The Song House (19 page)

In the days after her mother’s death, Maggie wasn’t able to
think about what she would do with the rest of her life.
Without Nell in the background, it was as difficult to imagine
the future as it was to forget the past. And it was this past, the
pieces of it, that Maggie kept revisiting. She wanted to take it
out, lay it side by side, organize it, as if it were a pack of playing
cards. She wanted clarity, logic, sequence, and all with a
new urgency, a sense of sudden desperation, felt more keenly
because her memories were so fractured. She had no idea that
trying to regain what was lost was in itself a symptom of loss.

Leon had come up for the funeral, so it was just the two of
them, standing under the tall trees at the woodland site, wishing
Nell a safe journey onwards. Nell had taken care of everything
beforehand; the burial and the coffin and the Portland stone
memorial, the bulbs to be planted and the words to be spoken.
All the practical work was done; it was the impractical stuff,
the absence, the gone-ness of her, that no one could do anything
about. Maggie realized that she didn’t want to go back
to Charmouth with Leon. An idea was taking shape in her
head. Nell would never have allowed her to apply for the job
at Earl House, but death had lifted the barrier: her mother
couldn’t stop her from doing anything, now. And it was Maggie,
not Nell, who had to go on, who had to live with herself. She
thought she’d make discoveries at Earl House, and she’d been
right about that: just not the discoveries she’d expected.

And what a mess of it she’d made. If she’s capable of nothing
else, at least she has prepared for the weather, she tells herself.
At least she has made the effort to do something before the
roads got impassable.

On her fifth day back, with the cupboards nearly empty and
the log pile low, she’d taken Nell’s old bike out of the shed
and cycled to the petrol station on Bear Lane, ducking the
traffic and the blowing rain. The petrol station doubled as a
minimarket, and had recently expanded into a souvenir shop
and newsagent. Since the post office closed in the village, it
had begun to sell greetings cards and stationery and stamps.
Maggie stood, twirling the rack of cards, not so much drying
off in the steamy atmosphere as simply getting warm again.

She’d bought a sepia-tone postcard of St Gregory’s Church
and a sack of logs. The man from the timber yard next door
came dashing out of the dark lean-to when he saw her, and
held the logs for her while she forced them into her panniers.

Criminal, he’d said, Burning logs in July.

I know, my mother would have a fit, she’d replied, trying to
smile, But it gets so cold at night.

Only when she heard her own voice did she realize that she’d
talked to no one for nearly a week.

That’s a lot to shift on that bike. I could give you a lift home,
if you want.

She thought he was flirting with her until he’d added,

Must be hard for you now, up at that place. Lonely.

And then she understood he was offering his condolences.

Must be hard for you now, up at that place. Lonely.

It’s okay, really, she’d said, Thank you. It’s okay.

Maggie returned to find a heap of sandbags had been dropped
off outside the cottage. Every night on the local news the threat
of flooding had been the first story, but Maggie hadn’t been
worried, didn’t think it abnormal; it was just an abnormal
time of year to have so much rain. With the arrival of the sandbags,
she reconsidered: it did seem wrong, all this water. It did
seem as if it would never stop. She’d dragged the sandbags to
the front step one by one, and left them there. They might stop
a river rise, but wouldn’t prevent the rain from seeping in
through the cracked slate roof, or finding its way down the
chimney, where it battled the fire in spittering gusts. She heaved
her panniers in one at a time, filling the coal bucket with logs
and stacking the rest on top of the meter cupboard. The bed
in the corner of the room was still made up. Maggie sat in the
armchair next to the fire and stared at it. The room was darkening
quietly, and the fire became brighter, and Maggie felt
the heat of it burn her calves and sting her eyes.

I miss you, Nell, she said, to the bed.

