The Bellwether Revivals (7 page)

‘That’s exactly what Oscar felt,’ Marcus said. ‘Amazing.’

‘Come on,’ Jane said. ‘That’s a pile of nonsense and you know it.’

Eden shook his head. ‘He said so himself—the only thing that took him inside was the sound of the music. He was lured in. Mattheson lured him in.’

‘I don’t know,’ Oscar said. ‘I just liked the sound of the organ, that’s all. It didn’t make me find God or anything. Not even close.’

‘You liked the sound of the organ because Mattheson designed it that way. He gave you those emotions—curiosity, hope, safety, love. It’s all in there. You heard it and you couldn’t help but go inside.’

‘Maybe,’ Oscar said. ‘But, trust me, I’m still an atheist.’

Eden laughed—a short exhalation of breath. ‘Alright, fine. I admit it didn’t make you
believe
in God. I’m not sure such a thing is possible, and I don’t think Mattheson thought so either. But it brought you into his house. You came into church and sat down, which is precisely what that piece of music was intended to do.’ Eden leaned forward. ‘I’m just saying you didn’t have an arbitrary
compulsion to attend evensong on Wednesday. You were guided there.’

‘If that were true,’ Jane said, ‘the whole chapel should’ve been full of people like Oscar.’

‘What do you mean?’ Yin said.

‘You know. Heathens. Heretics. Non-believers.’

They all laughed.

‘Maybe he was the only heathen who happened to be walking by,’ Marcus said.

Jane stood up, straightening her skirt. ‘When did you both go to Heidelberg anyway? I don’t remember that.’

‘In August,’ Eden said. ‘It was just for a weekend. You were in Italy.’

‘Did Iris go with you?’

‘No. She stayed behind. What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t.’ Jane shrugged. She seemed to let the subject drop, but then picked it back up again. ‘I don’t remember you saying anything about going to Heidelberg, that’s all. I might have wanted to go to Heidelberg myself.’

‘You were in Italy. With your parents,’ Eden said. He stressed each word like he was punishing a dog.

‘Yes. And if I’d known you two were going antiquing in Heidelberg, there’s no way I’d have gone anywhere with my bloody parents.’ She went to the far end of the room and returned with a crystal decanter. ‘Would anyone care for some port? It’s just about late enough.’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ Oscar said.

‘It’s the good stuff,’ Jane said. ‘That’s one of the best things about Eden—he can drivel on and on, but he’s always got a decent port in the house. Come on, have a glass.’

‘Thanks, but I really should be going. I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘Oh. Right you are,’ Jane said. ‘More for the rest of us then.’

The sound of Iris’s footsteps above them had stopped now,
and Oscar was already regretting his decision not to follow her. It felt like they’d hardly had a chance to speak since they’d finished dancing. He got up and made for the hallway.

As he neared the door, Eden called out: ‘I could prove it, you know.’ His voice sounded like dry, distant thunder in the quiet of the room. ‘We could have a demonstration, right here in the parlour.’

Oscar turned. ‘Prove what exactly?’

‘That Mattheson knew what he was talking about. That he was really onto something.’

‘It makes no difference to me.’

Eden shrugged. He seemed a little hurt. ‘I’m just saying, I could prove it. If you came back tomorrow night, we could have a demonstration, and then you’d believe me.’

Oscar lingered by the doorjamb. ‘Why does it matter if I believe you or not?’

‘Because,’ Eden said, his tone softening, ‘because my sister likes you. And it would do her good to know we agree on something.’ He looked away, as if the mention of Iris bore no significance, but Oscar heard it for what it was: a tentative endorsement, an invitation to spend more time with her. And Oscar could see no better reason to come back tomorrow than the prospect of getting close to her again, even if it meant indulging Eden for a while. ‘Okay. I’ll come,’ he said. ‘If it means that much to you.’

Eden gave a faint smirk. ‘I was thinking eight o’clock?’

‘My shift might run over.’

‘That’s alright, we’ll wait for you.’ Eden accepted a glass of port from Jane and gestured towards the ceiling. ‘Tell Iggy to come back and drink with us.’

