The Song House (15 page)

Kenneth glances over at the flattened oblong of grass where
the blanket had been, trying to recapture the memory of the
night before. But instead he revisits that scene in the library. He was horrible. He sees again the terrible look on Maggie’s
face; pain, and fear, and bewilderment: he caused that. Bullying
her, being an oaf. And then, stupidly trying to win her back
with a song. Some hope. And what does she do? She leaves
him flowers.

Throughout lunch, he glances surreptitiously at them. One
has hairy stems and purple petals; another, long dark stems with
flat white petals springing from a bulb of green. The other
sprigs are rosemary. He would never think of putting a herb
in a bouquet. Maggie, you’re a wonder, he says, in his head.

William does most of the talking. He’s telling his father
about work, the latest gallery opening, but neither of them is
fooled; he hasn’t come to discuss work. As he speaks, William
pulls absently at the purple flowerhead, dragging the others
with it and almost upending the jar.

Careful! says Kenneth, You’ll have it over.

What’s this then, Dad? he says, drawing out the stalk.

Kenneth looks at it, pretends to be thinking.

It’s called, um, I’m not sure of the common name.

But you’d know it in Latin?

William raises an eyebrow as he says it, shoots his father a quick
grin.

Not your arrangement, then, he says.

What would you like to know? Kenneth asks. He waits,
wiping his hands on his napkin.

Well, does she have any other talents, William says, Apart
from floristry?

He resists the urge to put the stalk in his mouth.

She has, says Kenneth. He would like to list all that Maggie
does, realizes that what she is to him is not definable.

I don’t expect you to understand, or even like the idea, but
it’s a professional relationship.

I bet. So what is her profession, exactly?

William tosses the stalk on the table; the texture of it on his
fingers is hairy and rough, and the peppery smell gives him an
odd sensation at the back of his throat. He feels his father’s eyes
on him, flicks a greenfly off his shirt.

Dad, I hope you’re not going to make a fool of yourself.

Why change the habit of a lifetime? says Kenneth.

Ali thinks she’s a fraud.

Kenneth turns away from the table, unable to still the energy
in his legs, kicking them out in front of him.

Bush telegraph works fast round here, he says, How dare
you discuss my private business?

William leans back in his chair like a poker player, raising his
sunglasses from his eyes and sliding them onto the top of his
head.

Someone has to look out for you, he says, I’m just asking
you to be cautious. You don’t know what the world’s like these
days. There are lots of charlatans out there only too happy to
con you. A lot of vile individuals, he continues, nodding, You
hear about it all the time, old people robbed in their living
rooms, shootings on the street, happy slapping . . .

Happy what? says Kenneth, incredulous.

William throws his arms wide.

You see, you’ve no idea what goes on. You just let this
woman walk in, give her free rein. And you don’t know the
first thing about her.

Some things you take on trust, says Kenneth.

As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s the wrong
thing to say. Kenneth watches as William turns his head away,
his response delivered with feigned outrage.

No, Dad, you must
never
take anything on trust. Where’s
she from? What did she do before? How much are you paying
her?

She’s just working for me for a few months, Will. You don’t
have to feel threatened. I’m not some old codger, he says, and then, as if it might lighten the tone, I’m sixty-several, he adds,
with a laugh.

What day is it today, Dad? asks William quietly.

Don’t insult me, says Kenneth, tossing his napkin onto his
empty plate.

OK. Something easier. What did you have for breakfast?

He leans forward again. Kenneth leans forward too, conspiratorial,
a look of amusement on his face. He places his hands on
the table, making the glasses rock gently.

An egg, lightly boiled, two pieces of toast. A cup of tea. I
believe it was Twinings.

They haven’t noticed the sky thickening overhead, but the two
of them are sweating in the stifled air. They see the sheen on
each other’s face, the colour rising at the throat; both interpret
these signs as victory. Kenneth feels the tremor in his hands
and keeps them pressed on the cloth.

Let me meet her, then, says William, lightly, If she’s
no threat
.
Bring her up to town.

Actually, I think an evening here would be better, have some
people over. Before the summer disappears entirely, Kenneth
says, looking at the sky, You can meet her then.

He stacks the crockery onto the tray and carries it back into
the kitchen. He’s smiling to himself, humming a tune under
his breath.

She takes care removing her shirt: the fabric has stuck in places;
she will have to soak it off. Standing in her bathroom, Maggie
drenches a cotton wool ball in warm water and presses it against
her sleeve, feels the water run down her arm and drip off her
fingertips. A cluster of smeared brown stains indicates where
the puncture wounds have rubbed. She notices a few more
further down the sleeve; at some point during the day, it must
have ridden up and opened the wounds again. When she judges
it won’t be too painful, she snakes her arm out and inspects
the damage; gently touches the places where the ink has got
under the skin. She will be left with a few black dots as a
reminder, but for the most part the wounds will come clean.
She dabs on the antiseptic cream she bought in the shop and
covers the skin with a large square of plaster. Immediately, she
feels better: healed, less frayed.

That’s the very last, she warns herself in the mirror, ignoring
the smirk of the woman staring back.

When William phones Alison, she sounds distracted.

Is it a bad time? he asks, hearing her struggling with the phone.

