Ellie and the Harpmaker

by Hazel Prior

  I tell him no.

  “Why not?”

  My answer is this: that his mother used to be my girlfriend but that she changed her mind about it some time ago. Which is a pity in some ways, but there isn’t much I can do about it. She has only recently informed me of the fact. I apologize to Ed for not getting in touch sooner, but his existence is another fact that I have only recently become aware of.

  He pulls one of the carriages off the train. “Why am I living with Nan and Gramps and not with you and my mother?”

  I pick Mr. Rabbit up off the floor and tell him his whiskers are very fine indeed.

  Ed firmly takes Mr. Rabbit and sits him facing me. “You haven’t answered my question,” he says.

  He is an astute boy. I tell him this.

  “What does ‘astute’ mean?” he says.

  “Clever and wise and able to see through things and people.”

  “Is it good to be astute?” he asks me.

  “It can be,” I say. “Sometimes.”

  “So what’s the answer?” he asks.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him. Normally I do not hesitate to tell the truth because normally it seems like a good idea. I want him to know the truth very much, just as I want to know it myself. However, I suspect that the truth in this matter is an unkind truth. Also I know that Roe Deer is already cross with me, her parents are cross with me and I have done a lot of things that I’m not supposed to do. Probably quite enough for one day.

  My son is looking at me, his face all wide-eyed and shaped like a great big question.

  I pat him on the head.

  “You will find out one day,” I say.

  | 32 |

  Ellie

  “Been playing the harp today, have you?”

  He makes it sound like a crime.

  “Yes,” I confess.

  It’s been three days now and Clive hasn’t said a word to me except “Pass the salt.” Pointedly, with no “please.” A proper question is at least a step in the right direction. It gives me hope that he might be getting lonely on the moral high ground. He takes a swig of beer from the bottle and throws another log onto the fire. A few sparks fly out.

  I normally enjoy our cozy winter evenings reading or watching TV with the fire lit and the wind raging outside, but now the atmosphere between us is so taut it’s impossible to relax even for a moment.

  I wouldn’t have ventured back to the barn at all, but I was worried about Dan and desperate to know what he’s decided to do about his son. I tried ringing, but he didn’t answer my calls. Eventually I drove up to the barn while Clive was at work to find out what was going on and offer support if I could.

  Dan has already been to see his son in Taunton. It sounds as though Ed was pretty pleased to have found his father, just as Dan was pleased to have found his son. I couldn’t bring myself to ask how things are between him and Rhoda, but I noticed a transformation in Dan. Unlike the last time I saw him, his eyes were brightly lit and seemed even huger than usual. He went about all his normal harpmaking and sandwich-serving routines with a new briskness and bounce. He seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts to talk much. I went upstairs and attempted some harp practice, but my fingers seemed to have got rusty and I couldn’t focus. The notes sounded jagged and disjointed, not like music at all.

  I’m sure Rhoda rang Clive to get me into trouble. She must know it was me who let her secret out. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her son . . . or the father of her son. I’m longing to see Dan with his little boy, but now, caged in as I am by Clive’s suspicions, I’m not sure that is ever going to happen.

  Clive picks up the poker. “My harp-playing wife,” he growls. “I suppose you fancy yourself as an angel or something.”

  “No, of course not!”

  Is he ever going to forgive me? But I can’t really blame him. I haven’t even forgiven myself. I should have told him long ago. My life is full of should-haves.

  I battle with my regrets, rally a little and realize I’ve missed a trick. I muster what’s supposed to be a charming smile. “Clive, I wanted it all to be a lovely surprise for you once I’d learned to play properly. I thought I’d . . . I’d serenade you or something.”

  My attempt at humor falls flat.

  “Nice try, but that’s not what you said before. You said you thought I’d disapprove. Why would I do that, I wonder?”

  I am such an idiot. Why can I never think of the right thing to say at the right time? I close my eyes.

  When I open them Clive is standing in front of me, the firelight casting patterns over his face. He looks utterly miserable. I curse myself. I ought to be working out how to mend the hurt I’ve caused him, but even now half of me is elsewhere, worrying about Dan, worrying about Rhoda.

