by Hazel Prior
I am in pieces without you, Ellie. All I can do is hope you’ll let me do this much for you.
I can’t say anything else at the moment except this. I am—truly—sorry.
Clive
I am dumbfounded. What it must have cost him to write a letter so contrite, so groveling! What has happened to the proud, strong, fierce man I used to know?
I am in pieces without you, Ellie.
All those years I viewed Clive as a rock, myself as his limpet. Now it dawns on me for the first time. All those years it wasn’t him who was the rock. It was me.
| 49 |
Dan
The third, fourth and fifth people who came to visit me in the hospital were Ed and his grandparents. My ex-girlfriend Roe Deer did not come with them. But Ed’s rabbit (who is called Mr. Rabbit and who Ed is very fond of) did. None of them stayed for long because Ed’s grandparents had a meeting all about a new traffic layout system that, if it goes ahead, is going to upset all the residents in their part of Taunton. They needed to get back and drop off Ed with the babysitter and have a bite to eat and then make sure they were at the meeting in time to get a seat near the front.
It was good to see Ed, very. He sat close to me on the edge of my bed. Mr. Rabbit sat next to him. Ed was wearing a blue sweater with a red tractor knitted onto the front of it. Mr. Rabbit was wearing a yellow ribbon round his orange neck.
“Is Phineas OK?” was the first thing Ed asked.
I assured him that Phineas was fine. He had made his escape via the pheasant flap long before the fire started and had kept well away from it. Not a feather was singed. And now that I wasn’t there to feed him, Thomas was doing that task for me. Thomas, of course, couldn’t play the requisite chords on the medieval harp, and even if he could, it would be impossible because the harp had been burned. But he’d promised me he would call Phineas and be sure that he ate his meals, and be sure that he was sleeping all right in his second bed in the woodshed, and be sure to provide him with extra blankets. Thomas had muttered “Bloody bird!” under his breath, but afterward he’d said all right, mate, anything for you, mate.
“Can we go and visit Phineas too?” Ed asked his grandmother.
She shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Edward.”
I said never mind, as soon as I was out of the hospital I would give him a lift in the Land Rover and we would go to visit Phineas together.
Ed’s grandfather stuck his chin out and made a humphing noise. “We can discuss that later,” he said.
Ed then took a sheet of paper out of his fluorescent yellow backpack and handed it to me. “I drew this for you, Dad.”
I studied the paper with great attention, then turned it the other way up and studied it again. It was all rainbow colors, streaky and very fine, but I couldn’t make out what the picture was meant to be.
“It’s Phineas, Dad!”
I could see now that he’d pointed it out to me that it was indeed Phineas. I said thank you and how proud and delighted I was to have such a picture of such a magnificent and heroic bird. I would put it on the hospital table beside my bed and admire it often.
* * *
• • •
When I look at past events it seems to me that they are made up of long, wavering strings of ifs. If, for example, I had not given Ellie the cherrywood harp, she would never have come back to the barn to play it. If she hadn’t come back, she wouldn’t have taken harp lessons with Roe Deer. If she hadn’t taken those lessons, she wouldn’t have discovered that I had a son Ed. If she hadn’t discovered Ed, I wouldn’t have known of his existence. He wouldn’t have known of mine. A huge great chunk of wonderfulness would have been missing and we wouldn’t even have realized it.
And if Ellie hadn’t told me about Ed, Roe Deer wouldn’t have been cross and spoken to Ellie’s husband Clive. Ellie’s husband Clive wouldn’t have got angry and ripped up Ellie’s poems and she wouldn’t have left him. He wouldn’t have come to the barn to see if she was there and wouldn’t have stuffed paraffin rags around. And if we hadn’t saved Phineas all those weeks earlier, Phineas wouldn’t have been in his bed so he wouldn’t have flown into Clive’s face and Clive would have set fire to the barn when Ellie was asleep and I was away, then not even one of the harps would have survived and Ellie would not be here anymore and neither of us would be happy about that. That would be a sad thing. Much sadder than just losing thirty-two harps.
Sometimes the ifs work for you and sometimes they work against you. Sometimes you think they are working for you whereas in fact they are working against you, and sometimes you think they are working against you whereas in fact they are working for you. It is only when you look back that you realize, and you don’t always realize even then.
Lying in a hospital bed with all the nurses, doctors, patients, machines and bleeps was disturbing, but I wasn’t allowed to leave, so I kept my brain busy by thinking about all the ifs. Another thing about ifs is that they help you understand things. If I hadn’t been in a fire, I wouldn’t have understood this: that although people as a whole are difficult and I would rather most of them did not exist, there are certain people who are very, very important. Even more important than harps. Ellie Jacobs is one of those people.
My son Ed is another.
If my son Ed had been in the fire . . . but I’m absolutely not going to think about that.
| 50 |
Ellie
I rang Jo again yesterday. Dan is now out of the hospital and staying at her house, although she can scarcely squeeze him in. When she answered the phone Jo was still resentful about the havoc I’ve wreaked in her brother’s life, but she softened when I announced my intention of rebuilding the barn.
