The Restoration of Otto Laird (22 page)

But why had he remembered that song now, at this moment in time? And what was its connection with the piece of fabric he had seen in the Hampstead shop window? He thought it over once more as the tube train rattled through the tunnels.

Cynthia's textile designs were often influenced by places she and Otto had visited, or by specific events in their lives. They were fruits of a journey both geographical and emotional. She had a gift for internalising their outward travels, for distilling them into abstract shapes and colours. During a trip to see the new library in Helsinki, for example, she had been struck by the purity of the northern light, which emphasised with great clarity the building's brickwork, a chocolate brown against the cobalt depths. Inspired by this light and by the landscapes of Finland – its forests, lakes and wide horizons – she produced a series of designs that would prove to be among the most popular of her career. The one in the Hampstead shop window dated from the same period as her Helsinki Series – the late 1970s. But its inspiration seemed to lie much further back in time. The colours were warmer, more optimistic in tone.

The Helsinki Series emerged at a difficult period in their marriage, amid a growing sense of estrangement. No doubt reflecting Cynthia's mental state at that time, the colours of her palette had darkened. The images were more sombre, less joyful than those that had characterised her work in the 1960s. Yet among the chill blues and greens of the Helsinki Series, an anomaly had suddenly appeared: the design that Otto had seen that day in the shop window.

Even at the time of its creation, Otto had noted the unusually warm colours of this pattern. Yet caught up as he was within a self-inflicted melodrama – the affairs, the loneliness, the nagging sense of guilt that accompanied his every waking thought – he had given the matter little serious consideration. Sitting on the train now, however, he wondered whether this particular design had been of greater significance to Cynthia than he had realised. An incident he remembered from that period only seemed to reinforce the idea.

*   *   *

He was walking past Cynthia's study, he recalled: the door was standing open. Glancing in, he saw her in profile, sitting at her desk as usual. But something in her body language caused him to stop. She was not drawing, but staring down intently at the design she had just completed, her shoulders hunched slightly forward and her fingers to her lips. It was not her usual air of concentration, the one she always had in the midst of creating something. Otto knew that look so well. No, this was different; the expression haunted.

Unsettled, he spoke from the threshold of the study.

‘Cynthia.'

She looked up, sharply. The eyes that met his were ringed with moisture.

‘Otto. You made me jump.'

‘I'm sorry.'

He stepped inside, as she turned back to her design, and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. But he hesitated, just short of contact, gazing down instead at the vibrant image.

‘Very nice,' he said. ‘I like the bright colours.'

There was an odd formality about their conversation in those days.

‘Thank you.'

Her eyes searched his.

‘Do you recognise it?'

The tone of her voice, like the expression, was elusive.

Otto studied the picture again, but met her glance of expectancy with a small shake of the head.

‘I'm afraid not. What is it?'

She hesitated.

‘It doesn't matter. Just the usual jumble of half-formed thoughts.'

She changed the subject, then, before he had a chance to press her further, and the episode had slipped quickly from his mind.

*   *   *

Yet there was something significant about that incident, he now realised, beneath the seeming inanity of the exchange. Her expression had disconcerted him; it still did, today. And why had she asked him that question? Was the design she had created some kind of message to him – a statement of some kind? Had she reached out in her solitude to share a memory, one that he, in his self-absorption, had failed to notice?

Otto considered once more the image he had seen in Cynthia's study that evening; the same he had seen a short time earlier in the window of the shop in Hampstead. Aquamarine. Sun-baked ochre. The silver-green movement of cypresses. The wave-like pattern suggested an afternoon sun, its heat settling on the skin like raked embers. And then, in one corner, what may have been a floating musical clef, stretched out to an abstraction of flying birds.

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Otto's subconscious echoed back at him, as he scanned the details of the image with his inner eye.

