deer said, when I asked her on the phone why we weren’t together anymore, that relationships weren’t my forte. That it wasn’t my fault. That I was just made of the wrong ingredients.
Perhaps I should have noticed there was a problem. I should have gleaned. But gleaning isn’t my thing. I’m not good at gleaning, not like other people. Harpmaking, but not gleaning.
I wonder if Phineas has such problems with his love life. I doubt it. A few lady pheasants come round from time to time and Phineas always seems to get on with them just fine.
I managed to get myself as far as the woods today and I leaned my crutches against the trunk of a great, tall pine tree and I leaned myself against it too. I thought about Roe Deer. I thought about our relationship that I had been wrong about for so many years. I wondered exactly how many years I’d been wrong about it. Three? Four? Five? There was a massive brown anthill just in front of me, but I was wondering so hard I didn’t even bother to count the ants.
My head was full of the time Roe Deer and I first met, when she came to the barn looking for a harp. Her hair was primrose yellow, shining and plentiful. Her eyes glinted bluer than any eyes I’d ever seen before. She was dressed in a jacket, cream colored with eight buttons, and navy trousers, very tight. She flashed her blue eyes and flicked her primrose hair around and kept on saying my name.
“Oh, Dan, I’ve never seen such beautiful harps,” she said.
“Oh, Dan, what a place to live!” she said.
“Dan, you are amazing!” she said.
“Dan, I’m so glad I’ve discovered you!” she said.
She played all my harps, one by one. She played them very beautifully, every note perfectly placed. Every note, as it was plucked, plucking in turn at something deep inside me. It seemed as though my harps and her fingers we
re made for one another.
After I’d thought about this for a while I thought about how she came back day after day to look at my harps, and every time she came she stood very close to me, much closer than I was used to anyone standing. I made sandwiches for her: egg, cress, Gorgonzola cheese and marmalade alternately. And she laughed. She ate some of the sandwiches, but I ate most of them. She spent a long time choosing a harp because, she said, they were all such good quality. Even after she’d finally bought one (I didn’t think of giving it to her at the time) and taken it back to her house, she still came back every day to visit me and stand close and laugh at my sandwiches.
Sometimes we used to go into the orchard or a short way up the lane together, even though her shoes were not very practical for lumpy, bumpy ground because they had spindly little heels. Then one day (it was a hot, bumblebee-filled Wednesday in August and we were under the cherry tree) she pressed her lips against mine. I pressed mine back; otherwise, I would have fallen over. After quite a lot of lip pressing, there was some tongue exploring. After quite a bit of tongue exploring she took my hand and led me back inside the barn. She led me right up the seventeen stairs and through the little room and into my bedroom. In my bedroom she started taking off her clothes until she had completely nothing on. I wasn’t sure at all what I was supposed to do, whether I was supposed to look or not, whether I was supposed to touch or not. But she soon made it clear that I was very much supposed to do both. So that is what I did.
I did it plenty of times after that.
After a few months of plenty, there was suddenly a lot less. She did not come and see me so much and said it was inconvenient whenever I offered to go and see her. She started to talk about needing a change of scene. I said on Exmoor scenes were changing all the time and asked what more of a change she could possibly need. To which she sighed and replied that she was going away for a bit. In fact, she would not be around for quite a while. She told me not to worry about getting in touch because she’d be traveling in different countries different days. But she’d come and see me when she came back.
I waited. And I waited.
After a long, long while she did come and see me.
“Hello, Dan,” she said when she stepped into the barn. She had shorter hair and extra makeup.
“Hello, Roe Deer. Here you are,” I said.
“Yes, here I am.”
Thinking back, I probably should have asked her all about her holiday, but I didn’t. I was too busy wondering if she was now going to take off all her clothes.
Her clothes remained on, however.
She hung around for a while, wandering through the harps, plucking strings a bit in a thoughtful way. Then she gave me a little, light, odd sort of a kiss, more pecklike than her usual (no tongue exploring at all) and said she’d better be going. Her parents had cooked a casserole for supper and were waiting for her.
Possibly, in retrospect, this might have been the day on which we split up. But there was definitely no shouting or throwing of plates. I therefore presumed she was still my girlfriend.
As I leaned against the pine it occurred to me that Roe Deer and I have not been in bed together for five years. Perhaps that’s what the problem is. It was nice being in bed with her, but the opportunity does not seem to have arisen recently. Perhaps if I offered . . . ? What is a man supposed to do? If my father was still alive, I could ask him, but he isn’t so I can’t.
When I got back to the barn I rang my sister Jo and asked her instead. She said: “Aha!”
I repeated my question about what was I supposed to do.
She said, “You are supposed to stop moping and think, ‘Good riddance!’”
This, although possibly good advice, was not quite as helpful as I might have hoped. The what is very different from the how.
I thought of Thomas. He is always having arguments with his wife Linda but has managed to never actually split up with her. He is clearly an expert.
I gave him a call.
“Roe Deer isn’t my girlfriend anymore,” I said.
