House of Silence (11 page)

‘Not to me, I can assure you! I design and
sew for a living and I spend my working life surrounded by clutter.
You should try spending a day on a film set - organised chaos!
Creativity
is
untidy! My mother used to say, “Tidy home,
boring mind.” ’

‘Is she still alive, your mother?’

‘No, long dead. I have no living relatives.
None that I know of anyway.’

‘Well, you’re welcome to some of mine,’ said
Hattie, wrinkling her nose.

‘Do you know, that’s exactly what Alfie
said!’

‘Did he?’

‘Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have repeated it.
It wasn’t a very kind thing to say, after all.’

‘Alfie isn’t particularly kind,’ Hattie
replied, matter-of-fact. ‘He does his duty. And that’s all we can
expect of him.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think good manners
dictate a bit more than just duty. Not to mention Christmas
spirit.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Hattie said
patiently. ‘It’s very good of Alfie to come and see us. We don’t
expect any more of him.’

‘Maybe you don’t.’ Gwen replied. ‘But
I
do.’

Hattie stared at her a moment, then took her
hand. ‘Come on in. Let’s unpack your things.’

She opened the door and turned on the light
revealing a large attic room with dark oak beams and a sloping
ceiling where, to judge from the brown stains on the white
emulsion, the roof had once leaked. The room was furnished with a
selection of pieces ranging over the last 150 years, all of them
ugly, some of them chipped and scratched. The floorboards were bare
apart from a few rag rugs faded to indeterminate hue and an Indian
dhurrie, which Gwen identified at once as Habitat c.1980, because
she’d grown up with it. There were two dormer windows, hung with
gaudy patchwork hangings in place of curtains, and an exuberant
hexagon quilt on the double bed.

‘Grandmother’s flower garden!’ Gwen
exclaimed, walking over to the bed and laying her hand reverently
on the quilt. ‘I
love
that old pattern! Oh, where did you
get that green? It’s very unusual. You can’t get greens like that
now.’

‘It was a summer dress of my grandmother’s.
From the 1930s.’

‘Thought so... These hexagons are quite
small, Hattie. And you’ve done it all by hand. It must have taken
you ages.’

‘
Years
. There were times when I
thought I wouldn’t live long enough to finish it. Viv used to call
it Hattie’s Unfinished Symphony. But I did in the end. It’s
cheerful isn’t it? I like to have it on the bed in winter because
it reminds me of summer. Flowerbeds surrounded by lawn.’

‘I like your big quilting stitches. They’re
a design feature, aren’t they?’

‘It’s meant to look like rain coming down.
You know - like stair-rods.’

‘Oh yes! How clever.’

‘I
can
do very small quilting
stitches but I fancied a change. I called the quilt
Summer
Showers
. It won second prize in a local show.’

‘Congratulations. Did you make the curtains
too? I love them!’

‘They were going to be quilts for twin beds
but I got fed up and decided to make them into curtains
instead.’

‘Where do you keep your other quilts? You
must have more. I’d love to see them.’

‘My unfinished quilts - and all the old
ones, made by dead people - are in the trunk.’ She pointed to a
large leather trunk at the end of the bed. ‘I’ve put all my
finished quilts and my sewing things into the cupboard under the
eaves, apart from some hand quilting. I left that out to do in the
evenings. I like to have something to do with my hands, otherwise
I’m fidgety and get on everyone’s nerves. But I haven’t really got
time to sew at the moment. I’m supposed to be practising my piano
part.’

Gwen folded back the hexagon quilt and
lifted her case up onto the bed. ‘Are you giving a recital?’

‘Well, not exactly a
recital
. We do a
little concert every Christmas Eve. It’s a family tradition now.
Alfie and I do Flanders and Swann and Tyler and I murder the
classics.’

‘Alfie
sings
?’

‘Oh yes. Very well.’

Gwen unzipped her case and carefully removed
some wrapped presents while Hattie watched, wide-eyed. ‘What
instrument does Tyler play?’

‘The cello. He’s very good.’

‘Do your sisters take part?’ Gwen shook out
some clothes and Hattie indicated a rail with coat-hangers.

‘Deb used to recite the odd poem, but she
hasn’t performed since Bryan left. We don’t ever mention him, by
the way. Well,
we
don’t, but Rae does. She can’t seem to get
it into her head that Bryan isn’t part of the family any more.
You’ll have to turn a blind eye - or rather a deaf ear - to Rae’s
ramblings.’

