Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
Maggie, my father died years ago. What’s all this about?
He opens the door wider to let her pass through, but she shakes
her head at him, turns to walk away up the path.
I just wanted you to know that.
His voice comes hoarse, baffled.
Where are you going?
I have to find someone, she says.
Are you coming back? he cries, Only, it would be nice to
know, you know.
Maggie turns again, her faint smile creasing into a frown.
Yes, I’m coming back.
Taking a direct route from the Gatehouse, she manages well
on the road for a while, then, as the land dips and curves –
showing her the standing lake of river spill – she heads for
higher ground, only dropping beneath the shade of the rhododendrons
for the last half-mile. As she walks, she practises what
she will say, the movements her mouth should make, the noises
in her throat, casting them out onto the air. They sound
guttural, broken, like the cries of a raven. The main roads aren’t
flooded any more, and William may have gone by now; if so,
she’ll tell Kenneth. And if she can’t manage that, at least she
can show him the newspaper cutting and the notes she has
made. But she
can
tell him now, surely? Yet the thought of it
makes her throat close up, as if a hand is squeezing her neck,
compressing her vocal chords; she has to force the not-quite-words
through the narrow opening. She pauses, breathes slow
and deep and begins again; steps back from herself to say it.
That – child – is—
she begins, her face a mask as she stretches out the words. Her
tongue feels thick as a slug. Relax, she says, but the word makes
her mouth widen into a tight line. Calm. An open-mouthed
word. Easy – a subtle word, a word she can say – Easy.
That child is still missing, she says, I’ve come to take her
home.
When she reaches Earl House, she goes diagonally behind it,
across the field and along the river, past the cedar, its needles
sequinned with sunlight, up to the terrace. The water has
retreated, leaving the top lawn covered in a plane of shining
mud. She slips once, putting her hand out to save herself, then
a second time, fumbling the box as she skids. She’s come this
far. There’s a ladder leaning against the wall and a spade caked
in sludge; someone has been clearing the flood residue from
the deck. She finds the kitchen empty, the floor freshly mopped
and smelling of pine; she leaves footprints as she walks across
it. A neat row of wine bottles are lined up along the counter,
a bowl of water in the sink releases a thin veil of steam. At the
entrance to the library, she pauses. There’s a figure in the corner
of the room, sitting in Kenneth’s wing-backed chair.
And who might you be, says William, with no question in
his voice. She steps backwards, putting space between him and
her.
Maggie, she says.
The famous Maggie, he smiles, At last.
I’ve come—
The words retreat. She feels them slip away inside her, feels
them spiralling down.
You’ve come to see my father, he says, Well, he’s still asleep.
Maybe I can help you.
He never sleeps – late.
So he says. But I wouldn’t take his word for it. I’m William,
his son. Forgive my manners, it’s not every day we get a visitor
just walk in off the street.
Maggie tries to look at him, but there’s stuff falling into her
eyes, specks of dirt; gritty, sharp. The effort of controlling her
limbs makes her dizzy.
Would you like to leave a message, Maggie?
When she doesn’t reply, he rises from his seat.
Something to give him, she says at last.
Afraid she might drop it, she rests the box on top of the glass
cabinet. Beneath the lid, the sheet music seems to quiver; notes
appear and disappear, jumping along the stave like performing
fleas.
William nods at the box, his hands open to take it.
I can give it to him when he wakes up.
I want to make sure he gets it.
He lets out a brief, exasperated sigh.
Then I’ll make sure he gets it.
She’s about to lift the box away when the sheet music comes
into focus. She takes a sharp breath in, and quotes, very clearly
and precisely, as if from memory:
We have an anchor that keeps the soul
Steadfast and sure while the . . . billows roll
.
William shoots her a quick grin, close now, almost at her
shoulder.
It’s a hymn, he says, Used to sing it at Boys’ Brigade.
Maggie snatches up the box as he motions for her to follow
him. He strides ahead, brusque and confident, telling her that
she’s welcome to make an appointment to see Kenneth, and
perhaps she’d be kind enough to telephone first before she
next decides to visit. He dismisses her as he might a servant.