Over the past few weeks, she had spoken quite often to the
bed in the corner of the room; found it impossible, at first, not
to. Even though her mother died in a hospital, the bed was
where Nell had lain for most of the previous year. It was where
they talked. At night, Maggie sat in the chair by the fire and
Nell sat sideways on the bed, resting against the wall, and then,
after the last round of chemotherapy, she’d half sit, with the
pillow supporting her back. At the end, she lay with her head
on the pillow, unable to lift it. She died on a late May morning
so beautiful, so shining with promise, it was impossible to think
that anyone could die on such a day. For a long time, Maggie
couldn’t believe her mother was gone. Often she’d hear her,
singing, or talking back to the radio. Sometimes, sitting on her
own by the fire and trying to read her book, she’d catch a hint
of movement, and look up, and nearly see Nell, fidgeting in
her sleep.

She knew this was grief. She understood it would take time.
Hearing Nell’s voice and seeing her turn up in unexpected
places; Maggie had anticipated that. But grief didn’t account
for the smell. It arrived the day Nell died. Maggie came back
from the hospital, unlocked the door of the cottage, and there
it was, floating so thick in the air she could almost see it. Not
the scent of her mother: she could have endured that. It was
like leaking gas. They weren’t on the mains at Field Cottage,
so a gas leak was impossible, but still the smell was there, rising
in a vapour at night to wake her, and Maggie would walk
through the house, searching for the source, afraid to turn on
the lights or strike a match. It was a dark punishment, she
thought. She didn’t know it then, but that was also grief; that
was the smell of grief.

They sit under the tree, Kenneth with his umbrella in one hand
and a crystal goblet in the other, watching the downpour. As
they put their plates on the soaked tablecloth, William makes
to clear away the remnants of the wild flowers, shrivelled now
and broken into pieces by the weather. Kenneth stays his hand.

Leave them, he says, I like them.

The rain comes sideways in fast, unpredictable bursts, raking
the lawn and bouncing off the flagstones. The cedar gives some
cover, but when the water falls from the branches, it comes in
a heavy rush, spiking the top of William’s head and splashing
down the back of his neck. This is ridiculous, he thinks, This
is lunacy.

They said we were in for a hot summer, says Kenneth,
throwing the crusts of his sandwich onto the grass, Another
‘summer of seventy-six’.

Who said? asks William.

Those people on the news. The weatherman, Kenneth says,
Here, have this.

He passes William the umbrella while he pours more wine.
The glasses are glittering with droplets of rain. To Kenneth they
look marvellous.

That was the hottest in history, he continues.

Until the next one came along, says William, covering his
glass with his hand so Kenneth can’t fill it again, No more for
me, I’m driving.

You remember the fields? he asks his son, How they would
go up – whoof – without any warning. Spontaneous, that’s it,
that’s the one.

It’ll be climate change, says William, aching to move off the
subject, They don’t call it global warming any more, have you
noticed? Go easy on that wine, Dad.

And the fish? The river dried up, and people had to go and
collect the fish with their bare hands. Drowning in air.

You weren’t around very much.

Thought you didn’t remember, says Kenneth, piqued.
William takes a short quick breath. Here we go, he says, in his
head.

Dad, look, about this place.

What, this place here, under this tree? says Kenneth, jabbing
a finger on the tablecloth.

Yep, very funny. We should at least talk about it.

I’m not going to live in a theme park, Kenneth says, You
can do what you like with it when I’m dead, but while I’m
here, it stays as it is.

Not a theme park, Dad, a boutique hotel. A select clientele.
You don’t use that half of the house anyway. You’d hardly know
they were there.

Kenneth gives a silent laugh.

Troupes of yahoos dragging their cases up the drive,
wandering about the flower beds with their video cameras and
their maps and their
mobile phones.
I think I might notice them,
don’t you?

Ali wants to help, says his son, trying to coax him, She’d do
all the interior stuff. And we’ve had this idea to turn the main
hall into a gallery, you know, paintings, watercolours, the odd
sculpture. You wouldn’t have to do a thing – I’d act as agent,
and Ali would manage it all. She quite misses you, you know.

Well, tell her from me that I don’t need her help. Or yours.
And I don’t miss her, either, says Kenneth, rising from the table,
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a dip.

William thinks he must have misheard him.

A what? he says, A what did you say?

A dip, sighs Kenneth, as if he’s talking to an imbecile. He
moves off in the direction of the trees.

