House of Silence (18 page)

But it wasn’t really like that. Marek was
just being kind. And I was just being... what?
Pathetic
. Not
like myself at all. Anyone less wilting-violet than me would be
hard to imagine. Ask anyone. Phlegmatic, that’s me. Unflappable.
Unshock-able. Bomb-proof. And one stupid little photo undid all
that? A photo and a few kind words from a man old enough - just -
to be my father?

‘Pull yourself together, Gwen.’

I actually said that.
Out loud
.

‘Why? Are you falling apart? Have we got to
you already?’

Startled, I turned round to see Hattie
walking the dogs. (Strictly speaking, they were walking her.)

‘We wondered where you’d got to. Alfie said
you’d probably eaten some of my porridge, then very sensibly rung
for an ambulance and been carted off to casualty. I thought you’d
probably gone for a walk. It’s not a bad morning for it.’

‘Yes, I went for a walk. Marek - I mean,
Tyler - saw me and invited me in for a cup of coffee.’

‘
Did
he? You know, I’m convinced he’s
smitten with you, Gwen. He’s behaving quite out of character.’

And so am I, I thought. Behaving out of
character, that is, not smitten. I hardly know the guy. I was just
upset, that’s all. Very upset. About the photo, about my mother,
about Alfie being bloody to his family. I’m not
smitten
. If
I do remember how it felt to rest my head on Marek’s chest, it’s
just because that sort of thing never happens to me.
I’m
the
shoulder people cry on, I’m the one passing the Kleenex. That’s
what I do, what I’ve always done: mopped up other people’s
emotional messes. Marek just turned the tables on me, that’s
all.

And no one’s ever done that.

Not in twenty-six years.

‘Are you OK, Gwen? You’ve gone ever so
quiet. Did I offend you, speaking about Tyler like that?’

‘No, not at all. I was just thinking.’ As we
turned a corner, Creake Hall came into view. ‘I’ve been thinking
about those quilts in the attic.’

‘Did you have a look at them?’

‘Yes, I did. I got them out. I hope that was
all right. I was wondering about
A Thousand Pyramids
. The
unfinished quilt.’

‘Oh,
that
old horror. That’s one of
my many UFOs.’

‘UFO?’

‘Unfinished objects. I gave up on that one a
long time ago.’

‘I really liked it. You ought to finish
it.’

‘I ran out of scraps. It’s a Charm quilt,
you see. I could send off for some packs of fabric squares to
finish it off, but they wouldn’t look right. Too modern. I keep
going to jumble sales and car boots, hoping to find some cast-off
scrap bags or dressmaker’s samples. Really, what I need,’ said
Hattie warming to her subject, ‘is for a local quilter to die and
bequeath me her fabric stash.’

‘I’ve a less drastic idea how we could
finish it off and I’d love to help. I thought we could work on it
together.’

‘It’ll take days just to remove all the
papers.’

‘Not if we tackle it together. We could
start taking out the papers today and then tomorrow I’ll tell you
my idea.’

‘Why can’t you tell me now?’

‘It’s something to do with your Christmas
present.’

‘Ooh!’ Hattie’s eyes widened.

‘Oh dear, now I’ve said too much! I’m not
going to answer any more questions. Let’s just get stuck in
removing those papers, then we can re-use them. They should come
out anyway - the ink from those letters can’t be doing the fabric
any good.’

‘I left them in so the quilt wouldn’t lose
its shape. And because I hate unpicking.’

‘I quite like it when it’s only tacking.
It’s a mindless, soothing activity. I feel in need of something
like that. When are Deborah and Frances due?’

‘After lunch.’

‘Are you busy this morning?’

‘No. I’ve wrapped all my presents, but I
dare say Viv will have some kitchen chores for me. Apart from that,
we’re just waiting for Fanny and Deb. Deb’s driving over from
Beccles and she’s picking Fanny up at Norwich station. She’s coming
up from London by train. Minus the boyfriend, so she’ll be a wet
weekend,’ Hattie said gloomily.

‘Never mind. We’ve got our quilt. And the
concert to look forward to. We’ll have a lovely time! Alfie and Fan
can be grouchy together, while we’re nauseatingly full of Christmas
cheer.’

‘It’s a deal,’ said Hattie, linking her arm
through mine as we strolled up the drive.

