Ellie and the Harpmaker

by Hazel Prior

  Thirty-two is the number of harps that were burned.

  The number of days I spent in the hospital was eleven. The number of days I spent in Jo’s bungalow in Bridgwater was thirty-four. The eleven days were not good ones for me, and neither were the thirty-four. In the hospital there were way too many ill people, too many visitors, too many doctors, too many nurses and too many machines that went bleep bleep bleep. In Jo’s bungalow there was not enough space, not enough air and not enough things made from wood. Outside her bungalow when I looked out there were not enough trees; only streets and cars and more bungalows.

  When you’re waiting for something, time has a way of slowing right down. Those weeks I was at my sister Jo’s house time went slower than a snail with very bad rheumatism. I wished I could have pressed the fast-forward button on time and got myself back to my Harp Barn, but Jo said I was not well enough and anyway the barn wasn’t ready yet, so waiting was my only choice. I did not like waiting. Not at all. I was twitchy.

  * * *

  • • •

  Today, at last, the day has arrived! I am going back to the barn. Jo is driving me. Ed is with us too. He made his grandparents drop him off at Jo’s house because he wanted to be part of the celebrations. We have brought coffee and sandwiches (peanut butter and cucumber, rectangular, wholemeal bread). Ed is bouncing around all over the back of the car, saying things like “You’re better, Dad!” “You’re going home, Dad!” and “You’re going to be all happy and harpmaking soon, Dad!”

  I say yes I am, yes I am, to all of these.

  The day is a bright, bold one. The trees are stirring the air with their branches and ragged white clouds are racing each other across the sky. The sun is blasting everything with color: greens ranging from emerald to sage to lime; even the old brown shreds of bracken are rich with auburn and burnished copper. As I watch from the window the landscape becomes wilder and hillier and sheepier. I feel that simultaneously I am becoming Dannier. And I realize that Exmoor is more than my home. Much more. Exmoor, in a way, is me. It is where I can do my harpmaking and where I can be my absolute self, and those two things are very bound up in each other.

  When we arrive at the top of the lane, the barn is there, as real and solid as ever, with a new door all shiny. Thomas is standing by the doorway holding an enormous bunch of balloons. And there, scratching away in the dirt, his plumage all splendid and his eyes glittering like jewels, is Phineas my pheasant.

  “Welcome home, mate,” Thomas cries and presents me with the bunch of balloons.

  I say thank you and then hand them to Ed because Ed likes balloons more than I do and besides, I completely need to hug Phineas. Phineas saved Ellie’s life, after all. He is no ordinary bird. Phineas submits to being hugged and pecks my earlobe lightly in a way that is affectionate and pleasing.

  Jo, Thomas, Ed, Phineas and I are all gabbling away at each other, happy and excited to be here again. We unlock the new door, push it open and go inside.

  Ed runs around saying, “Look! Look! Look!” which is exactly what I am now doing. The workshop seems very big and empty with only four rather bedraggled harps in the middle and no heaps of sawdust and no bits of lichen, fir cones, feathers and the other things I like to keep around. But the room is fully equipped with a brand-new table, chairs, workbench, band saw, planer, lathe and all the other bits and pieces I need for making harps. Winter sunshine streams through the three big windows onto all the new things. They gleam.

  But maybe even better than all the new things is what is up on the walls of my workshop: pictures, stuck up at all sorts of angles, stuck up everywhere. I recognize the style of the artist. The artist is my son Ed. This time I can see clearly the subject matter of the pictures. They are pictures of harps, all different sizes, colored in different-colored crayons. The lines of the strings are thick in some places and thin in others and they go over the sides of the harp frames and the woodwork is scribbly and the straight edges aren’t straight, but I think that they’re by far the best pictures I’ve ever seen.

  “Do you know how many there are?” Ed cries.

  “Yes,” I answer, because I’ve counted already. “There are thirty-two.”