And then, as he pictured them, the shapes and colours of Cynthia's design seemed to reconfigure before him into a sequence of events. He leaned back abruptly in his seat, a hand to his mouth. The memory had pierced him – the melody, too – entering his heart to draw out the sting that lay hidden there. Their happiest time together? One of them, certainly. A time that, because of its resonance, had lain buried away all the more deeply during the intervening decades.

*   *   *

In September 1956, they were on their honeymoon, travelling across the Peloponnese peninsula in southern Greece. Now in their mid-twenties, they had yet to fully master the skills of the architectural profession, or form – along with their colleagues – Unit 5. Since they could rarely resist the opportunity to search out fresh inspiration for their work, they interspersed the periods of relaxation with visits to a number of ancient monuments, exploring and sketching in forensic fashion.

In the mid-1950s, mass tourism had not yet arrived in Greece, which was still in a state of fragile recovery following its civil war. Travel there was slow and sometimes complicated. As far as possible, they depended on the local bus network to get around, sometimes hitchhiking to reach the more remote destinations. In the course of their journey down from Athens, they visited several sites from the classical period. Yet they also wanted to see ruins from earlier epochs, buildings more in keeping with the raw aesthetic they were beginning to develop in their own work. And so they ended up spending time at the ancient citadel of Mycenae, with its monumental blocks of stone and celebrated Lion Gate.

As they wandered among the sun-baked ruins, spread out over a hill, the tinkling of bells from a herd of goats seemed to follow them on the breeze. So striking was the view of mountains and sea, glimpsed between the heavy blocks of stone, that they found themselves distracted from the architecture.

Afterwards, they travelled to the nearby town of Nafplio, set around the tranquil Gulf of Argolis. There they stayed for several days in a hotel in the Old Town, amid narrow streets of colour-washed houses and wooden balconies dense with flowers. Each evening, Otto and Cynthia would walk through the streets, lost in conversation. Tall and languid, in cream shirt and slacks, he listened closely to her while seeking now and then, with sweeps of his hand, to prevent his black fringe from falling across his eyes. She strolled serenely beside him, her pale skin lightly tempered in the kiln of the late-summer sun. A stylish sunhat shielded her clear blue eyes, and her hour-glass figure was enhanced by a pale-blue trouser suit.

The appearance alone of this striking young couple brought them a certain degree of attention. But it was a near-forgotten skill of Cynthia's that made them the talk of the town that week. She could speak some Ancient Greek, having studied it at school, and during their first day in town she slipped unthinkingly into the untried language, in an attempt to converse better with an elderly shopkeeper. Within moments of Cynthia pronouncing the words, the shopkeeper was curled over with laughter, struggling to reply to her through his tears. The routine was repeated every time she made the attempt. The reason soon became clear. For the people of the town, the sound of this modern young woman speaking an arcane version of Greek seemed bizarre beyond all words. Thinking about it later, Cynthia wondered just how she would have reacted had a tourist in London started addressing her in Chaucer's English.

Word quickly spread about her unusual gift. She and Otto were ushered into busy tavernas, the proprietors asking her to say a few words. The hilarity and applause went echoing across town. Cynthia, it was soon established, not only looked a little like a goddess; she spoke just like one, too. People stopped her in the street and asked her to say something, anything at all. Her crisp English accent only added to the strangeness of the sound.

The fishermen they saw each day, setting down their catch on the quayside, were especially enchanted with her mangling of the antique tongue. Without fail, one of them would press a freshly caught squid, or a basket brimming with fish, into the arms of Cynthia and Otto as they passed. During evening strolls, old men stopped to shake Otto's hand. Then they tipped their hats to his remarkable bride, who greeted them in words that had not been heard in everyday conversation for millennia.

‘I'm the human ruin,' she said with a smile, whenever people gathered around her to listen.

*   *   *

On their last day in Nafplio, shortly before moving on to explore the mountainous interior, they spent the afternoon relaxing at a nearby beach. When they weren't walking the shoreline or swimming in the depths, the young couple lay on the sand beneath an ineffectual parasol, Otto in his long trunks and Cynthia in a one-piece bathing costume, their fingers entwined or running restlessly along the other's arm or thigh. Everything around them carried an intense erotic charge. Their heads pulsated with longing like the cicadas in the fields.