‘I gathered from Tyler that Rae has a
problem with names generally.’

‘Yes, she does. She probably won’t remember
yours but you mustn’t take any notice. Fanny makes things worse by
bringing a different man every year - well, almost. We long ago
gave up trying to get Rae to remember the name of the new
incumbent. She calls them all Henry because that’s what Fan’s first
husband was called.’

‘Oh dear. That must be awkward for Frances.
And her men friends.’

‘Oh no, they’re always very obliging once
the situation’s explained to them. Fan likes her men biddable, so
they answer to anything. She calls them all “darling”. I think
that’s because even
she
gets confused at times. But we have
to make allowances for Rae and our visitors do too. Did Tyler tell
you
his
real name?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Gosh, you must have made an
impression!’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because Tyler doesn’t tell anybody
anything
. He’s been working for us for - oh, I don’t know
how long...
years
. Yet nobody knows anything about him.
Well, I do, a little bit, because we’re friends, but none of the
others know much about him. I think Fanny tried to get him into bed
once, but I suspect she failed. Either that or he was no good when
she got him there.’ Gwen choked suddenly and Hattie rushed to the
bedside table, poured a glass of water from a carafe and handed it
to her. Gwen controlled her coughing and stood blinking away tears,
unable to suppress a smile. ‘Anyway,’ Hattie continued, ‘Fan was
pretty grumpy, for whatever reason. Of course, she was still
married to Husband Number Two then, so that could have accounted
for it, even if Tyler hadn’t turned her down... Sorry - am I boring
you, going on like this? I forget you won’t be interested in all
our
complications
. You’re not family.’

‘Maybe not, but I’m still interested in
everything you have to say. You’re good company, Hattie. We must
sit and sew together and have a good old natter. Put the world to
rights.’

‘Did you bring some sewing?’

‘I never travel anywhere without.’

‘Oh, yes - let’s! That would be wonderful!’
said Hattie, clapping her hands.

‘Did you know that in the days of the
American pioneers, it was essential for women to turn up for the
communal quilting bee? If you didn’t, your character would be
assassinated in your absence by the assembled needlewomen.’

‘Really? Just
think
of all the
stories those old quilts could tell, if only they could speak!’

‘I think they do tell stories, in their way.
Silent stories.’ Gwen removed her case from the bed and smoothed
the quilt back into place, stroking Hattie’s pattern of stitches.
‘You just have to know how to read them.’

Gwen

Hattie said she needed to go and peel potatoes, so
she left me to sort myself out. I drew the heavy patchwork
curtains, shutting out the darkness. I set out my toiletries on a
chest of drawers and peered at my tired face in a cracked gilt
mirror. I hoped the blemishes were on the mirror’s surface and not
mine. Contemplating the luxury of a bath, it occurred to me that,
although she’d left me towels, Hattie had neither shown me where
the bathroom was, nor invited me to use it. I thought this was more
likely to be a reflection of her social skills than an embargo on
hot water usage. And it
was
cold. Once you moved out of the
vicinity of the Aga, the draughts made their presence felt. A chill
rose up from the stone-flagged floor in the hall and lodged in the
marrow of your bones.

The idea of a bath began to seem more and
more appealing, so I set off down the little winding staircase with
towel and toilet bag, hoping that the plumbing wouldn’t prove to be
Jacobean.

Well, it wasn’t twenty-first century. Barely
even twentieth. I found a cavernous bathroom in which you could
have held a small cocktail party and still had plenty of room to
circulate. There was something that I thought was probably a
primitive Edwardian shower, but it might equally have been a relic
from an aqueous torture chamber, so I decided to play safe and run
a bath. As I contemplated the depth of the claw-footed, cast iron
monstrosity, it struck me that if I wanted to be ready in time for
dinner, I should have started running the water an hour ago.
Nothing daunted, I turned on the mighty brass taps.

The room echoed with the distant sound of
trumpeting elephants. Trumpeting elephants in pain. The pipes
juddered and the wooden floorboards began to vibrate. Was this a
quirk of the plumbing or was Creake Hall now the epicentre of a
minor earthquake? I almost lost my nerve and turned the water off,
but as steam rose from the depths of the bath, the thought of a
long, hot soak proved irresistible. The herd of elephants began to
retreat, the earthquake abated, until there was just the sound of
water cascading into the bath. I poured in some bath oil, removed
my clothes, clambered over the high side and wallowed.