  “Do you like them?”

  I say that I do indeed. Seldom have I liked anything more.

  “Ellie said I should do them for you!” he exclaims, pulling me by the jacket toward the wall to look at them more closely. “Ellie said you’d be missing all the burned harps and she said if I drew some more you’d be cheer-upping much quicker.”

  “Ellie?” I’d no idea Ed had seen Ellie since the fire. I thought Ellie was up in Yorkshire. That’s what Jo had told me. Up in Yorkshire and busy sorting herself out. Not wanting to speak to me on the phone or anything because she was so very busy. That’s what Jo had told me.

  Jo looks over at Ed with arched eyebrows. Then she turns to me: “Ellie came back here the other day to check that everything was OK. Ed and I came to meet her here because she said she needed to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. It was just a flying visit.”

  “I saw her afterward,” Thomas adds. “She called in at my place to drop off Linda’s clothes. Just as well or I’d have been in for it. That was Linda’s favorite sweater, you know.”

  That was kind of Ellie to check up on everything so carefully. But I feel a bit odd about her coming all that way and seeing everybody except me.

  I wish Ellie was here now. But I expect she’ll be back soon. She’s bound to be back soon. She’ll be wanting to play her harp.

  “Have you seen, Dan? The staircase is new too!” Jo points out.

  She is right. The staircase is made of oak wood, very handsome. I stroke the banister admiringly. Then I go up the stairs. I count as I go. There are still seventeen steps, a thing that pleases me a lot.

  I feel all sorts of things being back here again. Suitable metaphors for the way I feel might be: a singing bird, a dancer’s feet, a skipping lamb, a burst of wonderful music. But as I reach the top of the stairs I see a sight that changes everything in an instant. The singing bird suddenly develops a sore throat. The dancer’s feet are yucky and smelly. The skipping lamb has landed in the mire. The burst of wonderful music has ended on a jarring chord.

  There, in front of me, in the little room, is Ellie’s harp. But it is pushed against the wall and draped in a big white sheet. At once I know that the harp is conveying a sorrowful message. A message so sorrowful I can hardly bear to think of it. The harp tells me that it will not be played anymore, perhaps not ever. The harp tells me that Ellie Jacobs is gone.

  | 52 |

  Ellie

  Mum is staring fixedly at a picture of a flock of sheep that’s hanging on her wall. I have to tell her now.

  “Mum, listen! I’m leaving the country. I’ll be away for quite some time . . .”

  She says nothing.

  “I promise I’ll ring you when I can.”

  “And you still have no idea where?” Vic asks, absently curling a strand of her hair.

  “I don’t know where I’ll end up. The only thing I know is that it will be somewhere totally, totally different from home.” My voice sounds alien. Sharp.

  My sister sighs. “Oh, Ellie! You will come back, won’t you?”

  I go to the window and look out. There is only a view of a car park.

  “Ellie,” Mum says abruptly, as if referring to somebody not in the room. “She always was difficult in that way. Head full of strange ideas. Don’t know where she got them from.”

  I smile darkly. “Mum, take care, won’t you?”

  “Take care yourself!” she returns, as if it was an insult.

  I stoop and kiss her.

  * * *

  • • •

  I snuggle into Dan’s jacket during the flight. I should have left it in the barn for him but didn’t. The conversation with Jo reruns
in my head.

  I asked if Dan was OK. She said yes, he was much better. I asked if he had managed to forgive me for all the trouble I’d unwittingly caused. She replied, “Forgive? Don’t be silly! Dan doesn’t think in that way.” I try to recall her face as she said it, her intonation and her intention, but I can’t wring any extra clues from my memory.

  Ed clamored to be first in, thrilled to see the barn’s transformation. When I made my suggestion about drawing the harps he was all eagerness. He reminded me of his father so much.

  I walked around trying to take it all in, not sure if I approved or not of this brand-new version of my fairy-tale place. It was well finished and pristine, but it just seemed so empty.