Oscar said goodnight and headed into the hall. He went up the cold wooden staircase to look for her, expecting the old boards to creak under his feet, but every step was close to soundless. The bathroom door was open at the top of the stairs and a shaving light was on above the washbasin. He nearly walked straight past,
but then he noticed a pale arm drooping over the side of the bath, an ashy cigarette between two of its fingers. Iris was laid out in the empty tub, asleep. She was still wearing her recital gown and looked impossibly comfortable, her neck lolling towards the tiles, a peaceful look upon her face. He didn’t want to wake her. Down in the hallway, he wrote his number on the pad by the telephone, tore it off. The others were still talking in the next room, and he imagined the cheery rumble of their voices lasting until dawn. He found her brown coat hanging by the door, slipped the note into the pocket, and went out into the night.

The next day, things were quiet at Cedarbrook. Oscar spent his breaktime in the conservatory with
The Passions of the Soul
. It was an awkward translation and he made slow progress to begin with. The language was dense, arrhythmic, old-fashioned (relying heavily on words such as ‘thither’ and ‘oft’), and a significant percentage of Part One seemed to focus on the digestion of meat in the human body. He put the book away and vowed to try again during his next break.

He wanted to speak to Dr Paulsen about it, but the old man was not in a talkative mood. His first attempt at communal dining had gone smoothly, in that he’d managed to eat breakfast with the other residents without catapulting poached eggs at them, but his second attempt, an evening dinner of boiled ham and potatoes, had not been a great success. Oscar had reported for his shift at eight, only to be informed by Jean, the staff nurse, that there had been a ruckus in the dining room the night before: ‘Your friend Paulsen tried to pull off the whole tablecloth.’ Jean was a big woman; when she got upset, her jowls shook and her ID badge flapped against her breast. ‘He was spitting at everyone, throwing
mustard, potatoes. It was ugly.’ Oscar had gone up to Paulsen’s room to see if he could find out what the problem was, but the old man wouldn’t speak.

At quarter to five, Jean came to the nurses’ station and told Oscar he could leave early, so he walked straight back to his flat to shower and change out of his uniform. He ate dinner, left the dishes soaking in the sink, then sat under the pale kitchen light and tried again with Descartes. The prose was no easier to consume. It was just the kind of book that somebody like Eden would admire, he thought: leaden with concepts, light on entertainment. Still, he liked the way Descartes treated the soul and the body as separate things. It read to him like an owner’s manual—a step-by-step guide to the mechanics of emotions.

By the time Oscar got to Harvey Road, it was very dark, and the flickering security light on the house across from Eden’s gave the whole street a haunting neon shine. Marcus answered the door and showed him inside. ‘What’s it like out there?’ he asked. ‘The radio said it might hail tonight. Any sign of it?’

‘Not that I could tell.’

‘Hard to know when hail is coming, I suppose. I wonder how they predict these things, these weathermen. No more reliable than palm readers, if you ask me.’

The others were waiting for him in the living room. All the furniture had been rearranged: Eden’s antique harpsichord was set up, dead centre, and a leather wingback was positioned in the shallow curve of its body. The fireplace was glowing. Both of the chesterfields had been pushed back along the far wall, and Iris, Yin, and Jane were sitting there in an oddly straight alignment, like passengers expecting a train. A soft, auburn light bathed the room—twenty or so candles were wavering in jam jars beside the golden casters of the harpsichord. Iris waved at Oscar sedately, a simple lifting of her fingertips. He smiled back at her.

‘Glad you could make it,’ Eden said. He was perched on the window ledge with the curtains drawn behind him, sipping from
a china teacup. A stack of papers rested at his feet, bound in a manila file and tied with red ribbon. The room seemed bigger, barer, with the rugs scrolled and propped up in the corner, reminding Oscar of church halls and children’s parties and pass-the-parcel.

The rest of them said hello. They all looked slightly fretful, reluctant to move. Oscar sat down next to Iris, on the arm of the couch. ‘I’m not sure I like the look of this.’

‘Me neither,’ Iris said. ‘Did you bring your Ouija board? I think we’re having a séance.’

‘Very funny,’ Eden said. ‘Nothing wrong with a little atmosphere. It all adds to the effect.’

Yin leaned forwards. ‘This is gonna be something to write home about, I can tell.’

‘Well it better not take long,’ Iris said. ‘I’ve got a supervision paper due tomorrow and I could do with making a start sometime this decade.’

‘Alright, alright. Thank you, my dear sister, for your cynicism. It’s been duly noted,’ Eden said. ‘Now the guest of honour is here, we can get things started.’ He looked at Oscar, then gestured towards the wingback with his eyes. ‘Would you mind taking a seat?’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘Because you’re the one I said I’d convince.’