Hattie and I entered Creake Hall by the
front door and while she was removing dog leads I went ahead to put
the kettle on. As I approached the kitchen I could hear two voices:
Viv and Alfie, sounding serious. When I opened the door, his eyes
were fixed on Viv, sitting opposite, and she was staring into the
depths of her coffee mug. As they both turned to me, I watched
Alfie switch on the light-bulb charm.

‘
There
you are! We’d given you up for
lost and had just decided to distribute your Christmas presents
among the poor of the parish. Where’ve you been?’

Viv stood up and headed for the kettle.
‘Coffee, Gwen?’

‘Thanks, that would be nice.’ I sat down at
the table, opposite Alfie. ‘I just went for a walk. It was a fine
morning and nobody was up, so I went off to explore.’

‘Did you have fun?’

‘Yes. Well, not
fun
exactly, but I
had a mooch around.’ I hesitated a moment, decided I had nothing to
hide, but avoided Alfie’s eye. ‘I saw Tyler and he invited me in to
look round the mill.’

Viv set a mug of coffee in front of me.
‘It’s a fascinating old place, isn’t it? I think in her youth Rae
had ideas of being Vita Sackville-West, writing in a tower. A
bolt-hole, away from the family. Then she came to her senses and
got a nice comfy flat in London. But the mill’s been handy for
accommodating staff. Only the really hardy can stand it though.
It’s very cold in winter. The situation is exposed, you see. Had to
be for a windmill. I’ve got some old photos somewhere, of when it
had sails. I’ll show you later. Rae’s working on an idea for a TDH
story that features a spooky old windmill.’

‘How is she this morning?’

Viv looked at Alfie, then answered, ‘Not too
good. We were talking about it just before you came in.’

Alfie leaned his elbows on the table and
sighed. ‘I took her breakfast up and stayed for a while.’

‘And?’

‘She seemed pretty confused.’

‘She always is after you’ve arrived.’ Viv
sounded impatient. ‘She loves to see you, but you know it always
upsets her. She’ll soon settle down.’

‘Viv, how does Rae manage to write, when she
has such a struggle keeping things straight in her mind? I mean,
the TDH plots are pretty complicated, aren’t they, with loads of
characters. How does she do it?’

Viv didn’t reply, but looked at Alfie again.
He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘It’s your call,
Viv. I can vouch for Gwen. She’s the soul of discretion. Wardrobe
mistresses have to be. It’s in the job description.’

Viv hesitated, then said, ‘Rae doesn’t write
the TDHs, Gwen. Not any more. She writes, and she writes about TDH,
but not much of it is actually publishable. Not any more.’

I stared, my coffee mug poised mid-air. ‘So
who writes them?’

‘I do.’

‘You!’

‘Yes. I’ve written them for years. To begin
with, it was something of a joint effort. I’ve always typed them up
and I used to make a few suggestions. Rae was wonderfully inventive
but she wasn’t bothered about consistency, or even credibility. So
I used to make sure the plots worked as a whole, that the
series
worked as a whole and that characters behaved
consistently. That sort of thing matters to children. Then when she
had her last breakdown—’

‘Was that after the documentary?’

‘Yes, eleven years ago. After that she lost
it altogether. But there was no let-up in the demand for her books.
If anything, the programme created a new market for them. So I
stepped into the breach.’ I suppose I must have looked shocked
because Viv went on hurriedly, ‘It’s common enough in publishing.
Books aren’t always written by the person whose name is on the
cover.’

‘Does Rae know?’

‘Not really. She’s been told of course, but
she prefers to think she writes them. It’s not so much
self-delusion as being
stuck
. She’s stuck in the past, when
she still wrote the books, so she believes the stories are hers. I
talk to her about them of course, and I read her extracts. She’s
usually very pleased with what she hears! Perhaps that’s not so
very surprising,’ Viv added with a gentle smile. ‘I try to write
how Rae would write, if she still could.’

‘But isn’t there a danger that she’ll be
exposed?’

‘I don’t think so. Her publishers know
what’s going on and they aren’t going to bite the hand that feeds
them. Rae doesn’t give interviews any more. I answer all her fan
mail and I post articles - supposedly written by her - on the
website, so it’s not at all obvious she isn’t participating. Her
readers are happy, her publisher is happy, Rae is happy and so am
I!’

‘But you don’t get any recognition for your
work.’

‘I get all the fan letters from children.
And quite a few adults too. They make it all worthwhile.’