  I asked Jo if it was all right, if I’d forgotten anything. She said: “Looks good to me!” I thought for a moment she was going to hug me, but she didn’t. She gave me a little pat on the back instead. “Well done, Ellie. And thank you. And, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right decision.”

  “About the barn?” I said.

  “About everything.”

  About everything. That clearly included getting out of Dan’s life without even a good-bye. Despite my efforts and all the money I’d spent I was seen as a disruptive element. I wasn’t welcome anymore. Dan wanted to be free of me. Jo had made that perfectly clear. It was a bitter pill.

  * * *

  • • •

  The sun is twinkling on the lagoon, making a thousand golden loops and twists on the water’s surface. I watch from the balcony of the villa where I’m staying. The old me would have written a poem, but now all I can do is gaze. I am mesmerized by the honey-colored shapes forever dividing and joining in bright, restless patterns. Above them, Venice gleams. Something about the buildings reminds me of antique lace. They are so intricate in their design and so perfect. They stand proud, starched and taut against the blue sky, but their upside-down reflections are a different matter, loosely weaving and wobbling, unsure of themselves.

  Here I am, living in a crowded city, but I’m a sad, solitary creature. Even though I jostle with people every day I feel no connection with the rest of humanity. I hardly talk to anyone. It’s a relief to be so anonymous. This landscape of palazzi, gondolas, bridges and bell towers provides a picturesque setting, but their beauty fails to resonate the way it should. I spend my days wandering in the myriad twisting backstreets. I get lost often and don’t care greatly. I don’t eat much: an occasional panino from a bar or a thick hot chocolate to keep me going. Every little thing—brushing my teeth in the morning, putting on clothes, even breathing—seems a massive effort. The future looms ahead of me, dark and empty. Pointless.

  The slim, bronzed lady in reception is curious about me.

  “Signora Jacobs is always only her, singly, alone. She waits for her man?”

  “No,” I tell her. “There is no man.”

  She throws up her hands in horror. “Then she must find one, here in Italia. We have many fine men here!”

  “Yes, you do,” I acknowledge.

  Perhaps that will be a way forward. Perhaps I’ll forget my past in the arms of an Italian. The quickest route to forgetfulness—that’s what I crave.

  My former life won’t leave me alone. Memories torture me. Images flick in and out of my mind: Clive watching football, Clive giving me jewelry, Clive kissing my neck. Clive with the newspaper, Clive with the whiskey bottle, Clive with the poker. I try to understand. Did I ever love him? You could say that I did. You could say that he loved me too. Neither of us really questioned it during those long years together. But I see everything in a different light now, a light that is tainted with violent, flickering orange. I see another Clive. He is nothing like the man I thought he was. The qualities I admired were all sham. His violent reactions to everything (which I’d interpreted as strength of character) were plain, childish, self-serving neediness. Clive needed me badly, but in fact I’ve never needed him. Far from it. I was the rock in the relationship. But this discovery has brought no joy. Rocks are heavy. Rocks sink easily.

  More painful still are those other thoughts. Thoughts about my harp and the harpmaker who set in motion all the events that have led me to this spot. Feelings run deep. Thank God I managed to repair the barn! That helps soften the distress, but it is always present, a dark underground gully of guilt, hurt and sorrow.

  “Signora Jacobs will find a handsome Italian man and be happy again!” cries my concerned receptionist.

  “Will she?” I answer, not meeting her eye. “We’ll see.”

  | 53 |

  Dan

  Thomas takes a swig of cider. “So, mate, what’s going on with your love life?”

  I take a swig of mine. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I confirm.

  He takes another swig. It glugs noisily in his throat. “Roe Deer?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Ellie J, the Exmoor Housewife?” he asks.

  I shake my head again.

  “She’s gone, then?”

  “Gone,” I say.

  I hear nothing from her. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel or think.