  Clive addresses the flames. “That harp teacher told me you were getting really good at it. Thanks to your many, many visits up the hill to the harpmaker’s place.”

  “The Harp Barn. Yes. That’s where the harp is,” I point out. “Although—” I am about to say I could actually bring the harp back home, but realize that absolutely isn’t what I want to do, so I shut my mouth again.

  “I suppose that’s where you’ve been going on Saturdays and Sundays too? When you said you were visiting Christina.”

  “Yes,” I whimper. “But only because Dan was injured. He needed help with his bandages.”

  “Dan.” He draws the word out torturously, as if examining all its implications. “Dan was injured?”

  “Yes, very badly. He was shot in the leg. It was a silly accident when he was out on the moor. There wasn’t anyone else to help him.” I think of Jo, of Rhoda, of Dan’s friend Thomas the postman and I wonder again how much I am stretching the truth in my anxiety to defend myself.

  “So I presume Christina never cut her hand? The whole thing about her and the can opener was entirely made up?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t find a way to tell you. It was all so complicated.”

  He stabs a log with the poker. Orange reflections flicker in his eyes. “God, Ellie. I never would have believed you capable of such lies.”

  There is bitter disappointment churning around with his anger. I’ve never felt so bad in my life. If only he would just hit me with the poker and put me out of my misery.

  “So do I ever get to hear your harp playing? Or is that only for other, more important people?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Clive!”

  He stands up, propping the poker in the corner of the fireplace. Finally he looks at me. “What’s the matter?” he says icily.

  “I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m just so, so sorry! I can’t tell you how sorry I am!” I hate my tears. I wish I could get a grip on myself.

  He sits down in the chair opposite me, takes another swig of beer and picks up the newspaper. He starts turning pages. I wonder whether to go upstairs and bite my pillow or whether to sit it out. I decide to go for the latter. I gulp down my emotions and pick up a book. The words dance in front of my eyes, which are in any case too full to read them.

  “Where is this place, anyway?” he asks suddenly.

  “The Harp Barn?”

  “No, Timbuktu!” he sneers. “Of course the Harp Barn. I googled it, but there was no address. I saw the photos of your fancy man, though. Very pretty.”

  I gasp. If he’s been digging around for information behind my back it’s even worse than I thought. “Clive, you have to believe me. He’s not my fancy man! If you knew Dan, you’d understand.”

  “Well, I don’t know Dan, do I?”

  I view him sorrowfully. “I’d be happy to drive you up to the barn anytime you like.”

  He scowls and retreats behind his newspaper.

  Five minutes later he is out of it again.

  “OK, then. Take me there now.”

>   I look at my watch, alarmed. “Well, it’s getting rather late. I don’t know what time Dan goes to bed. Perhaps . . .” The words die on my lips. “Whatever you like,” I tell him.

  | 33 |

  Dan

  I’d made coffee and wafted it around a bit so that the aroma hung pleasantly in the air. Phineas was nestling comfortably in his bed. Soon I would be off to bed too, but I was doing a little extra work on the Fifi harp, as it is not so long until Christmas now and Mike Thornton keeps ringing me to ask if it’s nearly ready. The Fifi harp is not nearly ready, but the nearly stage will be soon now because I have finally got some momentum going.

  Apple wood is dense and has fine pores, but it glues, stains and turns well. Mike Thornton’s wood is grayish with a regular graining and some darker streaks. Its scent is sweet, calming, just a little fruity.

  As I was shaping the apple wood for the soundboard I was not thinking about the Fifi harp, though. What I was thinking about was my son Ed. Him and his train and his rabbit and the things he said to me.

  In the middle of those thoughts there came a very quiet knock at the door. I was surprised because it was dark and frosty outside and people do not normally come out here to buy harps in such conditions. So I assumed it was just a twig that had blown against the door in the wind. But then the knock came again. I went over and opened the door. And there in front of me was Ellie Jacobs the Exmoor Housewife.