“I want it to rise like a phoenix from the ashes,” I gushed, all abuzz with new determination.
“Ellie, you are one hell of a crazy cow! But yes, please, please do it! I can’t cope with Dan here a second longer than I have to, and I’ve been worried sick about his future.”
“Could I possibly have a word with him?”
I sense a stiffness. “No, Ellie, I really don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Both of you need to sort yourselves out. I’m having a hard enough job getting Dan to relax as it is, without you stirring him up again.”
“I’d hardly be stirring him up! I just want to share the good news. I just want to tell him I’ll do everything I can to—”
“Look, I’ve got nothing against you personally and it’s great that you want to make amends. But I’d honestly rather you stayed away from Dan. You’re involved with a very dangerous man. Dan nearly died, and so did you. Who’s to say Clive won’t turn nasty again?”
“He won’t. I’m sure he won’t.”
“He may be trying to buy you back. He may take it out on Dan again when it doesn’t work. Hell, I don’t know! But he’s an alcoholic and a psychopath. Sorry, but I’m just not prepared to see my brother getting hurt again. Clear?”
“But . . . Please can’t I just speak with Dan?”
“What part of no don’t you understand?”
I swallowed down my hurt and indignation. I needed Jo on my side.
“Jo, does Dan, um . . . does he ever talk about me? Does he ever mention me?”
A short pause.
“No, actually he doesn’t.”
There. That puts you in your place, Ellie Jacobs.
“I’ll let him know you’re going to fix the barn,” said Jo in a more conciliatory voice. “He’ll be pleased.”
I’d so much rather have told Dan myself.
I ran upstairs and hugged Dan’s jacket instead.
* * *
• • •
I miss Christina and long to tell her everything. Vic and her family are endlessly, unstintingly lovely, but somehow I can’t talk things through in the same way. Christina
should be back from Thailand by now, but I’ve left countless messages on her answerphone and she’s never got back to me.
The money I now have in my possession is more than I’d ever envisaged spending in a lifetime. I was quite hysterical when I saw the bank statement. All that scrimping and saving, all that moaning about bills, yet Clive had so much hoarded away the whole time! I’d no idea. So generous was the sum I now wondered if I could actually build Dan a whole castle rather than just repair his humble barn.
But it turns out that builders and workmen and harpmaking tools are all way more expensive than I’d imagined. And there are logistical problems with just about everything. Endless phone calls are necessary to make people do what I’m paying them to do and I’m too far away to plead in person. Workmen simply seem to be allergic to work. It’s hard to get hold of anyone because of the holiday season, and when I do they plague me with questions about structural details that I don’t understand.
“Please, just make everything exactly how it was before!” I beg. However, in technical terms I am quite incapable of describing how it was before. My lips are bleeding because I’ve bitten them so much from sheer frustration. Dan would be better at explaining, but I am reluctant to refer the builders to Dan. Dan hates talking to people on the phone—especially people he doesn’t know.
I have extracted from him (via Jo) an itemized list of everything that was in the workshop. We’ll get a catalog and replace all his tools once the builders and decorators have finished. Jo and I have both agreed we must get Dan back to normal as quickly as we can. I’ve offered the builders a lavish raise in pay if they hurry up. Which has made a massive difference.
“What would Dad have made of the way I’m spending all this money?” I ask my sister, having blithely parted with another six hundred pounds.
“Hard to say,” she answers, shaking her head. “Mum wouldn’t have approved—wouldn’t approve—but I don’t know about Dad.”
“I like to think he’d be pleased. It’s all due to him that I’m in this position, after all. Him and his insistence that I follow a dream.”
Vic studies my face. “And what of that dream now, Ellie? When you’ve finished being so manic, what are your plans?”
I can’t look that far ahead. But I know I can’t stay here forever, trespassing on her kindness, fitting around her family’s clutter, acting as though I’m happy and normal.
“What about your harp playing?” she asks. “Will you go back to it?”
Harp playing? Me? Now? That seems as impossible as a browned and withered flower head trying to be a bud again.
* * *
• • •
The house is silent as though holding its breath, watching to see what I’ll do. I let myself in. It is early afternoon. Clive is at work.
I wander around collecting books, CDs, my photo albums, the remainder of my clothes. The look, the touch, the smell of everything is the same, but the place doesn’t feel like home anymore. Perhaps it never did. Like the rest of my past, it doesn’t really fit me properly.
I am at least pleased to note there are no whiskey or beer bottles around. There are a couple of postcards lying on the windowsill.
Hey, Ellie! Here I am in Thailand. Best non-Christmas Christmas EVER. Get this: palm-fringed beaches, blue, blue sea, me in teeny bikini! Gadding around in sunshine. No sexy beach bums yet, but hope springs eternal. Hope U R well and everything sorted with You-Know-Who.
Love and kisses,
Christina
The second postcard reads:
Hi, Ellie,
Guess what? I’ve met a lovely Thai family who’ve offered me food and lodging for another month here in exchange for helping the children with their English. I had to think about it for all of five seconds! The kids are sweet, no hassle and it’s great. I won’t be back in Exmoor for ages. Hope all good for you and Clive.
