House of Silence (32 page)

Hattie’s dressing table displayed little in
the way of toiletries. Instead it served as a mirrored stage on
which dressed dolls posed: fairies, sea nymphs, Harlequins,
princesses, fantastical creatures fashioned by Hattie’s
imagination. In a corner of the room stood a single bed with a red
and white quilt folded at its foot, the red faded almost to pink.
In places, the wadding showed through holes worn in the fabric,
like wounds. Hattie lay sobbing on the bed, her face buried in a
pillow.

On entering, Marek scanned the room and made
a professional assessment. The curtains were drawn but he assumed
the window would be closed. There was a glass of water beside the
bed. He removed it and placed it on a high shelf, but the sewing
table was a nightmare: a pot held rotary cutters of various sizes,
a scalpel and a Stanley knife; a fearsome pair of dressmaker’s
shears lay on a cutting board; a china jug stored scissors of
various sizes, which Hattie no doubt kept sharp.

He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat
down. ‘Hattie, I’m here as your friend. Not as a judge. Or a
psychiatrist. Just a friend. I’d like to help if I can.’

She didn’t lift her head from the pillow, so
her words were indistinct. ‘You won’t want to be my friend now you
know what I did.’

‘It doesn’t change anything. Not for
me.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, I’m not. Look at me, Hattie. Look into
my eyes and see if I’m lying.’ After a moment she turned her head
and scraped back her hair to peer at him. Marek’s face was a blank,
but his dark eyes bore into hers. She found it hard to look away.
His eyes continued to hold hers. ‘Have you ever talked to anyone
about... what happened?’

‘No.’

‘Do you remember what happened? The
details?’

‘No.’

Marek felt his spirits lift but his face
betrayed nothing. ‘But you remember the baby dying? Were you
there?’

‘Yes. I was there... I was in Rae’s bedroom.
And I shouldn’t have been. It was getting dark and I felt
frightened. But I don’t remember why... Alfie was lying in his cot.
I watched him. For
ages
. I wanted him to wake up. But he
didn’t. He didn’t move. Not even when I poked him through the
bars... He didn’t wake up because he was dead.’

‘That doesn’t mean you killed him. He might
have died of natural causes. Or an accident... What did Rae say
about it? Or Viv?’

‘It’s never been discussed.’

‘Never?’

‘No. We’ve never discussed Alfie’s death,
just how to keep him alive. For Rae’s sake. And mine.’

‘So... how do you know you killed him if you
don’t remember what happened?’

‘My sisters said I did it.’

Marek was thrown by this statement but his
voice betrayed no emotion. ‘They might not have been telling the
truth. They could have said that to hurt you.’

‘Oh, they didn’t say it to
me
.
They’ve always tried to protect me. They’ve never even let on that
they know. But I heard them. I was in the garden and they didn’t
know I was there. They were talking about how Alfie died. That’s
how I found out. That it was me.
I
did it.’

‘Are you sure, Hattie? You were very young.
Perhaps you misunderstood.’

She sat up, propping herself on an elbow.
‘Why has it never been discussed then? Why has no one in my family
ever
talked of how Alfie died? Why haven’t they ever
mentioned meningitis or whooping cough or something that could have
killed a baby?’ She lay down again and covered her face with her
hands. ‘It was me! I did it! My sisters
said
so.’

‘To you?’

‘No. But I heard them. Talking to each
other.’

‘And they didn’t know you were there? Could
it have been some sort of game? A terrible sick joke?’

She rolled over to face him, her eyes red
and puffy, her face stained with tears. ‘They weren’t children! Viv
was a grown woman. And Deb and Fanny were teenagers. It wasn’t a
game, they were having a serious talk. They told me to go away and
then they went into the garden, so Rae wouldn’t hear them. I
followed them and hid on the other side of the hedge, so they
wouldn’t know I was there. They sat on a bench, all three of them,
talking. Talking about Alfie. And
me
. I kept really still
and listened... Then when I started to cry, I crept away. So they
wouldn’t hear me.’

‘And you never told them what you heard? Not
even Viv?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember what they said?’

‘Yes...’ Hattie closed her eyes and turned
away. ‘I don’t remember anything about— about Alfie dying, but I
remember exactly what my sisters said.’

