The Song House (32 page)

William finds his father in his office, asleep in the chair, a pair
of headphones clamped over his ears. He studies him for a
minute before tossing the postcard onto the blotter, waiting
for him to sense the change of air. Kenneth opens his eyes.

That, says William, pointing at the card, Cost me ninety-seven
pence.

His father removes the headphones and leans over to scrutinize
the picture.

What? What’s this?

It’s daylight robbery, says William, and seeing his father’s
bewildered expression, explains,There was no stamp on it. You
have to pay extra. It’s addressed to you.

Kenneth’s hands swim about on the desk, shifting papers and
CDs until he finds his glasses.

Water over stones, recites William, Pretty cryptic, if you ask
me.

The handwriting is familiar to Kenneth, but he just can’t
place it. He pushes his finger behind the lens of his glasses and
rubs his eye, trying to press it into focus. He’s seen the writing
recently somewhere, searches his mind until he finds the loose
thread.

What time is it, he asks, not waiting for an answer, Why
didn’t you wake me, boy? I’ll be late for Maggie.

She’s hearing things: the noise of her shoes being sucked into
the sodden earth, the regular sweep-squeak of her jacket as she
moves, a crow laughing in the treetops. There’s a melody playing
in her head: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. A right bend
leads her to the clearing. From here, set back behind the rhododendron
bushes, she sees the upper half of Earl House, its
tall windows full of purple clouds. The wheat on either side
of her is battered low, as if parting the way, but further on
it’s alive, swaying and bowing in the stiff breeze. When she
gets to the bowl barrow, she climbs up and sits on the mound
to wait.

It had been her idea to have the burial. They were in
Kenneth’s den when she made the suggestion, inspecting the
fish, scooping the dead ones from the surface with a spatula.
He was upset by the sight of their dimmed bodies, and by
William’s accusation.

I had
not
forgotten to feed them, he was saying, But the
power had gone off and I don’t know how to reset this thing.
What shall we do with them?

And then she asked him, straight out, if she could bury the
box at the bowl barrow. She gave him no reason, although she
imagined he would think it cathartic, or therapeutic. She really
didn’t mind what he thought.

It’s an ancient monument, he said, Protected. I don’t think
it’s allowed.

But only we will know, Kenneth, and it’s not as if it would
be the first time. People were buried there, once. I’d like to
bury the box, and the notebook, when you’ve finished with
it.

Burying the past? he suggested.

Burying what remains, she said, because she knew, once he
had read what she’d written in the notebook, that the past
would be anything but buried.

Here he is now, making his way down the sloping lawns, half
running, a garden spade under his arm. They meet at the barrow,
where Kenneth, pink-faced, leans his weight on the handle
and tries to get his breath back.

I’m not late? he asks.

I’m grateful you’re letting me do this. I thought we could
put it here, she says, tapping her foot on the turf.

They both look at the box for a moment, the wood split and
swollen, the lid cloven.

Oh! I got your postcard, he says, Which reminds me, don’t
worry about the song notes.

He takes the notebook from his pocket and hands it to her.
She studies the crest, the front page striated with watermarks.
Her name, written in capitals, is smudged out of all recognition.

The ‘song notes’?

Yes, in there. They don’t matter. Like you said, I shouldn’t
be wasting my life worrying about the past. Time to get out
in the real world again.

He looks intently at her.

We have more important things to think about now. We
must plan our trip! You will come, won’t you, Maggie? Say
you’ll come?

She stares back at him, taking in the measure of what he’s
just said.

You haven’t read it.

Can’t. I’m sure they’re delightful. I know you worked hard.
But the ink, it was washed away, some of it, and it’s all stuck
together. Anyway, as I say—

Maggie considers for a moment, flicking quickly through the
notebook. The pages are stiff and rippled, and on the ones
which aren’t glued together, the writing – her neat, particular
handwriting – is ghostly,vanished. There’ll be no burying today.
But surely, she can tell him now: if she can find the words. If
she can say them. And he will believe her now. Surely.

Then I must tell you, she says, taking him by the hand and
leading him back up the hill, There’s something you ought to
know.

On the top floor of the house, standing at the window,
William is watching.

Also by Trezza Azzopardi

The Hiding Place

Remember Me

Winterton Blue

Like the touch of rain she was
On a man’s flesh and hair and eyes
When the joy of walking thus
Has taken him by surprise:

With the love of the storm he burns,
He sings, he laughs, well I know how,
But forgets when he returns
As I shall not forget her ‘Go now’.

Those two words shut a door
Between me and the blessed rain
That was never shut before
And will not open again.

Edward Thomas

Many thanks to Paul Baggaley and all the team at Picador,
particularly to my editor, Sam Humphreys, for her patience
and belief.

I’m indebted to Derek Johns at AP Watt for his unstinting
support, and to Linda Shaughnessy for her keen editorial eye.
I’d like to thank Tadzio Koelb and Penelope Williams for their
help with the early sections, Peter Edwards for his knowledge
of wine, and crucially, Arthur Foster, who supplied me with
nearly all of Kenneth’s jokes.

My love and thanks, as always, to my family, but especially to
Stephen Foster, without whom nothing gets done.
John Martyn fans will notice the allusions throughout. This
book is dedicated to his memory.

First published 2010 by Picador

This electronic edition published 2010 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-330-53735-3 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-53734-6 EPUB

Copyright © Trezza Azzopardi

The right of Trezza Azzopardi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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