The Song House Read online

  The

  Song

  House

  Trezza

  Azzopardi

  PICADOR

  contents

  part one

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  the river man

  part two

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  part three

  the river man

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  The River Man

  part four

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  the river man

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  She’s hearing things: the noise her skirt makes as she walks, the low grumble of a distant tractor, a crow laughing in the tree-tops. There’s a half-remembered melody playing in her head. She removes her jacket and slings it over her shoulder, humming the tune out loud, aware of how slight her voice sounds in the open air. It’s high summer, hot and arid, but the overgrown hedges on either side of the path cast a welcome shade; walking between them is like being in a tunnel. A right bend leads her to a clearing. From here, set back behind a dense thicket of rhododendron bushes, she sees the upper half of Earl House, its tall windows mirroring the sky. She is surrounded by fields of crops; she recognizes the burnt gold of barley, and the silver feathering of ripe wheat. There is no wire to keep her out. She takes a detour off the dirt path and steps between the rows of wheat, feeling hidden and exalted: the only one here. The heels of her sandals sink slightly into the earth. Removing them, she picks her way barefoot over the rutted ground, deep into the centre of the field. Her watch says two-fifteen. All she can see is the wide sky, all she can hear is the tractor drone, very faint now, and the wheat shushing as she moves through it. She doesn’t know why she must do this; she has no reason except that it seems a natural thing, a childhood act revived. Despite the awkwardness of the ground, she picks up speed, turning one way, then another. She doesn‘t know what she’s searching for until she finds it. And now it’s here, as she knew it had to be all along: the bowl barrow. She lies down on the mound, splays her arms and legs like a skydiver in free fall, and then she is still, quietly panting into the blue space above her.

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

  part one

  bless the weather

  one

  Her hair is darker than he thought. When he first caught sight of her, it looked like copper wire, but now he sees that it has an earthy hue, streaks of auburn and chestnut brown. He’s pleased with this subtle difference; he thinks it more sophisticated. The woman stands quite still before his desk, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, the suit jacket back on and buttoned – one button done up – so if he hadn’t seen her just half an hour earlier, her body spread out in the field below, he would never have known.

  Maggie Nix? he says, to which she nods and smiles without showing her teeth, Please, do sit down.

  Kenneth Earl does not sit down; he walks to the window again and looks at the wheatfield, then back into the room at her. He has interviewed three others this afternoon, has seen them all walk up the path, has waited while the rhododendrons lining the drive eclipsed and then revealed them again, counted the beat of their footsteps on the staircase. All three were unable to enter the room, to stand or to sit, without first saying something. What a hot day it was, such a nice walk up to the house, what a magnificent room. And it is beautiful, Kenneth’s office. Situated on the west side of the building, the two original windows give a sweeping view of the Berkshire downs; the interior has plaster crisp as snow, a few discerning antiques, a thick cream carpet underfoot. Maggie has said nothing about the room; she does not gaze up in wonder at the intricate ceiling rose, or admire the painting hanging on the wall behind Kenneth’s desk. She sits and waits, and watches his movements with a clear, open expression. In the sunlight, she looks flawless, a study in oils. Her eyes are completely and unnervingly fixed on him.

  Can I get you a drink? A tea, coffee? he asks. She will have to say something to that. She begins to shake her head, and then an intake of breath,

  A glass of water, please.

  From the closet in the corner of the room, he draws some water, walking back towards her where he sees a bent stalk of straw caught in the curls of her hair.

  I’m afraid it’s only tap, he says, expecting her to speak again. Kenneth watches her drink it, in quick gulps, like a child would drink, and then place the glass on the low table next to her chair.

  Thank you, she says.

  He’d advertised in the national papers, not wanting anyone local, anyone who might know of him. He thought he required an assistant, but it was an applicant in the last round, an ambitious young man who had ideas, who heard him out and finally told Kenneth that what he needed was an amanuensis. Or slave, the young man added, going on his way. An amanuensis. Immediately, Kenneth liked the sound of it; it was musical, perfectly right. He wanted to talk and have someone listen, someone to note his words, exactly as he spoke them; someone who did not interject or question or make noise. But he did not specify these skills in the advertisement. An assortment of women had come down on the train from London, with their telephone voices and lacquered fingernails, strident perfume announcing their arrival. Each thought they were progressing their careers by becoming a personal secretary, or a PA, as one of them insisted on calling the job. Maggie, now, he doesn’t know where she has travelled from; he doesn’t know what she thinks.

  As she sits and listens, he outlines the work. She nods and, once or twice, opens her face with a quick smile. It worries him, this eagerness; perhaps she hasn’t taken in the scope of the task he’s proposing.

  You mention here in your letter that you have shorthand, he says, It’s a rare skill, these days.

  I have a kind of shorthand of my own, she says, It’s quite fast, like texting.

  Texting, he says, See you later.

  Maggie narrows her eyes at him, and Kenneth’s finger draws a squiggle of hieroglyphics in the air.

  C, U – you know, I do know what texting is.

  Good, says Maggie, Well, it’s just like that.

  He glances again at her letter, turning the single sheet over in his hand.

