Ellie and the Harpmaker

by Hazel Prior

  I have a son I have a son I have a son.

  I sit on a stone and switch off the flashlight. How many stars are up there? I start to count, beginning at the left-hand edge of the sky and working my way across inch by inch. Some are nearer and some are farther, some are brighter and some are so dim I’m not sure if they’re really there or if I’m imagining them, so it’s tricky. Normally I’m good at counting and don’t lose my concentration before a few thousand, but tonight I can’t seem to keep track.

  I have a son I have a son I have a son.

  An animal, light of foot, rushes across the ground in front of me. It is a deer, a stag. I catch the glow of the eyes, the branching of the antlers against the glimmery sky. The deer senses my presence and gallops off in the darkness. Exmoor is full of deer, but they see you more than you see them.

  I have a son I have a son I have a son.

  I start counting again, this time starting from over the sea and dividing the sky up into rectangular sections, but it is no good. Stars keep popping up out of nowhere and then vanishing again. They are playing games with me.

  My son is five years old.

  I have missed five years of my son’s life.

  There is a whooshing sound in my ears, like wind in the trees or the sea.

  Why didn’t Roe Deer tell me? I feel anger like I have never felt before, like thunder and lightning hammering inside my skull, trying to get out.

  It is cold and I have been sitting on this stone for too long. I get up. I am stiff and my muscles groan with the effort. I ignore them. I walk and I walk until the first smudges of dawn are beginning to appear and the ghosts of trees are emerging from the gloom.

  I head back for the Harp Barn. I know what I’m going to do.

  | 28 |

  Ellie

  “El, do leave your eyebrows alone!”

  “Sorry!” I whip my hand away. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. It leaves little bald streaks—not an attractive look. I’m going to have to invest in an eyebrow pencil.

  Clive has lit the fire. It gets dark early now and we both feel the need of that cheerful, chuntering presence. We’ve just consumed vast quantities of pizza. I didn’t leave myself time to cook properly because I stayed so long at the Harp Barn. I cut the pizza into slices so we could eat it with our fingers, plates balanced on laps in front of the warm blaze. Now we’re sprawling on the sofa, toasting our toes.

  I wish I could have stayed with Dan longer. His level of shock has left me shocked too. And I feel scared. Scared about what he might do short-term. Scared about the consequences long-term.

  Why did I go and spill the beans? Was it because I believe in honesty and transparency, because I support a father’s rights? Or was it because I secretly hoped Dan would hate Rhoda for her deception? And (possibly, just possibly) transfer his love to me because I’d discovered his beautiful son . . .

  It seemed a good idea at the time, but now I’m terrified it’s all backfired.

  Dan will find a new love in his son and will be too busy to think about me at all. And what about Rhoda? Jo said he doted on Rhoda. Envy is coiling around my heart. The image of them in the plum orchard keeps flashing before my eyes. I add a small, stubby, black-haired little boy to the picture and see them at once as a gorgeous, happy family. Isn’t that something Dan will strive for?

  I’m struggling. It’s hard to imagine how he must feel. One good thing about being a woman is that at least you can’t have a baby without knowing about it.

  Rhoda must have gone through a lot those five years ago. Presumably the baby was what people call “an accident.” What were her feelings when she realized? Horror or delight? Surely she must have wanted the child? Or maybe it was just that she didn’t like the idea of getting rid of it. There’s a difference. I think I know Rhoda well enough to know which it was. I can see why she didn’t say anything to Dan at the time. But now that he knows, they’ll have to work something out together. I remember Dan’s hurt when he realized she wasn’t his girlfriend. I remember how tetchy he was the day he told me about it and I attempted to soothe him.

  Dan has incredible powers of persuasion, as I well know! If he is still keen on her . . .

  Rhoda will want to go back to him and make a go of things, won’t she? Won’t she? I would in her shoes.

  I hate myself sometimes. I shouldn’t have spied on Rhoda’s parents. I shouldn’t have said anything to Jo. I shouldn’t have let Jo tell Dan. But then . . . then Dan would never have known he had a son. How could I have kept that from him?

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I scowl and throw my hands into my lap. “Oh, I was just thinking about Mum.”

  Clive’s expression changes from amusement to sympathy. “Oh, poor old honeybun! Never mind. You’ll be seeing her soon.”

  It is small comfort. But he means well. I force myself back into the role of concerned daughter.

  “I have no idea what to get her for Christmas. Chocolates, I suppose.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “We’ll have to buy lots of expensive rubbish for all your nephews and nieces as well, I suppose?”

  I nod. “Yup. I’ll have to ring Vic again and find out what gimmicks they’re into this year.”

  “Why don’t you give her a ring now?”

  I sigh and stroke my tummy. “Too full to move. Later.”

  He picks up the TV remote and starts channel-hopping. I watch the screen, retreating back into my thoughts.

  | 29 |

  Dan

  I rang Roe Deer.