Terrible, I’m trying to learn how to play golf, although why
is beyond me. Bloody wasp! she shouts – a rush of crackle on
the line – Hang on.

There’s a pause, a thunk, more rustling, and then her voice, low
and ordinary again.

That’s better, she says, Killed the bastard. Now, how was he? William tells her about lunch with Kenneth, and his father’s
plans to hold a party.

A soirée, she says, How elegant. Let’s hope he remembers
to actually invite people. That is, of course, unless he was
making one of his jokes.

William feels the truth of the remark. Of course it was a joke. His father was just trying to fob him off.

What did she say her name was again? he asks.

Maggie, she says, That’s all.

And she was a lot younger than him, you said? And pretty? Alison gives a little cough.

I didn’t say pretty. I think I said ‘bedraggled’. Much more
your type than his.

Meaning? says William, sensing a trap.

Meaning a lot like those women who hang about the private
views hoping for a free drink. You know, intense faces, intense
mannerisms – intense bloody hair, she says, exasperated.

Ah, laughs William, Just my type. So, she
is
pretty then. That
explains it. What we need to do is give the old man a project,
something to divert him, to occupy his time.

The hotel idea? she asks, I thought he wasn’t interested.

He wasn’t, says William, But with you on board, he might
be persuaded. You know, you can be
very
persuasive.

A long silence follows where all he can hear is what sounds
like wind butting against the handset. Just when he thinks the
connection is down, Alison speaks again.

I care about him, Will. I wouldn’t want him to do anything
he doesn’t want to do. If he agrees, I’ll help. But I’m not going
to try to force his hand. Is that clear?

You’re breaking up, he says, Thanks Ali, I’m counting you
in.

In the prefect’s office, Maggie rolls a sheet of paper into the
typewriter. Looking at the notes from the morning, she hears
again her own hysterical voice rising above the soft slow gravel
of ‘Lay Lady Lay’. The light from the window isn’t helping her
to see; nothing here will help her see. It’s too dark.

You mustn’t talk, he’d said, Do you understand? No talking.
Put his face close to hers, repeated the words very slowly. His
breath smelled of spearmint. No talking, he’d said, The dog will
rip your heart out.

Big Girl Now

Not your surprise, Kenneth, but mine, to see
how desperate you were to bury the past. Like
father like son like son like father.

I didn’t say a word in that place, Kenneth,
but I sang; I sang my heart out.

Just like that bird.

Maggie lays the typed sheet down on the desk, and strides
through the hall, along the corridor, into the atrium. She has
a clear image in her head, and she holds it there; it won’t escape
from her now. She knows where she’s headed and what she
will do. The French windows lead her out into the courtyard,
and in the courtyard is the tree, and its eyes seem to slide sideways,
beckoning her on. Beyond, there will be a wall with a
low wooden door. And she will open it and go inside and see
for herself what the fear looked like.

Here she is, standing in front of the tree, and beyond it, there is the wall. There is the wall but there is no door. There is only
a tree. There are only bricks. There is no door.

Kenneth leads her slowly across the back lawn. He has one
hand round her waist and holds her wrist with the other, daintily,
as if any pressure would cause her to snap in half. She leans
against him and he catches the warm scent of her hair and an
astringent, more medicinal smell he can’t define. Really, he
would like to carry her, pick her up bodily and crush her to
him and wrap himself all around her, like a suit of armour,
like a shroud. He wants to bury himself inside her. He wants to
eat her. The knowledge makes him breathless. Kenneth understands
for the first time how vast love is; how savage; how
appalling. He sits her at the table under the cedar and goes to
fetch her some water. A moment to think, he tells himself, to
compose himself. But in the kitchen he doesn’t think, he turns
the cold tap on full and pushes his face under the flow, dashing
up the liquid in his hands, coughing out the water like a
drowning man. Still he feels a raw heat bubbling in his blood.
If anyone has hurt her, if they’ve hurt her, he thinks, I will kill
them.

Picking his way back across the lawn with the tray, the glasses
chattering and the light sparking off the crystal facets of the
jug, he sees her bent double, a clear stream of liquid spilling
from her mouth. Even this, he would own. In the shadow of
the tree, her skin is the colour of ash.

It’ll be too much sun, Maggie, he says, You walked all the
way into town. And back! No wonder you don’t feel well.

She doesn’t speak. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips. When
he offers her the glass of water, she turns and splashes it in
quick arcs over the grass, erasing the evidence of her sickness,
then holds it up for a refill.

Perhaps you should lie down for a while, and I’ll concoct
something adventurous for supper. What do you say?

Maggie opens her mouth, sucks in a breath, closes it again.

Was it that scary tree, the one with the eyes? he asks,
desperate now for a clue, Because I’ll have it chopped down
if necessary.

It’ll have a restraining order, she says. Her lips are flecked
with sticky blobs of white.

A preservation order, Maggie, he says, pointing a finger at
her, Are you trying to catch me out?

He drags his chair nearer to hers, removes his handkerchief
from his pocket and tilts the jug of water so a thin trickle runs
on and off the cotton and drips through the gap between his
knees. He dabs the handkerchief against her lips, and when she
doesn’t protest, he folds it over and wipes the flecks away from
the corners of her mouth. The look of her: he could howl.