by Hazel Prior
I introduced Phineas to Ed and Ed to Phineas. Both seemed delighted to meet one another. Phineas ate his lunch out of Ed’s hand.
“Dad, will you teach me to play an F minor chord, please?” said Ed. Ed has seen Roe Deer play the harp and has tried it out himself a few times, but he wasn’t yet able to play an F minor chord.
So I taught him there and then, out in the orchard. Our fingers were cold, but we were too busy to notice. Ed has very small fingers and they don’t seem to want to go into the right places, so teaching him the F minor chord took some time. About twenty minutes. Phineas was going demented. I think he thought that each time he heard anything resembling the chord he should get another helping of lunch. He did get quite a bit more than usual because Ed was sorry for him. I had to tell Ed that Phineas needed to watch his weight. If he got much tubbier he would not be able to fly at all, and his flying was pretty lopsided as it was, with his injury and everything.
Then something happened and what happened was this: Because it was so cold and the Lapwing harp had been subjected to boy-force pressure for some time now, one of its strings (the second-octave C) suddenly twanged and broke.
I looked at Ed and Ed looked at me.
“Ouch!” he said.
I asked if he was hurt.
“No,” he said, “but the harp is, isn’t it?”
I said never mind, I had plenty of replacement strings and we’d soon have it sorted.
Ed pulled the broken string out of its socket. “Now I can play a harp, can I help you make a harp too?”
I said yes. Once I’d finished the Fifi harp we could make a harp together, like I did with my father when I was a boy. Ed could choose the wood and the design. We would go for a walk and find a suitable pebble together. And he could help me with sanding and threading through the strings. And he could design a motif.
“What’s a motif?” he asked.
I told him it was a simple pattern such as could be carved easily in the neck or sides of a harp.
“Ah,” he said. “I know what the motif is going to be!”
At that moment his grandmother and grandfather came into the orchard.
“Ah, there you are!” cried the grandmother.
I said yes, here we were.
“Thank you, Dan,” she said. “It has been a very interesting time, but we really have to be getting Edward back home now.”
They started dragging Ed toward their white Toyota.
But he broke loose and ran back to me and put his arms around my legs.
And he told me this thing: “I’m glad you are my dad.”
I felt a peculiar pricking like dried teasels at the back of my eyes.
“Oh,” is what I said.
* * *
• • •
I have finished the Fifi harp all except for the word “Fifi,” which I have not yet carved into it. Mike Thornton has told me he will pay me an extra hundred pounds for doing this, so I will do it, even though I still think it is not a good word to engrave into a harp. I have to pay toward Ed’s upkeep now.
Ed comes up to the barn every Saturday. Phineas is getting fatter and fatter. Ed likes to feed him, and plays the F minor chord quite competently. Phineas recognizes his style of playing and propels himself toward us even faster than usual because he knows he will get a massive quantity of pheasant feed from Ed.
We keep talking about the harp that we’ll make together. I asked Ed if he wouldn’t prefer me to make him a train, as he’d hinted he might like that, but he seems to have changed his mind. He said he already had a good train. But maybe we could make a harp with a train carved into it—as a motif? I applauded his brilliant idea and said that most certainly we could. He said it should be a steam train like the one that goes from Minehead to Bishops Lydeard and I could carve puffs of smoke coming out of its funnel to make it absolutely clear that was the type of train that it was.
I said I would happily do that. And (here I was being much more outgoing and adventurous than normal) we could also go together for a ride on a steam train to get inspiration. I am not so much a trains person, I am more of a trees person, but Ed’s enthusiasm is infectious.
So one weekend we went down to Watchet together and took the train from there to Stogumber and we stopped and had tea in the station garden. That is, I had a glass of water and he had an orange juice. They didn’t have sandwiches so I had a slice of cake and he had a choco-buzzle bar. We were the only people sitting outside in the garden because it was so cold. I asked Ed what he liked about steam trains and he said he liked the shiny funnel and the chuffing sound as they went along and the hoot was also good. The way he described it made me like it too, in spite of all the people and noise. I managed pretty well with the people and noise that day.
Ed is like a talisman. All the horrible things seem less horrible if I just think: “This is Ed. He is my son.” So I have been thinking that a lot.
He talks about so many things, it is sometimes difficult for me to keep up with him, but he doesn’t talk about his mother very much. I asked him in Stogumber if he saw her often.
“No, not often,” he said.
I asked if he knew why this was.
Ed drew a pattern on the ground with his foot. “I did ask, but she just said, ‘Reasons.’ So I said, ‘What reasons?’”
“Did she give you any?” I inquired. Ed told me she had eventually come up with the following:
Reason One: It is for his own good.
Reason Two: She is not a natural mother. It’s just One of Those Things.
Reason Three: Gramps and Nan (her parents, Ed’s grandparents) are much better at practical stuff, like cooking and organizing.
Reason Four: Gramps and Nan (her parents, Ed’s grandparents) need a project to keep them going. Ed is now that project.