Oscar didn’t move. ‘You don’t need to prove anything to me. I told you before, I don’t really care one way or the other.’

Eden rucked up his face. ‘Oh, come on. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here. You’d still be lazing on the couch watching
Taggart
.’

‘He’s got you there,’ Jane said.

‘I didn’t know
Taggart
was on,’ said Yin. ‘I should’ve stayed home too.’

‘Come on now.’ Eden pointed to the wingback again, palm upturned, willing Oscar to sit.

‘Go on,’ Iris said. ‘I really need to finish that paper.’

Feeling the weight of expectation upon him, Oscar walked over to the wingback and sat down in its worn, supple leather. ‘Just promise me this isn’t going to hurt.’

‘I guarantee it,’ Eden replied. At once, he clicked his fingers, pointing to the far corner of the room. ‘Yin, Iris, Jane, take one of these and go and stand by the clavichord, please.’ He untied the ribbon on his file and doled out a booklet of sheet music to each of them. They didn’t get up from the chesterfield, just sat there, amused, peering at their booklets. ‘Come on, humour me, will you?’ Eden said, and they got up. ‘Marcus, you know what to do.’

Marcus nodded and left the room. He came back in carrying Iris’s cello case and proceeded to set it on the floor and open it, slowly unlatching the clasps. ‘Hey, be careful with that,’ Iris said. ‘The bridge is a tiny bit loose.’ Marcus removed the cello and the bow, dragged one of the dining chairs close to Oscar in the wingback and sat down. In a deliberate, focused motion, he began rosining the bow.

‘Okay then. Good.’ Eden exhaled a long breath. He walked over to the keyboard end of the clavichord and stood there momentarily, drumming his fingers on the teak. Then he took a bundle of keys from his trouser pocket, searched for the right one—a delicate, tarnished little iron thing—and unlocked the lid. With a flurry of his fingers, he played a brisk run of notes. Marcus droned a deep, scratchy burr of a chord on the cello. Eden hit the corresponding chord on the clavichord, until he was satisfied they were both perfectly in tune. ‘Alright, let’s get started, shall we?’

‘What are we supposed to do?’ Iris said.

‘You’re my choristers.’

‘Oh God, I was afraid you’d say that.’

Eden ignored her. ‘Yin, you can be the beater. The rest of you just read along with the notation.’

‘You might’ve given us some warning,’ Jane said. ‘I haven’t warmed up.’

‘You’ll do fine. You’ve done this a hundred times before.’

‘Not
this
we haven’t,’ Yin said.

‘You all were in choir at school, weren’t you? Have a quick read through and note my alterations in red. It’s just a madrigal—Baroque—a three-part harmony. It’ll barely challenge you.’ Eden lifted his eyebrows at Oscar. ‘Just sit back, okay. Close your eyes, and try to empty your mind of thoughts. Can you do that?’

Oscar wasn’t completely sure he could, but he nodded.

‘Take your time. Just let yourself relax.’

There was a long silence. Oscar fidgeted in the chair, hearing people moving around him.

‘Okay, I’m going to ask you a few questions,’ Eden said. ‘And I want you to respond with the first thing that comes into your head. The
very first thing
. There are no right or wrong answers, only honest ones.’

‘What?’

‘Just run with it.’

‘This is mad,’ Oscar said. ‘I’m opening my eyes.’

Eden’s voice came back at him sharply: ‘Stop being such a bloody girl and answer my questions.’

Oscar went quiet.

‘What is your full name?’

He let a few seconds go by, then relented. ‘Oscar James Lowe.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

Eden struck a high note on the clavichord. ‘What are you most afraid of?’

Oscar thought about it. He was afraid of a lot of things, but there was one fear that stood out above the rest. ‘Old buildings,’ he said. The high note continued to sound.

‘Next question. Which bones have you broken in your body?’

He remembered the only serious injury he’d ever had, playing cricket for the school team, and the uncomfortable Fiat Panda ride to the hospital with Mr Hamilton, his old PE teacher—he could
almost feel the agony of it again. ‘The middle finger on my left hand,’ he answered.

‘Okay.’

Eden waited. ‘If a house were on fire, and you were stuck inside, would you want someone to risk his own life to save you?’

He responded quickly: ‘No.’

The high note stopped.

He opened his eyes. ‘Is that it?’