“Oh, boyo, that’s bad luck,” he said. “I’m sorry, mate.” Then he said, “But I have to be honest with you, I did think you were a lucky bastard to have it so good for so long.”
“We apparently split up many years ago. Five years ago, I think.”
There was a low whistle down the phone. “Stag’s Head?” he suggested.
“Good plan,” I said.
“But you are driving this time,” he added. “You can drive now, can’t you, mate?”
I said I could. I got out the Land Rover.
| 22 |
Ellie
That photo. I can’t stop thinking about it. Dan and Rhoda looked so lovely together, so romantic and so . . . right. I can’t deny it: As a couple they do make sense. He the handsome harpmaker, she the beautiful harpist. Both creative, both charming, yet with differences that complement each other. He more straightforward and stubborn, she more practical and ambitious.
Ignoring my own feelings for a minute, I see that I’ve been willfully prejudiced against Rhoda. Hasn’t she been kind to me during all the harp lessons? Hasn’t she helped me patiently and painstakingly with my harp playing? Hasn’t she been good about the fact that I’ve been hanging around her boyfriend every day? I’ve wanted so much for her to be undeserving of Dan, callous and nasty, that I’ve fitted everything she says or does into my own interpretation. Because I’ve wanted me to be the nice one. She can have all the beauty and talent, but can’t I at least claim that? Evidently not.
I’d hoped that Dan’s relationship with Rhoda was all in his head, but over the past week I’ve dwelled more and more on the photo and I’ve come to the conclusion I must be wrong. There are all sorts of relationships in this world. Just because Dan and Rhoda don’t follow the normal rules doesn’t mean they don’t have something very strong.
I catch myself biting the inside of my mouth so hard that I can taste blood.
I can’t and I mustn’t be so involved. Maybe it’s music that’s done it to me. Music brings out such strong emotions. It makes us feel things we shouldn’t feel. The loveliness of the harp has wafted me into magicland and the boundaries of reality have become blurred. I’ve allowed myself to get carried away. I’m a married woman. I’ve got Clive and we’ve promised to be together for better, for worse and all the rest of it until death do us part. I think back to the days when Clive supported me over my library job. We’re not as close now as we were then, but he’s provided me with so much over the years. He’s given my life a framework and I’d be lost without it. I have to try and put myself back on track.
* * *
• • •
I’m doing it as a favor for Clive. He’s doing it as a favor for his colleague Andy. Andy is doing it for himself. Andy’s met a girl who won’t go out on a first date with him alone. She’s insisted that he invite a couple he knows to come along too. For some reason Clive and I have been appointed as that couple.
I have some sympathy for the girl. I don’t know Andy very well, but he does come across as rather big and boorish. She may be scared or she may be wise. No doubt she’ll get more insight into his character by seeing him interact with friends rather than partaking in a flirtatious one-to-one.
Intrigued though I am, I’m not looking forward to it.
“Thanks, hon-bun! You’re such a star!” calls Clive, pulling his best shirt over his head without unbuttoning it.
I don’t feel like a star.
I’m not sure how much to dress up. Obviously the evening isn’t about us, but it might be nice to make a bit of effort for Clive. It’ll be a chance to discover a little more about his life at the office as well. Apart from complaints about his evil boss, he doesn’t fill me in much. He likes to keep his work in a separate compartment from me, just as I keep my harp playing in a separate compartment from him.
I go for a boho-chic look in the end: smart beige trousers with a patterned chiffon top and scarf.
They’ve chosen a seaside pub in Minehead. The windows look dirty and there’s a heap of lobster pots outside the battered blue door. Strong smells of fish and vinegar assault our nostrils the minute we step inside.
“What’ll you have, hon?” asks Clive, marching up to the dimly lit bar. I ask for white wine. There’s a newspaper lying on the bar stool.
“Oh, look! The Fishing Wire!”
I pick it up and leaf through. Every page seems to display at least three pictures of large bearded men holding up ginormous trophy fish. One of the men bears a striking likeness to Andy.
On cue a voice bellows behind us. “Hey, Clive, me ole chum! And if it isn’t the lovely Ellie-wellie! How’s it going, Ells?”
I’d forgotten how annoying he was. I immediately become extra stiff and formal. “Very well, thank you, Andy.”
He grasps Clive by the hand. “Good man, thanks for coming. Allow me to introduce the exquisite Sandra!”
“Exquisite” is pushing it a bit. Sandra has several chins, sharp little eyes and a nose that looks as if it has spent a lot of time pressed against things. Shop windows, presumably. Her hair has been lavishly lacquered and curled. She has squeezed herself into a skimpy dress that can’t quite deal with her ample proportions. Acres of smooth, shining flesh are on view. It’s clear why Andy likes her. It isn’t because of her brains.
Not that such a display means she has no brains, I hasten to remind myself. For all I know she may have a degree from Cambridge in astrophysics. After my prejudice regarding Rhoda I’m not going to let myself leap to any unfair judgments. I sense, though, that Sandra has no such qualms in passing judgment over me. Later, when reporting the evening back to her girlfriends over a G and T, she’ll call me words like “square” and “stuck-up.” We smile sweetly at each other.