As he leads her along the corridor, she focuses on the back of
his head, the small bald circle in the thatch of hair. Nell was
right about power; it releases itself like a vapour, coming off
him now in a kind of languorous heat. He couldn’t care less
what she thinks of him: she’s nothing in his eyes. It makes her
furious, the sensation sparking through her, quick and bright.
Not just the arrogance of his clipped heels on the flagstones:
something’s wrong with what he’s just said. He breaks his stride,
looks back to check she’s following.
You told me it was pillows, William. You used to sing
‘pillows’. You thought it was funny. Remember? she says, turning
away as he opens the front door.
She takes the stairs, up and up, the light from the windows
chopping her into pieces, feeling William gaining on her, a
pace behind, calling out. She flings open Kenneth’s bathroom
door and slams it shut behind her. William on the other side,
the flat of his hand slapping the wood. There’s a rising nausea,
full and bitter in her throat, and the room moving around her.
A sudden red pain on the side of her head. She turns to find
the cause of it. It comes from high up: he was so much taller
than her then.
The adjoining door, the one she knows will give her
Kenneth, retreats as she moves towards it. Maggie sinks onto
the edge of the bath. Someone’s hand on her face, and then
the river man, holding her, wrapping her up—
In a piece of cloth, see. Just here, round your head. Just to
stop that running now. You’ve got very nice hair, young lady.
Who’d you steal it off ? That’s it, you’re all right, I’ve got you.
Don’t take no notice of him now, he’ll make a fuss but he
won’t hurt you. He’s a good old boy, Sonny. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Thomas’s eyes are wide and his breathing shallow. The knuckles
of his right hand are satisfyingly swollen, the pink blotches
deepened now to black and purple. He dangles his hand over
the edge of the chair for Bramble to lick it. She must be hungry;
he should get up. He will get up, in a while. In a little while.
Should have done that at the time. Smacked him one, the lying
little runt. A dog can bite, but a dog can’t put a child in a hole.
The distant past is yesterday, and then it’s today, right now, and
as he relives the moment, Bramble waits at his side. He’ll get
up, in a minute.
Kenneth’s touch is gentle. She would like to tell him why she
came back, but her mouth is filled with dirt. He moves her
over to sit on the chaise longue, the briefest caress of his fingers
on her hair.
I’ve sent William for a glass of water.
He looks bleary and ruffled, a man emerging from sleep, and
he smells that way, warm and faintly acidic. He’s smiling at her;
even now he can’t contain his delight. Fighting the urge to be
sick, Maggie lowers her gaze to his feet: one bare, the other
with a bandage hanging from it. She puts a hand up to her
head to check. Strewn across the tiles are the contents of the
dreamcatcher box. The newspaper cutting, a sodden remnant,
disintegrates as she lifts it, but the picture of Nell is safe, the
notebook is safe. She gives it to Kenneth.
I want you to read this, she says, her voice echoing in the
space, and Kenneth simply nods.
When William arrives with the water, Kenneth tries to
snatch it from him, jealous, guarded. His look is accusing.
You can leave us now,Will. We’ll be fine.
Why don’t you get dressed, Dad, and I’ll look after Maggie
for a minute? he says, and only then does she see that Kenneth
is wearing pyjamas. He retreats to the far door, but leaves it
open. From inside the room, he talks to Maggie, telling her
how astounded he is to see her again, overjoyed, how he’ll take
care of her. He pokes his head through the doorway now and
then, eager to share the moment. She has to sit back to drink
the water, afraid she will topple if she doesn’t concentrate, and
her eyes take in the plain white wall and the outline of the
frieze beneath it.
Birdie Crane, says William.
This used to be the nursery, didn’t it? she says, giving back
the empty glass. They both look at each other, William and
Maggie, and what passes through them is something that Kenneth
can never share: the same memory.