Bliss... Or it was until I remembered this
was Christmas. A family time. For once I was spending it with a
family, but not my own. Would that make it easier or harder for me
to get through the yearly ordeal of remembrance? Spending Christmas
with Alfie’s eccentric relations surely couldn’t be any worse than
spending it alone, or in the dubious company of the night shelter
derelicts at St. Patrick’s?

Perhaps I would have a
wonderful
time. Viv and Hattie seemed very nice and the gardener was... Was
what? ‘Interesting’ was as far as I was prepared to commit myself.
Now, if Alfie would just thaw a little towards his family, surely a
good time could be had by all, even me?

A good time... My family’s speciality.
Burning the candle at both ends and melting it in the middle.
Perhaps they were all still having a good time, wherever they were.
Given their track record, presumably not Heaven. But surely the
afterlife in the other place must be like one gigantic party, with
people turning up unexpectedly, decidedly the worse for wear. The
music would be too loud, the food would be stale and the white wine
would - naturally - be warm. But Sasha, Sam and Frank would still
be having a good time, of that I had no doubt.

I lay on my back and studied the ceiling,
seasonably festooned with chains of dusty cobwebs. ‘Merry
Christmas, Sasha... Aunt Sam... Uncle Frank.’ My voice sounded
hollow, echoey, not like mine at all. ‘I’m having a wonderful
time,’ I murmured. ‘Wish you were here...’

I got out of the bath, dried my body and my eyes, got
dressed and donned comfy old slippers. I went back downstairs
again, heading for the warmth of the kitchen and the sound of
voices.

The slippers were possibly a mistake.

Marek was at the sink, washing his hands. (I
couldn’t think of him as Tyler now I knew that wasn’t his name.) I
tried to ignore the fact I felt pleased to see him again and in
better light. Such an emotion seemed quite unaccountable, so I
decided not to account for it.

Viv and Hattie were preparing dinner.
‘Gwen!’ said Viv, smiling broadly. ‘Another cup of tea? Sit down
and make yourself at home. Have you met Tyler?’

‘Yes. We had a chat in the garden.’

Marek twisted round from the sink to nod at
me - it wasn’t quite a smile - then said, ‘You didn’t get lost
then?’

‘No. I stuck to the path, as you
suggested.’

‘You weren’t tempted to stray?’ He smiled
and, to my total consternation, I blushed. I turned away and sat
down at the kitchen table, from where I was still able to observe
him. He’d removed the scruffy woollen layers and his boots and I
contemplated a tall, long-limbed frame that dwarfed even Viv as she
stood beside him, beating hell out of a Yorkshire pudding batter. I
couldn’t imagine why I’d thought he was old. It must have been his
stooping posture and the silver hair, which gleamed now under the
bright kitchen lights.

Marek was washing his hands with a clinical
thoroughness, scrubbing at his skin and nails with a brush. As I
watched, one of his hands started to bleed. ‘Oh, stop!’ I
exclaimed. ‘You’re bleeding.’

He looked up, surprised, and said, ‘It’s
nothing. I just stabbed myself with some holly. Looks worse than it
is because of the hot water.’

‘When was your last tetanus?’ Viv said,
taking a break from her batter. ‘Perhaps you should you put a
plaster on it.’

‘Have you got one of those Mickey Mouse
jobs?’ he replied.

‘No, Hattie had the last of those. We’re
down to bog-standard Elastoplast.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll pass then.’

‘Serves you right if you bleed to death,’
Hattie said cheerfully, as she lobbed another peeled potato into a
pan.

Leaning over to grab some kitchen towel,
Marek said, ‘Thanks, Hattie. You’re all heart.’ He dried his hands
with the same thoroughness with which he’d washed them. I stared,
fascinated, at his long, bony fingers manipulating the bloodstained
paper. I remembered Hattie had said he played the cello, that we
would hear him play on Christmas Eve. I didn’t actually like the
cello - a mournful, depressing sound, I’d always thought, but I was
prepared to admit I might have been over-hasty in my judgement. One
should keep an open mind. (Though I wasn’t entirely sure it should
be kept as open as mine.)