‘Can you tell me what you remember?’

Marek watched Hattie’s face as she struggled
to speak the unspeakable. Her head rolled back and forth on the
pillow, then she sat up suddenly and swivelled round, so she
perched on the edge of the bed, her shoulders hunched. Her eyes
swept round the room, avoiding Marek’s, but he noticed her
breathing quicken. Her gaze settled on her worktable. He felt
rather than saw the muscles in her legs bunch, then she launched
herself at the table, lunging for the scissors. But he was ready.
As her fingers closed around the pair of dressmaker’s shears, Marek
circled her wrist with one hand and her waist with his arm,
clamping her to him.

‘Let them go, Hattie! Please. You don’t have
to say any more, not if you don’t want to. Look at me, Hattie!
Look at me!
Drop the scissors.’ Then, in a moment’s
inspiration: ‘You don’t want to get blood on the quilts.’

She froze and the scissors fell to the
floor. He released her wrist and loosened his grip round her waist,
but didn’t let her go. She went limp in his arms and started to
wail. Supporting her, he half-dragged, half-carried her back to the
bed where she sat, then, with Marek’s encouragement, lay down
again. He pulled the folded quilt over her, took her hand and held
it loosely while she cried. He knew there was nothing anyone could
say that would quiet the mind of someone who’d killed a child, so
he stroked her hand and whispered soothing words, Polish phrases he
hadn’t heard for almost forty years, which, when his father used to
utter them, had the properties of magic charms. Even when he knew
she slept, he didn’t leave, nor did he let go of her hand. When she
whimpered in her sleep, he stroked her tangled hair back from her
forehead, murmuring.

Hattie didn’t wake, but her sleep was
troubled.

Deborah broke a long silence. ‘Who’ll tell
Ma?’

‘
I will.’

Vivien and Deborah stared at Frances. ‘What
will you say?’

‘
I’ll tell her I saw Hattie do it. I’ll
tell Ma I know what happened... I know how the baby died.’

‘
Poor thing.’

‘
The baby?’

‘
No, Hattie.’

‘
Oh, Deb, don’t be ridiculous! Hattie
need never know I’ve told Ma! None of us will ever mention
it.’

‘
But Rae will never forgive her,’ Deborah
persisted.

‘
Rae’s never forgiven her for being born.
I can’t really see this makes much difference,’ said
Frances.

‘
Poor Hattie...’

‘
Oh, do shut up, Deb! Ma’s sanity is at
stake here! She must face up to the truth. She has to accept that
the baby is dead! For
all
our
sakes.’

‘
I know you’re right. It just seems so
harsh... I mean, you’re actually going to tell her Hattie killed
her brother?’

‘
Yes. But she didn’t know what she was
doing. It was just a game, a child’s game that got out of hand.
Hattie wasn’t really to blame. A six year-old can’t be held
responsible for murder.’

‘
Not in the eyes of the law perhaps,’
Vivien said. ‘But Ma might not see it like that.’

‘
Yes, she will,’ Frances said firmly.
‘Once she’s got over the shock. Ma will see reason in the end. But
she has to be told. We can’t put up with this charade any longer.
It’s driving us all crazy.’

‘
Poor Hattie,’ said Deborah and started
to weep.

Gwen

I was alone, loading the dishwasher, when Marek came
back into the kitchen, his coat pockets bulging. He handed me a
glass, then emptied the contents of his pockets on to the kitchen
table: dressmaker’s shears, scissors, knives, knitting needles, a
tin of pins and a needle case. I stared uncomprehending and watched
as he took a cornflakes box from the worktop, discarded the inner
packet and re-filled it with all the hardware. He opened the larder
door and placed the box on a high shelf, behind some packets of
kitchen towel.

Then I understood.

I sank into a chair, my stomach churning.
When I was sure my breakfast wasn’t about to make a reappearance, I
said, ‘Did Hattie try to—’

‘Yes.’

‘But she’s all right?’

‘Yes. But she probably shouldn’t be left
alone for too long. She’s asleep at the moment and I think she’ll
sleep for a while now.’

In the silence that followed I heard the
first notes of the dawn chorus: a solitary bird, sounding tentative
at first, then obscenely cheerful. I swallowed and said, ‘Do you
think she did it?’