In the river? cries William, In this weather? Are you completely
nuts?

The shout from his father is joyous.

Ha! ’Tis a naughty night to swim in, Will!

Kenneth removes first one shoe, then the other, tossing them
over his shoulder. William watches as they bounce across the
lawn. He thinks his father’s bluffing, one of his tedious japes,
but keeps his eyes on the retreating form. The belt comes off,
leaping like a snake through the air, a pause until the trousers
fall, and then Kenneth, stepping awkwardly out of them, hobbles
in his shirt and socks down to the water’s edge.

Sod him, says William, Silly bastard. I hope he drowns.
He wipes the rain from his forehead, closes his eyes and puts
his face in his hands. Anyone who didn’t know him would
think he was praying.

Fifteen miles downriver, Maggie stands in the meadow, unsure
of how to go on. She keeps meaning to get the bus into town,
to stock up on groceries, look in the small ads for a job: something
easy, temporary, to tide her over while she considers her
next move. Then she forgets what it was she was going to do,
and only remembers too late. Time flows away from her. Mostly,
she’s been buying what food she needs from the petrol station.

On her last visit, instead of the usual butterfly nets and straw
hats hanging from the awning, she saw that the proprietor had
lined up a row of wellington boots on the forecourt, from large
to small, from black to green to rainbow-coloured. The only
pair in her size were duck-egg blue. She tried them on, retreating
a few steps to see how she looked in the reflection
of the glass frontage: like a gigantic toddler, she thought. She
was bending over, tucking her jeans in, so didn’t notice the
woman approach until she felt a breath on her neck.

Is that Nell’s girl? asked the woman, catching Maggie’s upper
arm in a pinch. The tiny painted face poking out of the plastic
rain hat broke into a neat smile.

Course it is. The image of her. You still here? We thought
you’d have gone straight back.

No, said Maggie, There’s still stuff to do.

There will be, agreed the woman, Sorry for your loss. You’ll
be on your way soon, though? That place’ll be empty soon?
The man from the timber yard appeared at Maggie’s side,
swinging the door open for the woman. They exchanged
friendly hellos before she dipped under his arm and ambled
inside.

Old Mrs Moore. Her grandson Sam’s getting married, he
said, by way of explanation.

And they’ll want my home, naturally, said Maggie.

The man shrugged.

I suppose she thinks you’ll be giving it up. It’s Maggie, isn’t
it? I’m Aaron, he said, holding out his hand, It’s hard these days
to get young people to stay, especially if they’ve got nowhere
to live. They disappear. You know that.

Do I? she said, feeling a catch in her throat, What makes
you say that?

You left. Went to live down south somewhere.

There must be other places. Ours isn’t exactly plush.

There’s the new barn conversions, but out of your league if
you’re a sheep farmer, or a carpenter – any of us, really, unless
you’re London based. And Weaver’s is empty most of the year,
he said, It’s a holiday let. Your family used to live there, right?

I don’t know you, she said, leaning against the wall and
kicking off one of the boots, But you seem to know me: my
name and my mother and where I live and where I used to
live and where I went. Do let me know if I’ve left anything
out.

Then he surprised her.

We
do
know each other, Maggie. Aaron Baggs. My family
had Meadow Cottage, down the way a bit from Weaver’s. But
you probably won’t remember us. I’m living at the Gatehouse
now.

She did have a faint recollection of the family: three children,
all younger than her. But there was something else about them
that she couldn’t quite recall; caught a glimpse of it on the
edge of her memory before it slipped away entirely. Maggie
looked at him properly, took in his eyes and the softness in
them, thinking it would bring the moment back. His face was
so lined and dark it looked dirty; the work had aged him. The
work, or the weather, or the close embrace of village life.

You didn’t leave, she said.

Oh, I went away, all right. And then I came home again, he
said, Just like we all do.

Maggie paired the boots together and pretended to consider
them. When she looked in at the window again, she saw two
other women had joined Mrs Moore. They stood all in a row,
watching her. Aaron was watching her too, smiling.