  I said that I was now possessed of the fact that we had a son and, this being the case (I paused to give her an opportunity to deny it, but she didn’t), I thought it was high time I met him. Ideally this would have happened at his birth and I couldn’t pretend to understand why she’d kept it from me all these years, but still, that was then and now is now. You can’t do anything about then, but you can do something about now. And the thing I was proposing to do was to come and see him.

  What she said was this: “Who told you?”

  I told her that my sister Jo had told me, but the person who told her was Ellie Jacobs the Exmoor Housewife.

  “I thought as much,” was what she said, and her voice sounded short and hot.

  I gathered (because I can sometimes gather things) that Roe Deer had not wanted her secret to come out. She had wanted it to stay in the bag, like a cat. But, like the cat, the secret was getting extremely cramped and uncomfortable in the bag and wanted very, very badly to get out. And now that it had got itself out, there was nothing Roe Deer could do about it.

  I also gathered that Roe Deer was cross with Ellie. She was so cross with Ellie that she couldn’t find the words to express it. She was so cross with Ellie that her crossness was seething and bubbling inside her. Her crossness with Ellie was volcanic.

  | 30 |

  Ellie

  The phone made me jump.

  I was propelled into sudden panicky action, but Clive, who was sitting right beside it, picked up the receiver first.

  “Hello . . . ?”

  He smiled across at me. “Yes, I’m Ellie’s husband. Would you like to speak with her? Who’s calling, please? Her—excuse me, what did you say? Her harp teacher?” His eyes bore holes in me across the room. “I wasn’t aware she was having harp lessons.”

  I waited, transfixed, heat rising up my neck and into my face.

  “No, not at all. It’s not your fault. What did you say your name was? . . . Rhoda . . .”

  Oh God, what was she saying?

  “. . . No, I’m afraid she never even mentioned you. But I expect she had her reasons.”

  I felt an interrogation coming on.

  “No, don’t feel awkward . . . The Exmoor Harpmaker? . . . Actually, I have.”

  There was a long gap in which Clive�
��s face steadily grew darker and darker.

  “I see . . . Well, thanks for filling me in. This is all very interesting.”

  I scarcely dared look at him. He was looking at me all right, though. “Would you like to talk to her? She’s here now.”

  I wobbled to my feet, but he shook his head at me, glaring. “No? You wouldn’t? . . . Yes, you’re absolutely right. My wife and I do need to talk . . . No, you haven’t. I would have found out sooner or later anyway . . . OK, then. It’s been very—nice talking to you, Rhoda. Good-bye.”

  He replaced the receiver oh so slowly and carefully. I was in for it now.

  “Clive . . .” I made an attempt to hug him, but it was like trying to cuddle a stone.

  “Apparently,” he snarled, “apparently you have been having harp lessons. For quite some time. Apparently you have been playing a harp made by the so-called Harpmaker of Exmoor. Apparently you go and visit him often—almost every day.”

  “It’s not like that,” I whimpered.

  “Well, what is it like, then?” he said through his teeth.

  “It’s because of the harp!” I gulped. “You remember. The one he gave me . . . tried to give me. I loved it so much and he meant so well and . . . I was in an impossible situation. He made me play it. And the sound was so . . . All I wanted was . . . I only didn’t tell you because I knew you would disapprove. But—Clive, you have to believe me! He’s a lovely person, that’s all. It’s quite innocent, I swear. It’s not about him, it’s about the harp.”

  The blood was beating in my cheeks all the more because I knew I was being economical with the truth. The truth had become a complicated tangled mass of feeling that couldn’t easily be put into words.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Nothing but a little harp practice.” I tried to laugh.

  “If it was nothing but a little harp practice why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you would have argued me out of it and I wanted the, the harp so, so badly.”

  “You wanted the, the harp so, so badly!” he mimicked.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  I could hear my heart thumping in the grim silence that followed.

  He took the poker and jabbed at the fire. “I don’t think I know you at all,” he said.

  I had never heard such venom in his voice.

  | 31 |

  Dan

  He is smaller than I am expecting. He has hair the color of coal and eyes the color of the midnight sky, with stars. He is wearing blue trousers and green socks and a thick sweater, green with blue stripes. Roe Deer’s mother shows me into the sitting room, where he is perched on the sofa, a wooden truck clutched in his hands.

  “Edward, this is a nice man who has come to see you. His name is Dan Hollis and he is a harpmaker.” Roe Deer’s mother has a voice that is very stiff and controlled. She has artificial waves in her hair, equally stiff and controlled. She is too thin. She walks in a very upright way, as if somebody has pushed a ramrod down her back.

  The boy stands up and comes toward me. He transfers his truck to his left hand and puts his right hand out to me. I shake it. It is a small hand, very, but warm.

  According to Roe Deer and Roe Deer’s parents I am not supposed to tell him I am his father. But sometimes I do things I am not supposed to do.

  “Hello, I’m your father,” I say.