  “Ellie!” I cried, seizing her hand. I was feeling enthusiastic and excited with all the things I had been thinking about Ed my son, which is the reason I did this. Also because I was glad to see her. But Ellie’s hand was rather cold and limp. Her face looked cold and limp too.

  “Hi, Dan,” she said in a voice drained of color. She moved to one side slightly and I saw there was a man standing in the gloom behind her. He was large. He had a square sort of face and not very much in the way of hair. He was in a big, dark coat.

  “This is Clive, my husband,” said Ellie. “He wanted to meet you and to see the Harp Barn. Sorry, I, er, hope it’s not too late in the evening . . .”

  I assured her that it wasn’t, not at all. I put on my biggest smile because that was the way I was feeling and, besides, she seemed to need cheering up. I put out my hand again and shook the hand of her husband, even though the hand had a bit of a lackluster feel to it, as if it did not want to be shaken much. I said I was pleased to meet him, as that is what you are supposed to say. I then invited them both to come inside where it was warm—well, warmer.

  They came in.

  Clive the husband of Ellie turned his head round and round to look at the barn and all the harps. He stuck his lackluster hands into his big black pockets.

  Phineas is not too keen on meeting people he doesn’t know. He got out of bed, flapped his wings and made a hasty exit out through the pheasant flap. Clive the husband of Ellie stared after him.

  I offered my guests a drink. I offered coffee even though I’d just recently made some and tipped it down the sink, because I know Ellie likes to drink coffee and maybe her husband does too. I also offered sandwiches. I mentioned the fact that the sandwiches I was offering would be good ones. The sandwiches that I was offering would be filled with excellent jam, the jam Ellie made from my plums, as there was still a bit of it left.

  The Clive man swiveled on the spot and looked at Ellie. His eyebrows were very close together and his mouth was a straight line.

  I repeated my offer.

  “Not for me, thank you,” Ellie then replied very quickly. A little lump was moving down her throat.

  I asked Clive if he would like some sandwiches made with the jam that Ellie his wife had made with my plums.

  There was silence.

  “Would you like coffee or sandwiches?” Ellie said to him. She seemed to be acting as an interpreter, even though I had spoken in plain English.

  “Yes, a cup of coffee would be nice,” he said finally. “And a sandwich with some of the jam Ellie made from your plums, Mr. Hollis. Funnily enough I’ve never tried it. I never even knew Ellie was capable of making jam.”

  I told him she was certainly very capable. Just as she was with so many things.

  I then told Ellie to make herself at home as she always did, and to show her husband around everything as she liked, and I bounded off up the seventeen steps to make coffee and sandwiches. I was still thinking about my son Ed.

  From the kitchen I heard that Ellie and Clive had also ascended the seventeen steps and were now in the little room where Ellie practices. They were not talking very much, though.

  I spread the jam thick, as it is such good jam. Today the bread was wholemeal, with seeds. Cut into rectangles. I’m not sure Clive would like triangles.

  When I came into the room and handed the sandwiches (there were six) and the coffee (it was strong) to Clive Ellie’s husband, he was standing by the window. He was scrutinizing Ellie’s harp from a distance.

  “You remember it from before, don’t you, Clive? Lovely, isn’t it?” said Ellie in a mouselike voice.

  “So this is where you play every day?” he asked.

  “Um, yes, often I do,” she said. “While Dan makes harps downstairs in the workshop.” She said the words “downstairs” and “workshop” louder than the rest of the sentence.

  Clive walked up to the harp. In one rapid movement he raised a hand over the harp. I saw Ellie flinch. Clive then moved his hand down again and rested it for a second on the curve of the harp’s neck.

  “Very lovely,” he said. His voice somehow did not seem to echo the sentiment, though. His voice was all snagged up with brambles.

  Ellie made a little noise at the back of her throat. I informed Clive that Ellie’s harp was one of the best harps I’d ever made. I told him I had made it out of cherrywood. I had selected it especially for Ellie because, although cherry was not her favorite tree (that was birch) she sometimes wore cherry-colored socks and I thought she had an affinity with the wood. Also because the harp had a very lovely and unique voice and resonance that seemed to fit Ellie particularly well. As had been proved by her learning to play it so fast.