  What was your last post? he says, I can’t seem to find your references.

  The blush growing on Maggie’s face tells him she hasn’t got any.

  I was a carer, for a relative, she says, But then – she looks down into her lap – I wasn’t needed any more.

  I don’t suppose they’re in a position to write you a reference? Kenneth asks, not unkindly. Maggie answers with a shake of the head.

  Actually, she says, raising her eyes to his, Before that I used to manage my stepfather’s shop in Dorset. Charmouth. Do you know it?

  Can’t say I do. Nice part of the world, I believe.

  It has lots of fossils, she says stupidly.

  Kenneth bares his teeth in a pained grin.

 
Well, there’s your qualification for the job, he says. He gives her a quick look to see how the joke is taken, is gratified to see her smiling again.

  Maybe I should show you the library. It’ll give you a better idea of what’s in store.

  Kenneth’s plan is simple enough; he wants to catalogue all the music in his collection. Not details of artists or labels or conductors; most of these he already knows, and the ones he’s forgotten he can read from the cover. His idea is to insert inside each sleeve a page of notes; memories, associations, what the piece means to him, when he’d obtained it, and why. He wants to be able to draw out a record and say: this is why I love this, or: this is what listening to it does to me. He wants to remind himself of his life – episodes of joy, romance, desire – and so relive it. Kenneth is nearly sixty-eight. Apart from Freya, who comes in once a week to clean the rooms still in use, he sees few people. And lately, he’s felt his days merge seamlessly into each other, felt how quickly time can pass; how quickly, and how slowly.

  Taking her elbow – a light touch, barely that – he leads Maggie down the stairs. Close up, she’s not as tall as he thought, and older; not a girl at all. She must be in her thirties. Under the curls of her fringe he glimpses a scar, pale against the suntanned skin, a thin strike from hairline to eyebrow. He is delighted with this flaw, the most perfect imperfection; and is as quickly mortified by his urge to stroke it. He ushers her in front of him so that she can’t read his face, and sees the back of her head again, the piece of straw clinging to her hair. In the light from the landing window, he thinks he also sees a small red mark on the collar of her blouse. From a crushed insect, perhaps, a spider mite or beetle.

  The library, down a long painted corridor on the ground floor, is shuttered from the light. Kenneth opens one of its two doors, standing aside to let Maggie pass through. Adjusting his eyes to the dimness, it takes a moment for him to realize that she hasn’t moved.

  What? he asks.

  Like a library in a book, she says, her face flushed with delight. She puts out a hand in front of her, but still doesn’t venture into the room. The darkness inside is so brown and stained that she can’t possibly see how not like an ordinary library this is. He feels disappointment nip at him, and doesn’t hear the playfulness of her remark. He strides ahead of her, crosses to the window shutters and folds one back: now she will see.

  Any particular novel? he asks. Maggie steps into a bar of sunlight on the floor.

  The Great Gatsby, she says, gesturing to the far wall, The scene where Owl Eyes talks about the books being real.

  And then she laughs, as if the idea of having actual books in a library is a peculiar thing. Kenneth laughs too.

  Can you hold a silence? he asks.

  Do you mean, can I keep quiet?

  That’s right, says Kenneth. He edges nearer, trying to place her accent.

  Because some of the things you’ll hear, he says, making his large hands into fists and holding them in the air between them, Some of these things will be quite . . . intimate.

  I can keep quiet, she says, And I can keep a secret. But words on a page, they’re going to be read, aren’t they?

  Kenneth nods in agreement.

  They’ll be read by me. And when I’m dead, they’ll be burnt. Not the recordings, just the notes. I’ve left instructions.

  Maggie looks at him keenly now; he sees in her eyes something like recognition.

  How many records?

  Three thousand five hundred and counting, he says, But we won’t be cataloguing all of them, of course.

  Green, her eyes are green.

  What kind of music?

  Blues, jazz, classical, rock, he says, swaying slightly on his heels. To cover his embarrassment, he leads off along the windows, folding back the shutters one by one until the room is sparkling with light.

  And rather a lot of Frank Sinatra, Ella, Satchmo. Look, here, I’ll show you what there is.

  There are no books. Lining the walls, from floor to ceiling, are rows of records, each row divided into columns by a thin strip of wood. In the dimness, it had looked like a design on wallpaper. He hears her catch her breath.

  It’s amazing, she says, So much to choose from.

  So you do like music, Maggie? Because, as you say, there’s a lot to choose from – a lot to hear.

  She turns from the wall, an incredulous look on her face.

  Do I like music? she asks, What a bizarre question. Do I like music?

  Kenneth is now properly embarrassed. He feels as though he’s managed to insult her, but can’t think how.

  It’s just that I’ve interviewed quite a few applicants. None of them seemed very interested in the actual music. Salary, conditions of employment – he flicks his fingers out in a count – Holiday leave, sick leave, maternity leave—

  Maggie splays her own fingers in the air between them.

  Music is power, she says, her face serious.

  Is it? he whispers, Who says so?

  Richard Ashcroft. You’d put him in the rock section, she says, and seeing Kenneth’s bewildered expression, she adds, Under ‘Gods’.