Reason Five: These days the family is different to how it was in the past. So long as Ed has a good place to live and a good school and good people around him, that’s fine.
Reason Six: She, Roe Deer, is married to her music and that means sacrifices have to be made.
Reason Seven: Of course she loves Ed, but the connection she feels is not as strong as she’d expected. Maybe it will be stronger when she has a more settled lifestyle.
Reason Eight: Everything is complicated.
Ed had memorized all these reasons verbatim and seemed to accept them. But I did not see that any of them was very convincing, particularly the last. And when I’d spoken to Roe Deer about it myself, the reasons she gave were quite different. They were all to do with a guitar man and strings being attached.
I asked Ed how often Roe Deer comes to visit him.
“About once a week,” he answered. “She says she’d come more often but she’s very, very busy.”
I didn’t say so, but I thought it was a bit similar when she was my girlfriend. After the first flush of excitement was over, it did tend to be about once a week, when she had nothing better to do. Maybe Roe Deer is not cut out to be a girlfriend or a mother. Maybe she is just cut out to be a really, really good harp player and so the other things get put farther down on her list. Perhaps that is OK, but perhaps it isn’t. I can’t help feeling that Ed should not be that far down on anyone’s list.
Lists make me think of Ellie Jacobs the Exmoor Housewife, because she had a list too and harp playing was on it. She hasn’t been to the barn to play her harp for a very, very long time. This worries me.
| 36 |
Ellie
I try to write poems, but all my inspiration has dried up. I go for long wintry walks. I look at the bare trees, at the frozen patterns in the stream, at the poor birds hopping about, searching for food on the cold earth. I think of my harp, and of Dan.
I go nowhere near the Harp Barn. I can’t risk it. Any wrong move could send my marriage over the edge. I wonder how Dan is doing,
if he has finished his Fifi harp, if he is seeing much of his son. I wonder if he and Rhoda are together again. I need to let go, but I can’t. I long more than ever to play the harp, to hear its soothing sounds. To lean my head against the soundboard and feel the warm touch of its wood. I wonder if I will ever go back to it. I know there will be no more lessons with Rhoda. She must hate me.
Not as much as Clive hates me at the moment, though. I’d thought that his rage would die down over time, but it just seems to be getting stronger. He stays at work very late. I put the dinner anxiously in the oven and wait, too tense to do anything. At last I hear the car engine outside. A few minutes later the front door opens. I run to meet him and try to kiss him, hoping that this will be the day the ice melts, but he brushes me aside. He dumps his briefcase in the hall and goes straight upstairs to change out of his suit. He comes down again in jeans and a sweater, goes into the sitting room. He scrunches up old copies of the Telegraph and his motoring magazines, places kindling round them in the grate, then strikes a match and sets fire to them in many places. He throws logs on the top, feeding the flames.
I bring his dinner through. He doesn’t seem to want to eat at the table these days. We eat in complete silence, or else to the sounds of the TV. After dinner he opens the bottle of whiskey.
There are a lot of empty whiskey bottles lying in the recycling bin.
One evening about a week ago I lit the fire before he came back. I’m not very good at it, but I managed. I thought it might be warm and welcoming for him, a nice surprise. I had visions of us making love on the hearth rug as we’d done only a few weeks ago. I craved that intimacy again.
But no.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded.
“I thought I’d save you the trouble. I thought you’d be pleased.”
He grimaced.
Whatever I did would be wrong. But while we were having a conversation of sorts I steeled myself to ask something that had been on my mind for a long time now.
“Um, Clive . . . are we still going up to Vic’s for Christmas?”
“I’m not,” he said. “You can if you like.”
“But I promised Vic!”
He reached for the TV remote control. “Your problem, not mine.”
“Please come with me,” I tried. “They all love seeing us. They’ll be so disappointed if we don’t go. And . . . it’s Christmas.” I didn’t dare add the season-of-goodwill bit.
“As I say, you can go. I’m staying here.”
“Clive, I can’t go on my own and leave you here all by yourself! That would be . . . and anyway, what would they think?”
He shrugged and switched on the TV.
I pulled out more of my eyebrows, watching him. I didn’t relish the prospect of a long, solitary drive up north, but I hated to think of the crestfallen faces of my nephews and nieces, and all Vic’s preparations gone to waste if I canceled. Clive was now intently gazing at a program about flatfish, so any further persuading was impossible.
“Well then”—I sighed, utterly dismayed—“in that case I’d better ring Vic and make an excuse. We’ll have Christmas here, just the two of us.”
I have to try. Sooner or later I’ll get the old Clive back. He can’t keep this up forever.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “You always do, anyway.”
* * *
• • •
Christmas Eve. Clive has gone out, I’ve no idea where. He has taken his car.
It is a bright, clear day. I open the back door and wander out. The garden is crystallized, every grass blade gleaming and glinting in the sunlight. I hug my jacket around me and breathe in the sharp air. It is invigorating. A ray of sunlight falls across my cheek. I begin to feel better.
