Ellie and the Harpmaker

by Hazel Prior

  “If Ellie would come back you’d like it, Dad, wouldn’t you? You’d be happy if that would happen, much more than now?”

  I said I would, I would indeed be happy more than now, hugely more. A flock of feelings like a murmuration of starlings swirled around inside me at such a thought, then disappeared again over the dim horizon. Strange things were happening with my face too, things I couldn’t control.

  “Can I come and live with you one day, Dad?” is what my son Ed said next.

  I bent over and started picking up lots of pebbles very fast without even registering what shape and color they were. I told him that if it was up to me I’d say yes of course, but I didn’t think it was up to me. It wasn’t even up to him, which isn’t very logical at all, but then you have to accept that because lots of things in life aren’t. It was up to Roe Deer and Roe Deer’s parents and the laws of the land; and probably all three parties would not take kindly to the fact that I was penniless and living out in the wilds and not quite like other people, and also I was not (and never had been) married to Roe Deer, which seemed to make a major difference about how much of a father I was allowed to be. I knew all about it because Jo had given me a briefing just in case the subject should crop up.

  I noticed Ed’s look of intense concentration while I was telling him this. I said I didn’t really expect him to understand and I didn’t fully understand it myself. However, if he was sure he wanted to come and live here (and I would love it myself if that happened; in fact, I had begun to feel recently that my life was maybe lacking in some way, which is a thing I had not thought previously, not at all), then it was probably worth mentioning the fact to his grandparents. There was a slight possibility they might consider it was a good idea too. At least, Jo had said so. And who knew what his mother thought? I certainly didn’t.

  “Shall I ask her what she thinks next time I see her?” he said.

  “You could,” I said. But I wasn’t sure. Sure is a thing I am not feeling much these days.

  Ellie’s harp sits under its sheet in the little room. Nobody has touched it for months now. It looks lonely there, shrouded in white. The sight of it fills me with feelings as sad as November rain. It is looking as if Ellie’s harp will sit there unplayed forever.

  | 54 |

  Ellie

  Water. This is a city of water. Water surrounds me. I am aware of it all the time, everywhere I go. The constant lap and plash, the transparent colors, the moving ripples. Water becomes more and more seductive. It is so golden, so peaceful, so full of light. Like music, like a dreamworld. How would it feel to plunge in, to immerse myself completely, to breathe in that sweet forgetfulness? How many breaths would it take?

  The idea is alluring. No more decisions. Present, past, all my problems dissolved and washed away. Beautifully simple.

  For the first time I really understand what Christina is talking about when she describes her bouts of depression. It is like huge black weights loaded onto your heart. Beauty and sunshine only serve to make your own darkness darker. While the outside world becomes brighter and busier week by week, I feel I’m sinking ever deeper into hopelessness. I tell myself to get a grip, to move on . . . and the weights only get heavier. I am tired of life.

  I watch the water for a while, then retreat from the balcony. I still have a sister. I still have at least one friend.

  The most recent letter from Christina is lying on the bed. I bring it out and adjust the wicker chair to be sheltered a little from the Italian heat of the April sunshine. Then I sit and reread.

  Christina writes that, despite the disappointing lack of beach bums, the holiday in Thailand worked wonders. Although her tan has now faded she’s keeping her spirits up. She even mentions trying to quit smoking. Meow, who still hasn’t forgiven her for the prolonged stay in the cattery, is at least glad on this count. Christina’s son, the irascible Alex, has been on a visit, bringing the Swiss girlfriend. It seems an announcement was made at the girlfriend’s house in Geneva on Christmas Day—an announcement they had tried to relay to Christina but she was unattainable. However, now that they’ve met, Christina approves of her daughter-in-law-to-be and is excited about the prospect of becoming a grandmother, even though she says she feels far too young for the role.

  Christina has sent me a cutting from a local newspaper too. The headline caught my eye straightaway: Taunton harpist and guitarist tie the knot. In the photo is a handsome couple: she, immaculate and svelte in a close-fitting, low-cut wedding dress, cleavage on display; he, suited and smiling, the cat that got the cream. I wonder if little Edward was there at the wedding. I am not surprised I wasn’t invited.

  Everyone else is moving on with their lives, but I can’t seem to do that. It has been two months since I left England. As a long-term guest I have a reduced rate at the pensione, but my stash of money is dwindling. When the house sale goes through I’ll have to get myself sorted, but my mind shuts down every time I attempt any plans for the future.

  I stir myself to action. I’ll go and visit San Marco. For now I’ll satisfy myself by drowning in splendor.

  I don’t need a jacket, as the April air is warm, but I take one anyway. I’m not sure how long I’ll linger. I walk down through the palazzo and out onto the front steps, bidding buona sera to the lady at reception. She is listlessly turning the pages of a fashion magazine.

  “Buona sera,” she returns, lifting her head briefly. Then “Signora Jacobs!” she calls after me as I reach the bottom step. “There is letter for you!”

  I come back inside. The letter is from Vic this time. I decide to take it with me and open it on a bench somewhere. I put it in my pocket.

  It would be quicker to take a vaporetto down the canals, but I take the long route along the streets and over the bridges because the walk is as important as the destination.