  Kenneth grins with relief. He finds her intensity refreshing after meeting the other candidates, with their laptops and their assured manner, their dead eyes. And he likes it more that she seems so interested in the task.

  You won’t tease me about the rock section, he says, Will you?

  Ah. Let me guess.

  She closes her eyes. He fixes on the pale bluish tint to her lids, can’t concentrate on the list she’s reciting.

  . . . The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, and – The Who.

  Bill Haley. Elvis Presley. Eddie Cochran, he counters, Bruce Springsteen.

  Really? I didn’t know he recorded on 78s.

  So she is teasing. He can easily go along with that.

  Actually, I’m quite clued-up on the latest technology, the pods and downloads and that. I like to keep abreast of these things.

  You have an iPod, she says, not even attempting to keep the disbelief from her voice.

  A birthday present. But those little headphones—

  Buds.

  They make my ears ache.

  Maggie nods in agreement,

  And they don’t do much for the sound. But they’re useful, you know, for blocking out other people, their noise.

  You’ll be listening to my noise. I hope you won’t mind that. But at least it will be on vinyl. This here is the system, he says, with a little introductory cough.

  He opens the door of a sideboard to reveal a stack of silver equipment, which they both stare at.

  It’s all made by Linn. The best, apparently. Don’t tell him, but I much prefer listening on this.

  Kenneth pats the smoked-perspex lid of an ordinary-looking record player.

  Who should I not tell? Maggie asks.

  My son, Will, he says, You’ll meet him. He sometimes pops in.

  He gives her a wry smile,

  Not too often, he adds, And usually only to raid my wine cellar, or try to sell me some dubious piece of art.

  Maggie blinks at this, gesturing to the wall of records.

  How many a day, do you think? she asks, Only, you said it was a three-month contract.

  It will depend, says Kenneth, On the day, on what I hear first, on what I feel like hearing first and what I feel like hearing next. A three-month contract, yes, possibly extended, all depending on how we get on.

  I’d like us to get on, she says, moving to a long glass-topped display cabinet. She bends over it, using her hand to try to block out the reflections on the surface.

  We won’t be bothering with the sheet music, says Kenneth, dismissive, Those in there, they’re relics. They used to have singing lessons here.

  They?

  The children, he says. He wants to draw her away from the cabinet, eager to make her understand. He’s decided she’s right for him.

  This is what we’ll do, Maggie, in here, in the mornings, in silenc
e – silence from you, that is. We’ll resurrect history, make the past into a story. I mean, not invented but . . . personal. I’ll sit there – he points to a wing-backed chair in a corner of the room – And I’ll speak and you’ll transcribe and—

  He stops himself, hearing how pompous he sounds, and ridiculous, his breath coming quick and excited. But his belief that she could help him, his sudden sense of needing her, pushes him on again,

  – And you don’t interrupt, you listen to the music and you listen to me talk and you take it all down. Understood? And in the afternoons, you type up the notes.

  On a computer?

  On a typewriter. There’s one in the prefect’s office, under the main stairs.

  The prefect’s office, she echoes, her eyes fixed on his face.

  This place used to be a school.

  Ah, the singing lessons, she says, Yes.

  Not quite, he says, returning to the windows and closing the shutters one by one, After we bought it – after the school closed – the choir still came to practise here.

  Must’ve been exquisite, she says, lifting her head as if to hear the sound of their voices.

  It wasn’t always that tuneful, he says, furrowing his eyebrows, But it was only on Sundays, so we coped.

  He watches her turn from him, and turn back again.

  On Sundays, she says, Of course, the choir sang on a Sunday. He’s not sure he’s understood her correctly, wonders if she’s religious.

  Do you have any more questions, Maggie?

  The advert said ‘live in’, she says, So, where do I stay?

  two

  She doesn’t know where she is. The light has woken her, pale green, tracing an unfamiliar pattern on the wall. Her body is covered by a smooth tight sheet with the weight of the quilt on top. She doesn’t know who she is. It’s a familiar feeling for Maggie, this fleeting moment when she’s caught between the waking and the dead. She’d been dreaming of her mother again. Pushing one leg out across the bed, Maggie feels the coolness of the cotton under her foot: she must have lain in this position all night. The bed is high, like a princess’s bed: like the princess and the pea, she thought, but didn’t say, when Kenneth first showed her the room. A high bed with a thick floral-patterned quilt and a mahogany headboard, and a dark wooden wardrobe and bedside cupboard and, in the corner, a marble-topped washstand. On top of it is a television set with a dust-sticky remote control perched on the edge. Maggie thinks it is a fine room. It smells amberous and heady, the scent of baked summer. It is nothing like anywhere she knows, and that is good. There’s the coo of a wood pigeon, a chatter of other birdsong she can’t identify, a power saw off in the distance. From the window, her view is of a cobbled courtyard, in the middle of which stands a tree with massive, hand-shaped leaves and a thick trunk. She looks at it for a time: there are definitely eyes in the trunk. She doesn’t know the name of the tree. She will ask Kenneth about it.