Otto gazed at Cynthia's reclining form while she lay half dozing. Unknown to him, she mirrored the gesture while he slept. He studied the glowing texture of her skin, the rise and fall of her breasts, the slight S of her spine as she turned to catch the moving sun. The yellow disc that burned above them and the small brown mole at the base of Cynthia's neck seemed to emanate from the same vital source. Otto felt soporific with a sensual pleasure as he basked in their luminous presence, as he moulded the length of his back to the yielding sand.

Later that evening, they sat on the balcony of their hotel, still carrying the warmth of the beach inside them. The air was heavy with the syrup of bougainvillea, with the far-off scent of citrus groves and salt. Voices reached them, occasionally, from beyond the open shutters of the neighbouring houses.

Over a steadily shrinking bottle of ouzo, they made plans for the next stage of their journey.

‘Firstly we could catch a bus to Arcadia,' Otto said. ‘And then, if we find the time, that is, we could move on to explore…'

He stopped as he noticed the twinkle in Cynthia's eye. Something seemed to have amused her.

‘What is it?' he asked.

‘A bus to Arcadia,' she repeated. ‘We can catch a
bus to Arcadia!
Otto, this is like being inside a myth.'

Aided by the alcohol, they sank gradually into silence. Their plans could always wait until the following day. With conversation suspended, they savoured the mauve-blue sky, communicating with the occasional look or touch. To every side of them reared the flower-strewn balconies, the tall wooden shutters of houses. And then, into the evening silence, from somewhere in an upper room, a piano offered up a tune that Otto recognised. Soon it was joined by a strong soprano voice; the familiar words drifting down on the perfumed air.

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen …

The sound of the
lied
surprised Otto. It was a breath of northern breeze, unexpected in the hot stillness of the South. And then a spray of migrating swallows, fanning outward as they rose, swerved and dipped in a fluid motion that seemed to trace the line of melody against the sky.

He listened to the cool phrasing of the German; the language his own, yet his own no longer, opening up a pathway inside him. It was a meeting of his past and present, a reconciliation of sorts. His inner and outer lives had coalesced. A sense of great peace descended on him, passing yet profound. Cynthia, sensing this, threaded her fingers through his and lightly pressed her palm into his own.

*   *   *

The light-filled colours, the musical clef in the form of flying birds: Otto knew now the meaning of Cynthia's textile design from the late 1970s. She had spoken to him across the decades, through the window of an interior design shop in Hampstead. It was an eerie feeling that left him rather saddened.

If only I could tell her I understand now, he thought
.
She was trying to reconnect us with something lost.

He failed to notice either the tannoy announcement or the grumbling that followed as the train drew in at the Elephant and Castle, staying frozen in his seat as the carriage emptied around him.

‘It doesn't go any further,' one of the passengers came back to tell him, causing him to start up with a jolt.

Twenty-One

‘So … how can I help you? What is it you would like to know?'

The elderly woman sitting opposite Otto and Chloe looked curiously at them as she spoke. She had delicate features and a dignified manner. Her smiling eyes were youthful but her face heavily lined. Before them all stood steaming cups of tea.

‘Well,' said Chloe, as the cameras rolled behind her, ‘perhaps we could start with you introducing yourself. Tell us some more about your background and when you came to live in Marlowe House.'

‘My name is Pham Thi Huong – people here call me Mrs Pham. I am seventy-two years old and I have lived in Marlowe House since 1975, so around half my lifetime.'

There was a hint of disbelief in her soft voice.

‘I understand that you are one of the longest-standing residents here.'

‘Yes, that is possible. I'm not aware of anyone who has been here longer.'

‘Could you tell us, maybe, how you came to live here? My researchers tell me you have an interesting story.'