  His mouth shapes itself like an O. I can feel the thing in my heart yanking at me again, very hard.

  “Are you?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I am. Which means that you are my son.”

  We contemplate each other for a while. Roe Deer’s mother did a gasping thing when I said the word “father” and my son and I are aware of her hovering in the background, wringing her hands, but neither of us pay her any attention.

  “This is my truck,” he says, proffering it. “Do you like it?”

  I examine it, run it along on the carpet a little way to try out its wheels, then pronounce it to be a good one.

  “I’ve got a train too,” he tells me.

  I declare my delight and astonishment.

  “It goes around on my bedroom floor.”

  “Does it really?” I ask.

  “Yes!” he answers. Then he says: “Would you like to come and see it?”

  I say that I would.

  He takes my hand and leads me past his gaping grandmother and upstairs.

  Perhaps I should point out here that Roe Deer is not happy about my visiting Ed. She told me on the phone that I must not on any account visit him. I told her that, no matter what she said, visiting Ed was exactly what I was going to do. I had not visited him for five years and it was high time I did. Moreover, I knew he was living with her parents and I knew where they lived, so if she tried to prevent me, she would find it difficult.

  “Oh, all right, do what you like!” She sighed. “But don’t blame me if it all ends in tears!”

  I promised not to blame her. I might blame her for other things, but I wouldn’t blame her for that.

  “I’ll tell my mum you are coming. After school tomorrow should be all right.”

  I said that suited me fine.

  “I won’t be there,” she said, and her voice was acidic.

  I said this was probably a good thing, as various strong forces were now battling inside me and if I saw her again right now the forces might get the better of me and I might not be responsible for my actions. And I did not want the first occasion that I set eyes on my son to be a scene of physical violence.

  She laughed. “Physical violence! Dan, you wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

  I said this was true, I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I was more and more inclined to hurl my fists at her, which I suspected might hurt rather considerably.

  She was quiet for a bit then. I was going to put the phone down, but then she said, “Look, Dan. I can’t stop you going to see him, but remember he’s my child too. I do have a say in things. And I don’t want him to know right now that you’re his father. Perhaps when he’s older, but not now. OK?”

  I didn’t really think that it was OK, so at this point I did put the phone down.

  * * *

  • • •

  Upstairs in Roe Deer’s parents’ house in Taunton, in the room that my son Edward sleeps in and calls his bedroom, I am making some important discoveries. I’ve found out that Edward my son likes pebbles, wooden trucks, trains, airplanes, trees, music, football, feathers, mud, sandwiches, animals, snow and puddles. Ten of those things are things that I like too. Ten out of thirteen is over seventy-six point nine percent, which is a good proportion. We have agreed that we should be friends.

  Edward’s train is a good train, as trains go. It has green, red and blue carriages and makes a satisfactory clicking sound as it goes round the track. It is not noisy and crowded like real trains. In fact, there seems to be nobody on it at all.

  I mention this fact to my son Ed.

  “I sometimes sit my rabbit on the top of it,” he tells me.

  I say what a good idea that is.

  “Do you have a rabbit too?” he asks me.

  I inform him that sadly I have no rabbit, but I do have a pheasant. My pheasant is called Phineas and he likes peanut butter sandwiches and harp music. I do not think he would like to ride on a train, though. He did not much like being in a car, but on that occasion he had just been shot, so the circumstances were unusual. Ed nods as if he absolutely understands these things.

  I then ask Ed if I might be introduced to his rabbit. He reaches up to a shelf where various animals are assembled. The rabbit is orange and has spiky whiskers and one ear that is floppier than the other.

  Ed takes the rabbit down and strokes its nose. “Rabbit, this is my father. Father, this is my rabbit.”

  We shake
hands/paws earnestly.

  I ask Mr. Rabbit which of the train’s carriages is his preferred carriage for sitting on. Mr. Rabbit looks down at the train and then answers me in a squeaky voice: “The front one, of course!”

  I state that clearly he is a very brave rabbit, if this is true. Perhaps he would like to demonstrate?

  So Mr. Rabbit hops on and the train starts off again. Mr. Rabbit has wedged his bottom in, and he manages to balance quite well when you bear in mind the speed at which he is traveling. But then the train goes round a bend and he suddenly flops over to one side. He continues at right angles to the carriage for another fifteen centimeters or so, then he and the train part company.

  “Don’t worry, he isn’t hurt. He sometimes does that,” explains Ed. “He sees a bit of carpet that he likes the look of, and he just has to get off straightaway. He can’t wait for the train to stop.”

  Mr. Rabbit is now examining his favored bit of carpet very closely, so we leave him to it and concentrate on the train again. We make it go round another twelve times, then take the track apart and put it together again a different way and run the train round it twenty-five times, then take the track apart and put it together again a different way and run the train round thirty times.

  Edward asks me a question while we are driving his train around. His question is this: “If you are my father, then are you married to my mother?”