‘Not to mention,’ said Alfie drily, ‘the
sizeable income.’

‘Yes. It
is
considerable.’

‘But it’s really yours, Viv. You’re the one
earning it!’

She laughed. ‘Only because of Ma’s name!
Who’d want to read a book by Vivien Holbrook? At best, it would be
a novelty item, something produced by a lesser Holbrook, daughter
of the famous Rachael.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Alfie said with a
groan.

‘Anyway, what would I do with more money? As
it is, I decide how we spend our income. Much of it gets ploughed
back into this monster of a house. Some supports Hattie and me. It
also pays for Tyler. I have to have him so I can get the writing
done.’

‘Does Tyler know?’

‘I’ve never told him. But he’s not stupid
and he knows Rae, so he’s probably guessed.’

I was silent for a moment, trying to
assimilate this new information. Eventually, trying not to sound
too judgemental, I said, ‘How do you cope with all the...
pretence
?’

‘Oh, it’s become a way of life now! Rae’s
lived in a world of make-believe for most of her adult life. It’s a
world we’ve all had to accept. Apart from Freddie, who got out
because he couldn’t stand it. And Alfie, of course, chooses to keep
a sane distance! The rest of us chose to play Rae’s games. It
suited us to do so. It seemed - it still seems - the lesser of two
evils. With our support Rae can just about hold things together.
Hattie and I get to stay in the family home. We can keep the garden
going. And I get to write.’

‘Anonymously,’ Alfie muttered.

Viv turned to him and spoke sharply. ‘Yes.
But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is the
stories
and the pleasure they bring to children.’ She turned
back to face me and there was a sadness in her eyes I hadn’t seen
before. ‘I never had any kids of my own, but I rather wish I had. I
can’t say I ever wanted a husband, but I do love children. I regret
that I’ve never been a mother.’

‘You were more of a mother to Hattie than
Rae ever was,’ Alfie said.

‘I suppose so. Hattie was a lovable child.
It wasn’t difficult mothering her, it’s just that Rae wasn’t the
maternal type. Some people just aren’t. Rae wanted marriage, but
she didn’t want children. Well, in those days - I was born in 1957
- you didn’t get to vote. Children were expected of you and most
women didn’t have careers. Rae didn’t exactly choose motherhood.
Things were all very different then.’

‘Do you think she started writing to
escape?’

‘From the family? Oh, yes, I’m sure she did!
And when she more or less turned her back on Harriet, it fell to me
to look after her. So, in a way, I feel I
have
known
motherhood. I might have had the best of it, in fact. The pleasure
without the pain. What’s more, my other children - my readers -
will never grow up.’

‘Like bloody Tom Dickon Harry.’

Viv looked across at Alfie with a sad smile.
‘Yes, like dear old Tom. They’re for ever young. As they grow up,
they’re replaced by the next generation, so all those letters to
Rae—’

‘To the author of the books, you mean,’ said
Alfie, interrupting.

Viv smiled at him again. ‘Thank you,’ she
said. ‘The letters are always much the same. Though nowadays, they
aren’t as well spelled and punctuated as they used to be! But
they’re always lively and affectionate and... full of
wonder
. It’s an enormous pleasure and privilege to receive
them. I don’t ask for any more. That would be greedy.’ She stood up
and started clearing away the breakfast things. ‘Anyway, I must go
and pick some sprouts and dig up some parsnips for tomorrow’s
lunch. Hattie will load the dishwasher, you don’t need to bother
about that. Oh, and there’s some vegetable soup thawing in the Aga.
Help yourselves when you feel hungry. If the weather stays fine, I
may stay outside and get a few chores done.’

Viv disappeared into the lobby. After a few
moments we heard the back door open and close, then she walked past
the window in the direction of the kitchen garden. Alfie didn’t
speak and neither did I. Eventually I said, ‘You knew?’

‘About Viv and the books? Yes, I knew. I’m
family. I know all their dark secrets.’

‘And they know all of yours?’

‘God, I hope not. I like to think I still
have some remnants of a private life. I know about them, but they
don’t really know about me. It’s not exactly a two-way street and
that’s the way I prefer it. It’s how I hold on to a sense of
identity. Some things need to be... inviolate.’

I looked at him across the table and noticed
the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. ‘You’re really
rather a private person, aren’t you? For an actor, I mean.’