The Song House (8 page)

He would like – he thinks it through carefully, feeling the
words slip away from him even as they’re forming in his head
– he would prefer Maggie to love him for who he is now. For
what he is now.

The sound of her fingers on the typewriter keys, like Morse
code, comes up the stairs. He tells himself again: what he is
now is an old fool. He doesn’t care a bit.

Maggie rips the page from the machine and puts it with the
others in a box file on the desk. She will have to be more
careful; he could find any of this. She will take the file to her
rooms each day, and be vigilant when writing down his notes.
He was playing a game this morning, but she knows he is more
than capable of spying on her. She stretches across to open the
window, pushing it as wide as possible to let in the light. The
air that greets her is green and fresh, blowing up from the river.

September has always been my mother’s favourite month. She
used to say it was the last gift of summer. And of course, I was
conceived in September. The best gift of all, she used to say,
although at the time she felt it was more like a hex.

Nell’s pregnancy isn’t the sort they tell you about in maternity
classes. She is violently sick, almost from the first week.
She staggers from toilet to bedroom and back again, resting
one hand on the mossy brick of the lean-to while she pours
the slop of bile from the bucket with the other. She thinks it’s
the vegetables they’re growing. She’s seen the farmer spray his
land; perhaps the chemicals have carried on the wind. Or it’s
too much local cider. She’s heard it said that anything goes into
the mash – rotten apples, unfortunate rats. She thinks if she
doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, there’ll be nothing to throw up, but
she couldn’t be more wrong; the sickness gets worse and my
mother gets thinner. She’s so dizzy, she has to lie down to stop
falling over. Even Ed starts to worry. He enlists Cindy to come
and help; one look at Nell, and she diagnoses pregnancy.

Despite the women’s movement, or maybe because of it, Ed
thinks these matters are strictly female. My mother never had
these problems, he brags to Cindy, And this—he gestures to
the empty pantry and the dirty plates – It’s, y’know, a bit of a
drag.

When Cindy relates this anecdote to Nell, my mother lifts her
sweated head from the bed and cries,

Poor Ed, it’s a drag is it? Should have kept his cock to
himself!

Leon is kinder. He fetches spine-cracked novels from the
charity shop, bunches of fireweed picked from the meadow; or
he’ll sit on the end of her bed and play her their latest composition.
Nell could do without the singing; to her ears, their
songs always seem to be about a dark lady and a river, and even
the raindrop sounds of the tabla give her a headache. She has
more pressing matters to worry about than whether Misty
Lure, as Ed and Leon have called themselves, will have enough
material to go on the road.

At night, Nell hears them in the kitchen below, their quick
laughter rattling like gunshot off the ceiling. Cindy sings
harmonies in a West Country burr, her eyes closed, her hand
cupped over her ear. She has grown her hair, she wears long
gypsy skirts with a petticoat below the hem, tie-dyed blouses
revealing her shadowy cleavage; bangles up to her elbow. Ed
remarks that she sounds like Sandy Denny; that their duo could
be a trio. When Nell does venture downstairs, clinging to the
narrow rail, afraid of falling, splitting her belly open on the
stone floor, she finds the kitchen table awash with empty cider
flagons, sticky glasses of pale liquor, nests of newspaper holding
the savaged remnants of fish and chips, sausage in batter. She
doesn’t have to see the food; even thinking of the words makes
her retch.

At other times she might find them blissful and out of it, a
sheet of blue smoke above their heads, and then she’ll notice
Cindy is sitting on Ed’s lap, a jingling arm snaked round his neck.
Nell doesn’t mind this at first, because she has her own private
duo now: me and her. Let Ed do as he pleases, she thinks; it’s
a free country. But one night, after she has endured hours of
churning nausea, Ed comes to bed late. A hint of patchouli oil
on his skin; a flush of red at his throat. Lifting his hand to her
face, Nell finds the rare damp earth of another woman’s smell on
his fingers. She dreams, sleeping and waking, of a terrible accident;
Cindy floating like the Lady of Shallot through the river
weeds, Cindy diving down and smashing her head on a rock.
Cindy, drunk on elderflower wine, wading to her death, the water
lapping around her legs, waist, chest, until she is vanished from
sight. Nell gives a good deal of thought to consequences these
days; of what will become of her, what will become of us.

Kenneth knows by her scent that’s she’s been in the library. He
stands quite still in the afternoon heat, filling his lungs with
her, breathing her in. A sound from the far end of the room
makes his heart bang in his chest. Through the gloom he sees
Maggie straighten up from behind the stereo. She too takes
fright when she notices him, half-jumping sideways, hands flying
to her face.

I saw this earlier, she says, with a voice like water, And I just
wanted to hear it again. I hope you don’t mind.

He shakes his head.

Never, for you, he tries to say, but the shock of finding her
steals his words.

Maggie moves slowly towards him through the semi-dark, just
as the music starts. Time beaten out like a drum, a medieval
rhythm, slow insistence. The peculiar feeling he has, watching
her faltering steps: as if he’s invisible. No: as if she is blind. He
almost puts out his hand to guide her, but is stopped by a pure
voice rising up into the coffered ceiling of the library. They
listen together, Maggie smiling, Kenneth shivering slightly
despite the heat. She’s looking at him but her eyes are remote.
She’s seeing a memory. Kenneth understands perfectly how
that is, and is jealous of it. The words of the song are spun out,
slow and careful and full of dread, and even though he would
rather not listen any more – such is the awful feeling he gets
from the sound – Maggie is close enough to touch: he wouldn’t
break the moment for the world. Kenneth doesn’t recognize
the song, or that he is panting slightly with the heat, with her
proximity, with the strange cast of light in the room. He
watches her open mouth, her lips shaping the words, and feels
his breath desert him.