  Clive fixed his eyes on Ellie.

  “Play it!” he said.

  These are the exact words I had said to Ellie to persuade her to keep the harp when I first gave it to her. However, I had not said the words in the way that Clive Ellie’s husband said them now.

  Ellie pulled up the chair behind the harp and perched on it. She took a deep breath. Then she started to play “Scarborough Fair.” Normally she can play it pretty well, but she was having some problems with her fingers. They seemed to be shaking violently and hitting all the wrong strings.

  Clive stood with his arms crossed over his chest and listened. “Very good. Very lovely,” he said when she had finished. “I am proud of you.” He took a bite out of a sandwich. “The jam is good too. You have so many hidden talents.”

  I smiled at him. I did not feel a hundred percent comfortable in his presence, but it is good that he appreciates Ellie.

  Ellie looked at her husband with shiny eyes. “I—er—the jam was to . . . I wanted to say thank you to Dan for letting me play his harp here so often.”

  “Your harp,” I corrected.

  “Your harp,” Clive repeated, licking the jam off his fingers one by one. Ellie looked down at her socks. Today they were black.

  Clive seemed to be enjoying the jam, so I offered him the rest of the pot to take home.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

  Ellie then turned to me and asked, “How’s Ed?”

  Ellie asked me about Ed only this morning, so I was a little surprised at this question. But before I had a chance to reply, she said to her husband: “Ed is Dan’s son.”

  Clive turned to me. “Your son?” he said.

  “My son,” I confirmed. “Ed.” I like to say t
hese words. They are becoming my very favorite words to say.

  I told them my son Ed was very well and was going to come out and visit me here at the Harp Barn soon, which was a fact that made me very glad indeed.

  “With his mother?” Ellie asked quickly. “His mother is my harp teacher, Clive; the very beautiful and accomplished Rhoda—the lady who you spoke to on the phone.”

  Clive grunted. “She’s your wife?” he asked.

  I presumed this last question was addressed to me, although he was looking at Ellie. I explained that Roe Deer was not and nor had she ever been my wife, but she had once been my girlfriend. However, she was not my girlfriend at present. She had in fact not been my girlfriend for five whole years.

  “I see,” he said. “Not for five years.”

  Ellie looked as if she was about to say something, because her mouth opened just a little, but nothing came out of it. Her husband was still looking at her. I expect he likes looking at her a lot.

  “Well, Ellie,” he said at last. “It’s getting late. And I have to be up early to go to work tomorrow. I think we had better leave your—friend—to his harpmaking.” He paused, and then added: “Unless, of course, you want to stay?”

  “No, no, of course not!” She shook her head and puckered up her face in a peculiar way. “Dan, we’ll leave you to it. Thank you so much for your hospitality, and so sorry for the intrusion.”

  I said not at all and what a delight it had been to see them.

  | 34 |

  Ellie

  I got out of bed slowly. Clive had just left the house for work. He hadn’t said good-bye.

  I was feeling slightly sick. I wandered to the bedroom window in my dressing gown and looked out. He was still in the driveway, busily squirting deicer onto his car windscreen, his breath a white plume in the cold air. His face had a yellowish tinge to it and, even from here, I could see the big bags under his eyes. He had silently poured himself out a whiskey when we got back home last night. Then another. Then another.

  As he was giving the windows a final wipe I saw Pauline come out of the house next door with a shopping bag. She shuffled toward her own car, calling out a good morning to him, then something else. He walked across and handed the canister of deicer to her over the fence. They exchanged a word or two. She shook the canister, gave her windscreen a good spray and then walked back toward him. As she returned it she cocked her head to one side and said something. He seemed to ask her a question. I watched her giving a very full answer. As she was speaking, she pointed up the hill in the direction of the Harp Barn, waggling her head from side to side. Clive suddenly glanced up at our bedroom window and saw me there, watching. I lifted my hand to wave, but he didn’t wave back. He scowled, threw another comment to Pauline, then got into his car, slamming the door. He revved up the engine and shot down the road at a ridiculous speed.