Rusty is standing at the window. As they enter, she turns
around, and sees the dirty child that William has beside him; a
child like a vole, like some kind of subterranean creature, with
her smeared face and her pinprick eyes. A horror. Rusty takes
in how abhorrent the child is, and says to William,
Wherever did you get that from?
From across the river. I got her for you.
And why would you do that? she says, pulling her chin back,
as if avoiding a bad smell.
They said you wanted a child.
You
said. I heard you! And
they don’t look after her.
You are going to return the child immediately and I am
going to contact your father, she says, her voice rigid and
controlled, You are in serious trouble.
But I got her for you, he says, a tremor of panic coursing
through his body.
No. You found it. Do you understand?
Rusty turns back to the window – she won’t face them again
– and says,
Go now.
Maggie and William look at each other and their look remembers
how dark it was outside, another warm, dark night, and
how they went down to the kitchen and William – quickly,
because he was afraid of his mother’s strangeness and needed
to get Birdie away – washed her hands and face with a dishcloth
and she stuck her tongue out as he washed her to taste
the moisture. He stopped at the garage door and told her to
stand there and he went inside and fetched the big torch, not
because he was frightened of the dark but because she was,
and he didn’t want her frightened. They held hands crossing
the field and their hands were hot. William didn’t know what
to do. He couldn’t put her back in the boat and push it across
to the other side; people would be searching for her, they’d
be waiting and they’d catch him doing it. He’d thought
she belonged here. He’d convinced himself. He’d thought his
mother would get better, that he could make her better.
He would have to be quick, now, but she was so slow, she
couldn’t move fast like him and it was annoying, how slow she
was, and the torch was heavy and he switched it off, thinking
at the last minute that someone might see the light. And in
the darkness, a new thought: he could leave her; he could just
put her in the culvert and tell her not to move and then – and
then what? What if she wouldn’t stay? What if she tried to
follow him? He didn’t know. It was hard, trying to think what
was best. What if she told on him? Best if she couldn’t tell.
He was trying to think, and it was so hard, standing there,
clicking the torch on and off in the culvert and worrying about
everything, whether she would be afraid out here on her own,
what his father would do to him, and whether she would tell
on him, holding her hand very tight, squeezing it. And over
the hill, with his twisting low run, came Sonny, scenting him,
excited, racing towards them.
I saw him too, her eyes say, And I screamed, didn’t I, because
he was going to eat my heart out. And that’s when you hit me.
Birdie Crane, William says again, and Maggie nods at him.
Dear Nell,
You’ll know about the flooding, I’m sure, and I’m sorry about
the state of your bed and your records – and everything, really.
It’s a terrible mess. At least that awful gas smell has gone, although
I can’t say I prefer the new one; eau de sewage, Aaron calls it.
You’ll understand why I have to leave, and why I’m writing to
you now. Can’t stay and talk, not yet, anyway, not here. I won’t
be far away, though; I’ve finally decided to quit my job with that
slave-driver Leon (that’s a joke, Mum). I’m only going up the
hill a bit.(We never travelled far, did we?) And don’t worry about
this place going to rot – Sam Moore’s having it. He breeds sheep
for the estate. Next time you look out of the window, there’ll be
a flock of them in that field. And his wife’s expecting a baby, so
there’ll be a family here again too. It’s only right.
I miss you, Nell.
Maggie pauses. She has more to say, but Aaron sounds his horn
again, impatient to be gone. As if Nell is reading her thoughts,
Maggie adds a postscript:
He’s local, but don’t worry, he’s a good friend. I know, you don’t
approve.
I love you,
Birdie
She folds the letter once and kisses it before she stows it in the
box. She doesn’t know yet what she will do with the box, or
with the notebook, and listens hard for Nell to advise her. She
can’t carry it around forever, can’t keep clinging on to it like
a piece of driftwood. She has to let it go. There’s only silence
at first, and then, very faintly beneath it, a soft burring sound:
the gradual shift and settle of the house, the water’s retreat, and
her own withdrawal, an eliding of all that’s gone before in
preparation for what’s to come. She picks up the box and goes
to join Aaron in the truck.