  At last I find myself in Piazza San Marco. The paving gleams white in the sunlight. Pigeons swarm and strut hither and thither in a vast bedraggled congregation. The basilica looms in front of me.

  I perch on a bench overlooking the water and pull Vic’s letter from my pocket. I’m disappointed to see she hasn’t written much, but there’s a scrawly picture in crayons, evidently drawn by a child. I assume it’s from Zoe, the younger of my nieces. I don’t pay it much attention but read what Vic has written.

  Hi, Ellie. Not much time to write, but will send you a proper letter soon. I was surprised when this arrived in the post yesterday. Jo sent it. She said she was babysitting for Ed the other day and he drew it while she was getting tea. The guy in the picture is Dan, as you might see by the dark eyes and hair. Jo asked Ed if the woman was Rhoda and he said no. Then he told her it was you, the kind woman called Ellie. Jo kept the picture for a while, then decided to send it here, as she still has my address. She said I could forward it to you if I thought it was a good idea. And—well—here it is!

  Very much love,

  Vic

  I take the picture again, touched, but wondering why on earth they’d bothered.

  In the background is a big, brown triangle, presumably the Harp Barn. A yellow sun sits in the sky, surrounded by ragged rays. The stick figures are standing close together at the front of the drawing. Dan has huge eyes and I have a mop of scribbled hair. Our spiky fingers are intertwined. Big smiles are on both our faces.

  How did Ed get this image in his head? Dan and I have never held hands. Did I let on to Ed in any way that I loved his father? No, I never did—I was careful not to! How could a child so young have gleaned such a thing? I fold the paper up and shove it back in my pocket.

  I cross the piazza and step into the vast, vaulted portico. At once I am aware of music, wonderful music like a distant chorus of angels. I push the heavy door and walk into the main body of the basilica. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see there’s a choir assembled at the far end, some fifty or sixty singers. They have no uniform bu
t are carefully arranged with the women in front and the men behind, tallest in the middle. Their voices rise, echoing and surging through the vaults. A small, sweaty-looking conductor waves a baton at them and leaps about. I stand and listen.

  “La musica è bella, no?” says a voice at my shoulder.

  “Sì, bella,” I answer. It’s about as far as my Italian will stretch.

  “You are English?” he asks. He is a tall, smartly dressed man with glittering eyes and a curved beak of a nose.

  “Yes. Is it that obvious?”

  “To me, yes. You have that—how do you say? That certain freshness that is very, very typical.”

  I presume it’s a compliment so I smile politely.

  He indicates the choir. “They practice for a concert tonight. It will be good, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely music.”

  “Will you come this evening to hear them?”

  I shake my head. “I think not.”

  He is standing too close. “Where are you from? London? Birmingham? Brighton?”

  “No,” I answer. “Exmoor.” As I say the word the singing soars up to an almost impossibly high note.

  “Ah, I don’t know it,” says the man. “You are all alone here in Venezia?”

  I wish he would stop talking. I want to listen to the music. I have a feeling it is trying to tell me something.

  “You are married or no?” Only an Italian could be so blatant.

  “Yes,” I say impatiently, although it won’t be true for much longer. I don’t wear my rings anymore.

  I am aware of the man searching my face for signs of encouragement. I don’t give him any. I fix my eyes on the choir.

  “Your husband, he is a lucky man,” he says finally.

  “Mm-mm.”

  At last he is gone. I can give the music my undivided attention.

  It is golden and opulent, like its surroundings. Every note is polished and perfected by the joint expertise of the conductor and the choir. The harmonies are a mosaic, full, rich and complex. The effect is dazzling.

  I feel a twinge inside me. It will not leave me alone as I stand there in the vastness and listen. I turn my eyes inward and examine the twinge. Finally I recognize what it is. It is a longing to make my own much simpler music. It is a longing to play the harp again.

  I have left my harp in Dan’s little room in the Harp Barn on Exmoor.

  Why did I do that? I could easily have taken it with me. It isn’t so very heavy and I don’t exactly have much other luggage.

  I know the answer. I was clinging to the tiniest, last shred of hope that one day I’d go back. Crazy. It’s time to let go of that now. Let go, Ellie. I must and I will let go.

  My footsteps are heavy as I walk out of the building, through the porch and into the light of the piazza again. Ed’s drawing is still in my pocket. I pull it out and take another look. Such a sweet picture. A picture of my own lost dream: so simple, just two figures, me and Dan, together. If only it had been his dream, too . . .

  Then I realize there are a few words written on the other side of the paper. Words in a child’s large, loopy writing.

  If this wud happin my DaD wud be happi agen.

  | 55 |

  Dan

  Spring is here. Catkins blow on the hazels. The birds tweetle loudly in the bushes. Clouds roll across the sky and days come and go. There are new beech leaves everywhere. They are meticulously folded like tiny fans. Once they uncurl themselves they are the palest of emerald greens, pleated and perfect. Their edges are trimmed with fur, downy and white. I look at them and I stroke them. My fingers are too big and rough. I show them to my son Ed. He looks at them and strokes them too. His fingers are more like it.