  “So you don’t have any lovely ladies visiting you anymore?”

  I acknowledge that this is the case.

  “Well, that’s a turnup for the books, boyo!” he says.

  I ask him which books he is talking about.

  “The books of Grim Despair,” he answers, ensuring both words have capital letters.

  We sit and swig in silence for a while until our glasses are empty.

  “Women!” says Thomas. He then stands up with a sigh, goes to the bar and asks for another round of ciders. The barmaid with painted-on eyebrows smiles and the barman with the shiny face says, “No worries.”

  Thomas brings back the ciders and goes on to tell me all about his most recent arguments with his wife.

  Thomas and I have a lot of conversations like this.

  On the journey to and from the pub I get the back of my neck licked by his dogs.

  * * *

  • • •

  I need to make harps quickly now and sell them to help pay the bills and to contribute toward Ed’s upkeep. I am making four simultaneously. My sister Jo has said we need more publicity. She has made a lot of flyers with pictures of a harp and the website details and the words: Would you like a harp? Take a look at this! She originally put three exclamation marks on it, but I said that was too many.

  “Do you think so?” she said. “Well, maybe you’re right. Less is more.”

  I pointed out that this was a contradiction in terms and actually less is less whereas more is more. And in my opinion less than three exclamation marks was what we needed. Less than two, even. One would be quite adequate. I wasn’t even sure we needed one.

  “OK, OK, whatever you want,” is what she said.

  I am grateful to be back here and pleased to be making harps again. But I am not in the mood for exclamation marks. Not at all.

  * * *

  • • •

  I walk, I make harps, I feed Phineas, I eat sandwiches, same as usual. I do not eat so many spicy things now and there is not so much variety in my life. However, my sister Jo visits more than she used to. She brings stew and soup and gives me instructions about this and that. My son Ed still comes to visit on Saturdays too.

  Our harp is coming on nicely. We spent a long time discussing what sort of a harp it is to be, but now that’s settled. It will be made out of walnut wood, because he likes the quality of the graining in the wood and the color, which he says is the right amount of dark. I tell him about the special kind of deep resonance that walnut has. He tells me he does not like to eat walnuts because they taste like bricks, but that he thinks a harp made out of them will be good. We go out for long trips pebble hunti
ng, putting on our wellies and following the path of the stream together.

  We have found the right pebble. It is roughly diamond shaped and is very light, almost white, with a dove-gray mottling. There were a few possibilities, but Ed said as soon as we saw it that this was the one. He held it between his finger and thumb and viewed it from every angle. Then he looked at me with his big, round eyes.

  “Do you miss her?” he said.

  I asked him if he was referring to his mother, Roe Deer.

  “No,” he said. “I mean the kind woman. The woman with the nice hair and sad eyes. The woman who slid all about everywhere in the snow. Who read us the ‘Jabberwocky’ poem. Who got me to draw harps. Ellie.”

  I thought about Ellie Jacobs the Exmoor Housewife. Some people, when you don’t see them for a long time, become sort of transparent and blurry round the edges. Ellie Jacobs is not one of these people.

  I told him yes.

  “I thought so,” he said, and his eyes looked straight into mine in a way that made me look everywhere but back at him.

  “Is she coming back ever?” he asked.

  I said I didn’t know. But I thought in all likelihood she wasn’t.

  We were silent for a bit. I was aware of Exmoor stretching all around us. The trees were scratchy and sharp against the raw, empty February sky. In the silence I thought more and more about Ellie and why she went away after the fire. I guess it can only be because she loved her husband Clive very much but he had planned to do an awful thing and she knew she couldn’t go back to him once she knew about the awful thing but she still felt lost and lonely and sad and probably just wanted things to go back to the way they were before but that was impossible. Love can be very complicated. I should know. I would so much have liked love to be a part of my own life, especially where Ellie Jacobs is concerned, but I am made of all the wrong ingredients. I know that now.