And then she went onward, just one star awake

Like the swan in the evening

Moves over the lake.

It’s hard to look at her and impossible not to. It should be
awkward, and he checks her face for any sign of embarrassment,
or irony, something that would tell him how to react.
But her eyes are fixed on his and he is unable to feel anything,
now, only a wretched and hollow longing, rising like a sickness,
for this woman and the faint sounds coming from her
lips.

When the song is over and the next one begins, Maggie
moves swiftly back to the stereo and lifts the needle off the
record.

Not this one, she says.

I didn’t even know I had that, says Kenneth, Who is it?

Fairport Convention. Their first album with Sandy Denny.
Maggie turns to the wall, searching out another record.

Oh. And she’s dead, she says, matter-of-fact.

That’s sad, he says, sensing a sudden awkwardness between
them. Maggie slides an album from the shelf, turns it over to
read the sleeve notes. When she speaks again, his suspicions are
realized.

My mother used to love Sandy Denny. Then she hated her.
Here’s another dead one, look. It’s like a morgue in here,
Kenneth.

A minute ago she sang to him, now she’s accusing him of something.
The cellophane cover glitters darkly in her hands.
Ordinarily, he’d fight back. What business is it of hers? Ordinarily,
and he feels the knowledge like a pinch, he’d tell her
to go to hell, that most of the great music, like art, like literature,
like everything, belongs to the dead. And she’s an
employee, and her opinion counts for nothing. But here she
is, and he’s buried in her hand, in that unnerving look of scorn
she wears. And he says,

Well, they’re immortal really, aren’t they? And they’ll always
be alive in here.

Maggie swings round to see him pressing his chest. He raises
his chin, peering over at the record.

Who is that?

Otis Redding. Also unplayed by the look of it.

Shall we hear it now? he asks, moving slowly closer, You
could play me the good tunes.

They’re all
good tunes
, Kenneth, she says, curling her tongue
over her lip, This is Otis we’re talking about, not Cliff Richard.
But no, she says, her eyes scanning the room, It’s not the right
weather.

Not the right . . .?

Maggie turns away to search again, her fingers tripping along
the spines.

It’s not just alphabetical, he says, It’s alphabetical by genre.

I know, she says, dipping down into a crouch, so that he can
only see the top of her head.

What do you mean, ‘not the right weather’?

Otis is rainy day music.

Kenneth draws closer, staring down at the shadowy curve of
her cheek as she bends her head this way and that.

Oh yes, he says, I see. Like my spring morning, my Poulenc.
So, something we both know? he offers, confident that they’re
on easy terms again. Maggie straightens up and faces him, sucks
air through her teeth.

Well, it’s not quite that simple, she says, There are all sorts
of variables. Time of year, time of day, place, mood, of course—

Company, offers Kenneth.

Good, yes, we must always consider company.

Maggie, are you making fun of me again? Because as you
know, I take my music very seriously.

She ignores him, crossing to the nearest window and unclasping
the shutter. She lets in a long finger of sunlight.

For example, what’s the most perfect music for this moment?
This one right here, she says, pointing at the floor. Kenneth
swallows hard. His mouth is dry. He looks about him, at the
woody softness split by the light, and the heat it brings in.
There’s the buzz of summer outside the window, and Maggie
in shadow, but smiling again. He feels he’s being tested.

One song, Kenneth, she says, Just one. I’m not asking for
the world here. Don’t knock yourself out.

Oh, but she is asking for the world, and Kenneth would easily
give it to her. His mind races through all the romantic summers
he’s known or dreamt of, all the times he’s sat alone and
daydreamed of such a moment, with a faceless woman who
now has a face and is asking a small price for him to pay. No,
a love song is too obvious: he veers into neutral: simple music
for a hot day; Tailleferre, or Schubert’s ‘Nachtviolen’. But he
doesn’t want to bore her, that would be a mistake. A song, she
said; it should have meaning. Bound to be someone dead, but
he can’t help that. Then he hits on just the thing, just the perfect
thing, for this mellowness and promise. The perfect thing for
him. But would she agree? He crosses to the wall and finds it
immediately: his Nat King Cole collection. There are four
blasted records! He removes the one he’s looking for, angling
it to the window, squinting at the tiny words on the label.
Maggie waits, dancing her sandalled foot in and out of the
light, like a cat teasing a sunbeam. In the silence Kenneth
fumbles, tries to steady his hands; she must surely hear his
breathing, cutting the air like a bellows. The violins save him,
the violins and then a voice pouring out like cream. ‘Stardust’
fills the room. Maggie listens carefully, her eyes on him, but he
disguises the flash of alarm on his face with a raised eyebrow,
a practised smile: he’s got the wrong track. He meant to play
her ‘Unforgettable’.

It’s very sad, she says, So much loneliness. So haunted by
memories.

Kenneth bends his head. He’d wanted to woo her, and be plain
about it, he’ll admit that; he was going for a definite message.
He’s made a mistake after all: now she’ll think he’s maudlin,
stuck in the past; an old man.