Things have got to change soon. We can’t carry on like this. And suddenly I’m sure: Clive is going to forgive me. He must. It’s just the timing that matters. Of course! He is planning on leaving it until tomorrow morning, just to make Christmas all the more wonderful. Or tonight. Perhaps even now he is out shopping for some lovely present, some pretty thing that he knows I’ll love. He will wrap his arms around me. He’ll kiss me fervently and I’ll kiss him back and everything will be all right again. We’ll find a way to rebuild our relationship after these tribulations. It will be like it was before, when he bought me flowers and gave me foot massages and supported me when things went wrong. I smile as I feel a weight lift from my heart.
Since canceling the trip to Vic’s I’ve done very little in the way of Christmas preparations, except for ordering the turkey. Now I launch myself into action. I grab the pruning shears and run down to the garden. There are holly bushes gleaming with tight clusters of berries, and there’s ivy too. I cut generous sprigs, trim them to size and tie them with red ribbons. I tuck them into the bookshelves, over the pictures, along the mantelpiece, anywhere I can find to make the house look festive.
Next I pull out the Christmas box from the cupboard under the stairs. Inside is a tangle of glittering bits and pieces. I fish out streams of tinsel and string them up over the banister and around the fireplace. All our Christmas cards are lying in a heap on the kitchen windowsill. I arrange them on the cupboards and the dresser.
I notice the silver candlesticks are suffering from tarnish. I seek out the polish and buff them up till they sparkle. The candles have not been lit for a long time, but apart from a bit of dust they are all right. I survey the scene and laugh with excitement and anticipation. Perhaps it won’t be the worst Christmas after all. Perhaps if we can talk things through, Clive will reconcile himself to my harp playing and I’ll be able to go back to the barn sometimes. Just sometimes would be enough to get me through. I’d be happy with that. I’ll aim for that.
There is no Christmas tree. Maybe Clive will bring one home today, but I’m not going to risk it. Last year’s Norwegian spruce is still in a pot at the bottom of the garden. I rush out to examine it. It’s a little straggly and bald in places, but nothing that a bit of tinsel won’t fix. It will do. I start dragging it inside.
“Hello, Ellie!”
It is Pauline, calling over the fence, scarcely recognizable she is so bundled up in woolens.
“Hello, Pauline!”
“Everything all right, dear?”
“Everything fine! Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, dear!”
* * *
• • •
The tree, the house, the dinner—it is all perfect. I’ve put on my red dress. It looks good with the silver necklace Clive gave me on our last anniversary. I wink at myself in the mirror. For once I am feeling attractive.
The candles are lit and our favorite CD of Christmas music is playing. Surely he must be home soon?
I step over to the stove and give the curry another stir. Clive loves curry and this is a special recipe with saffron, raisins and almonds. Christmas Eve curry is a long-standing tradition of ours. I consult my watch, then add another few spoonfuls of stock. The curry has been on the stove so long it is beginning to dry out.
The music keeps jangling on and on. I press the stop button on the CD player and cut it dead. It’s getting on my nerves.
I take the curry off the stove top. The smell is making me slightly queasy.
I blow the candles out. It is ten o’clock.
I wander into the sitting room. I’ve ventured to light the fire again just this once, but now it has died low. I sink into the armchair beside it and sit there, waiting and gazing into the embers.
At last I hear the front door opening. I shoot toward it.
“Clive, I was worried about you!”
One look at his face tells me that he is very, very far from forgiveness. He brushes me to one side and staggers upstairs. A whiff of whiskey trails in his wake.
* * *
• • •
I trudge upstairs. The cu
rry is now in a Tupperware container in the fridge. Boxing Day lunch, perhaps. I am worn-out, but I somehow doubt I’ll get much sleep.
Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and I’m not sure now what it will bring. I wonder if we’ll be eating the turkey that’s waiting, the potatoes and sprouts and parsnips, bread sauce and all the trimmings. Should I go to the trouble of cooking it all? I probably should. It will be worth it if it makes a difference. I need to keep showing Clive somehow that I care.
The light is on in the bedroom. I peer round the door. Clive’s outline is illuminated. He is sitting up in bed, naked, a book in his hands. He stares at the pages. The book is my notebook, the book where I write my poems. I normally keep it tucked away in a drawer. Never, never has Clive shown any interest in reading it before. My heart rate quickens. Is there anything incriminating written on those pages? I know that there is. At least, according to Clive’s already razor-sharp suspicions it will be incriminating.
I take a step forward. At once he clambers out of bed. He pushes past me without a word and heads for the bathroom. The book lies open on the pillow. I pick it up and see the poem I wrote only a few weeks ago.
Could this be it?
That thing we need,
We tremble and we ache for,
The one that haunts our every thought
The one we stay awake for?
All those years, those steadfast years
Of thinking it was mine
Of sharing laughter, sharing tears;
I couldn’t cross a line.
But now I’ve found a warmer place,
With music, heart and breathing space
Unexpected, gentle, bright
It casts a very different light.
I seem to crave it more and more
I am not what I was before.