‘
She
thinks she did. And she says she
heard her sisters talking about a cover-up. She believes that’s
what’s behind the whole Alfie/Tom scenario.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘There’s a condition called
pseudologia
phantastica
where the patient concocts elaborate, sometimes
fantastic stories. But they can seem quite plausible, so it can be
very difficult to be certain they aren’t telling the truth. But
it’s really not my place to have an opinion.’ Marek’s face was
calm. Inscrutable. Infuriating. ‘It’s not even as if I’m family,’
he added.

‘Well, neither am I. Nor is Alfie. I’m
asking what you think as Hattie’s friend, not her
psychiatrist.’

‘As Hattie’s friend, I’d say she couldn’t
bring herself to kill a slug, let alone a baby. But as a
psychiatrist, I have to acknowledge such things are possible. If
Hattie is now the soul of kindness, it could be because she’s spent
thirty years atoning for an unspeakable crime. But...’

‘But what?’

Before answering, Marek took off his coat,
hung it on the back of a chair and sat down beside me at the table.
‘I have my doubts whether this murder actually took place. We’re
dealing with an entire family of fantasists here.’

‘But Tom isn’t Alfie - I think we can be
sure of that, can’t we? So where is he? And what happened to him?
You have to admit, Hattie’s story does add up in a way. It also
explains her
strangeness
. And Rae’s mental frailty.’

‘Oh, yes, it all adds up. I just don’t
believe it.’

‘No, neither do I.’

He laughed, then took my hand and raised it
quickly to his lips. I leaned over and laid my head on his
shoulder. I felt a protective arm go round me and was glad of
something strong and certain. As the songbird continued to warble
inappropriately, I said, ‘Could a six year-old kill
deliberately?’

‘It happens.’

‘But why would Hattie have done such a
thing? What possible motive could she have had?’

‘Several. Sibling rivalry. Being very angry
with Rae, who seems to have ignored her. A six year-old would be
conscious of rejection, emotional neglect. And Hattie might have
understood that this baby was the longed-for son. She could have
killed out of spite. Or revenge.’

I suddenly remembered a conversation I’d had
with Hattie in the attic. I debated with myself whether or not I
should mention it to Marek. She hadn’t said she was speaking to me
in confidence (given her lack of discretion, I wondered if Hattie
had any understanding of that concept) so I decided I would tell
him. I sat upright again and said, ‘There’s something about Hattie
which you probably don’t know. I think it might account for her
sense of guilt. Well, some of it.’ Marek looked at me and waited.
‘Hattie told me she’d had an abortion. When she was a student. She
made it sound as if she’d got pregnant without really knowing how.
Then she had an abortion. I think it was one of the things that
contributed to her chucking her musical career... So she could feel
guilty about that, couldn’t she? Hattie with her childlike way of
thinking might even have seen
that
as a sort of murder. Do
you think she could have got confused?’

‘Yes, I think she could. She certainly seems
confused now, but thirty years of living the lies this family has
imposed on her would confuse anyone. The point is, even if Hattie
had nothing to do with the baby’s death, he’s still unaccounted
for.’

‘If the baby had died of natural causes,
Hattie would know, wouldn’t she? It would have been discussed.’

Marek shrugged. ‘She says it never was.
She’s adamant about that. She said, “We never discussed Alfie’s
death, just how to keep him alive”.’

I thought for a moment and came to the
inevitable conclusion. ‘That doesn’t sound like death from natural
causes, does it?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Which means Hattie - or someone else -
killed the baby. Doesn’t it?’

‘It appears to. But...’

‘But what?’

Marek shook his head. ‘I don’t know...
Something just doesn’t feel right.’

‘Are you basing that on your professional
experience? Or your affection for Hattie?’

‘How would I know? But if you’re asking for
my considered professional opinion, I’d say the whole thing stinks.
To high heaven.’

‘But if what she believes happened,
didn’t
... and they
know
... that would mean the family
had used Hattie as some kind of scapegoat... Oh, God, that’s
appalling! That seems to me even more incredible than the idea of
Hattie being a child murderer! I don’t believe Viv would be party
to such a thing.’