  Phineas disappears for longer and longer. I suspect that now the sap is rising he has decided he needs a lady love and so off he goes, searching for one. Thomas says it is a miracle he didn’t end up in a pie. I tell him I will not come out for a drink with him again if he says such things. He says sorry to upset you, mate. Only kidding. He says he has actually gone quite soft himself. He says he has told his wife Linda not to cook any pheasants for dinner anymore. Out of respect. He and his wife had a flaming row about it apparently. Then afterward she said she was sorry and said he did have a heart after all and she was glad of it, then they went to bed together. We toast that and Phineas’s health with a fresh round of beers. Thomas says he’s sorry it didn’t work out for you with Ellie J, boyo. I drink deep of my beer and try not to think about it. But I do think about it. All the time.

  The little birch saplings that Ellie and I planted for Ellie’s birthday have begun to sprout in the seed tray. They are tiny and vulnerable, so I keep them sheltered. Weeds often grow in among them, so I keep them weeded. They get thirsty on dry days so I keep them watered. They will need to be planted out one day, but they are not ready yet. You can’t rush birch trees.

  Roe Deer has been to visit. She said she is extremely tired what with trying to organize her harp tour and having to put off the honeymoon and everything. She said her professional life as a harpist does keep her so busy. She said that she has talked it over with her parents and her new guitar man husband and if Ed really wants to come and live here with me, we could try it out for a while. I am, after all, his father. And her parents, although they love Ed very much, are getting rather too old and creaky to cope with his levels of energy. As long as I promise to feed him properly (not just sandwiches) and make sure he gets to school (which is a long way, so we’d have to get up very early and I’d take him in the Land Rover) and do up the little room for him so that it’s comfortable for a five-year-old boy (I could certainly make it train-trackable) and other such things, then that’s all right with her. But she and her parents still want to see him. Perhaps he could go to their house in Taunton at weekends and stay with me during the week—in fact, exactly the opposite of what it has been up until now. I said this seemed a very good plan to me.

  I made the little room train-trackable and Ed moved in the following week. His grandparents brought him and a car stacked high with stuff. It was too much stuff to cram into the little room, so Ed and I made some decisions about how to simplify his life, and he gave his grandparents permission to take half of it away again. He will have an abundance of things when he goes to visit them at weekends, but while he is with me he will have Exmoor trees and fields and streams and pheasants and pebbles and not a lot more. His grandparents tutted and raised their eyebrows at this, but Ed seems to be happy with the idea, and so am I.

  We go for lots of walks together now the days are getting longer. There are lady’s-smocks growing in the marsh, hundreds of them, white with just the faintest hint of purple. The orange-tip butterflies love them. They flutter around or else sit on the petals, happily sunning their wings. The woods have turned green again. The meadows are studded with bright yellow celandines.

  Ed and I climbed the hill the other day and counted sheep. Ed said it would make us fall asleep if we did that, but actually it didn’t. We counted two hundred and seventeen.

  “Don’t you feel even a little bit sleepy?” he asked me on the two hundred and seventeenth.

  I told him no.

  “Nor me,” he said. “Maybe it only works if you’re lying down.”

  I told him we’d have to try that sometime.

  As we were coming to the highest part of the hill (the part where there’s a row of beech trees growing out of an ancient stone wall), I looked back over the view and what I saw was this: a woman. She was quite a way down the valley, on the banks of the stream. The woman was stooping down among the young fronds to pick something up. The woman had walnut-colored hair and I knew, even though I could not at all see them from this distance, that she had eyes the color of bracken in October. She was wearing long boots and a cornflower-blue skirt and a white top. She had over one shoulder an
enormous bag, canvas.

  As soon as I saw her my two feet started running. They couldn’t and wouldn’t stop. They took me stumbling, tumbling, leaping and bounding, round the gorse bushes, over the rocks and through the bracken. They took me at full speed all the way down the hill. Ed took off too and ran after me.

  Ed’s legs are quite a bit shorter than mine. Because of this I arrived at the stream a long time before him.

  I stopped just before I reached her. “Ellie,” I panted. “Ellie.”

  “Dan,” is what she said.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to do, but she knew exactly what to do. She took three swift paces toward me. She put both her arms around me and hugged tight, like she never wanted to let go. It hurt a bit, but at the same time was nice, very, very, very and even more verys than that. The stream trickled and giggled beside us.

  We only stopped hugging when Ed caught up with us and gave a loud “Ahem!”

  “Ed,” said Ellie, turning toward him. “I’m so happy to see you again.” She stuck out her hand to him. He shook it up and down lots of times.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Then she asked after Phineas and we told her Phineas was well and she said she was glad.

  “I can’t believe I’ve found you two,” she said next, laughing (she always did have a problem believing things). “I was in Italy this morning. I’ve just arrived back in Exmoor. I came out here to the stream on impulse. I haven’t even been to the Harp Barn yet.”

  I told her that when she did go she would find her harp waiting for her. But it was not in the little room now because that was Ed’s room and full of Ed’s bed and other things. Ed likes to run around in his room a lot, knocking everything over. So to keep it safe I had moved the harp into my bedroom.