C xxx
I smile sadly and tuck the cards into my bag. Christina and I have some serious catching up to do.
A sudden noise startles me. The front door opening. My heart jumps to my mouth. I swing round.
He’s there. Not the monstrous, hateful version I’ve been picturing over the past weeks, but my husband: real, human, complex. Haggard.
“Clive!”
His hands stretch out toward me.
“Ellie . . . my El . . . I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I just came to get my things.” I nod toward the suitcases. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“I know.” His head bows in a submissive gesture. His presence feels raw. “I’ve been finishing early this last week, taking work home instead. A new arrangement.”
“Right.” I don’t know what to say.
“Did you find everything you need?”
“Yes, I think so.” I move toward the cases and make as if to go.
He stands in my way, a wall of desperation. “Just a minute! Now that you’re here . . . Ellie, listen!” His eyes bore into mine. “I never meant to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? I thought you’d gone away that night. I’d no idea you were still at the barn. It kills me thinking about it, about how close it was to . . . I was going crazy, you see, with everything going round and round in my head. Thinking how you’d lied to me, thinking of you with him, and missing you, just missing you like hell. And the drinking . . . I wasn’t in control. I couldn’t help it, El. Can you ever forgive me?”
His words clatter around my brain. I want to escape. I try to answer his question, but a noise like a growl comes out.
“Ellie, honeybun, don’t do this to me . . . don’t . . .” He swallows, hard. “OK, here it is: I love you. I love you so, so much. Don’t you see? I love you and I can’t do without you. I want you to come back to me. Please.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“I need you,” he urges.
“I’m not coming back,” I tell him.
“Let’s put this behind us, El. This, this madness. Let’s go back to how we were. You and me are good together.”
That charm of his.
“And I still love you.”
The “still.” The way he says it, the wounded accusation. By “still” he means in spite of everything I’ve done. In his mind he is being magnanimous in his offer to take me back. He’s done with apologizing and transferred the blame right back onto me. I am the guilty party here. I am supposed to feel grateful and submissive.
I shrink from his touch. One word. “No.”
“Please, El, I’m begging you!”
“No.”
“Haven’t I made amends? Haven’t I said I’m sorry? I wrote you that letter. I gave you more money than I can possibly afford. I was generous. I was more than generous.” There’s a whining, waspish edge to his voice.
Thirty-two harps burned, a workshop destroyed, Dan injured, myself nearly killed. And he thinks money can make it right.
“C’mon, El, don’t be difficult. This is your home. Your life is here, with me. You need me.” Willing me with his eyes. He leans in so close I can smell his aftershave, that hint of bergamot and leather I know so well. He isn’t drunk now, just greedy. He steps forward to take me in his arms.
I can’t help it. My own arm reaches back for an instant to gather force, then slams into him, the flat of my hand across his face. He reels sideways, loses his balance and crumples onto the floor. He clutches an elbow, whimpering in pain. Looks up at me, his face brick red with rage.
I step over him. Sure of my own decisions at last.
“Good-bye, Clive.”
| 51 |
Dan
Whenever I mention Ellie to my sister Jo, she answers: “Dan, Ellie will be fine.” Whenever I mention Ellie she says, “Ellie can sort herself out.” Whenever I mention Ellie she says, “You’re the one we need to worry about now.” Whenever I
mention Ellie (which is often) she says: “Dan, shut up about Ellie! Enough about Ellie! I don’t want to hear about Ellie.”
Ever since our parents died, my sister Jo has been very protective over me. I know this because she told me so herself once. “It’s great that you’re so independent, bro,” she said, “but you just don’t get that sometimes people take advantage. You’ve got to believe me, I’ve got your interests at heart. I’m not being bossy, I’m just giving you some guidelines.”
My sister Jo can see things in a way I can’t and understand people in a way I can’t. I therefore decided long ago that it’s a good idea to follow her guidelines.
Maybe now my sister Jo can see this: that whenever I mention Ellie there’s a great big mountain of feelings swelling inside me. Some of these feelings are like a thirst; some are like an ache; some are like a flock of bright butterflies. My sister Jo doesn’t want me to go through any more pain. My sister Jo knows (as I do now) that I am not cut out for relationships. Not at all. I am made of all the wrong ingredients. Ellie must know this too. Whenever Ellie rings she does not want to talk to me, apparently. She just wants to talk to Jo and arrange stuff about the rebuilding of the barn. I am happy about the rebuilding of the barn, very, but I’m not happy that Ellie doesn’t want to speak to me.
* * *
• • •
Five is the number of harps that were saved. Five includes Ellie’s cherrywood harp. The reason Ellie’s harp survived is that it was upstairs in the little room at the time of the fire, and Ellie closed the door of the little room behind her when she escaped, and (according to the firemen) because the door was tight-fitting with no gaps round the edge, the flames did not get any farther but concentrated instead on the workshop downstairs. I am glad Ellie’s harp survived. Very.