House of Silence Read online

‘Yes, very. But he has something of a doomed look about him, doesn’t he? As if he knows he won’t be coming home… What did Rae call him?’

  ‘Captain Donald McDashing.’

  ‘Perfect!’

  ‘Isn’t it? Rae was very clever in the old days. She was always making up stories and characters. She was more interested in her made-up people than us.’

  ‘Really? But she must have been proud of her family, surely? I noticed there were a lot of family photos in the sitting room. I put my head round the corner when I went to get my coat.’

  ‘There are loads of Alfie. Almost none of me. And the few of me were taken by Viv. She was sixteen when I was born and interested in photography, until she realised Fanny was better at it than her. Well, that’s what Fan says. Viv loved babies and didn’t mind that I was yet another girl. My parents did. Terribly,’ she added, gazing up at the portrait.

  ‘That must have been hard for you. I mean, as a child you couldn’t have understood—’

  ‘Oh, but I did! I understood very well! Children do. I desperately, desperately wanted a Barbie doll when I was little. I wanted to play with the other girls, be like other girls. But Rae didn’t approve of Barbies. And I had hundreds of dolls to play with anyway - all my sisters’ cast-offs. But when Christmas came round each year, I still asked for a Barbie doll. I never got one, so I knew what it was like to wish for something and not get it.’

  ‘Did you ever buy one for yourself? With your pocket money?’

  ‘Yes, I did!’ Hattie’s eyes lit up with mischief. ‘I found one in a jumble sale when I was six and I got Viv to buy it for me. Someone had cut off most of her hair - some evil brother I expect - but I dyed what was left with ink and made her into Punk Barbie. I cut up an old pair of black leather gloves and made her an outfit held together with tiny gold safety pins. She looked terrific! But I had to keep her a secret. If Rae had found Punk Barbie, she might have thrown her away.’

  Gwen sighed. ‘Childhood is so painful, isn’t it? People talk about it as a carefree time, but I think they just forget all the agonies and disappointments, the way women seem to forget the pain of childbirth.’

  Hattie nodded. ‘But some things are best forgotten. They’re just too terrible to remember.’ She stopped suddenly and pointed at a door. ‘That’s the nursery, where Alfie sleeps. Or is supposed to sleep,’ she added, with a meaningful look at Gwen. ‘And up here,’ she said turning off the main passageway and ascending a narrow, winding staircase, ‘is the attic, where we’ve put you. It’s quite cosy. Not at all spooky. It’s where I like to sit and sew. The light’s not brilliant, but I can leave my projects spread out and come back to them whenever I want, without Viv nagging me to tidy up all the time. But don’t worry - I’ve tidied up in your honour.’

  ‘You really needn’t have bothered, you know. I’d have loved to see some of your work. You must show me tomorrow.’

  Hattie came to a halt outside a door, reached for the handle, then turned abruptly to face Gwen. ‘Would you really like to see? Or are you just being polite? I may not be the brightest bunny in the warren, but I do know how boring and messy all my projects seem to other people.’

  ‘Not to me, I can assure you! I design and sew for a living and I spend my working life surrounded by clutter. You should try spending a day on a film set - organised chaos! Creativity is untidy! My mother used to say, “Tidy home, boring mind.” ’

  ‘Is she still alive, your mother?’

  ‘No, long dead. I have no living relatives. None that I know of anyway.’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to some of mine,’ said Hattie, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Do you know, that’s exactly what Alfie said!’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have repeated it. It wasn’t a very kind thing to say, after all.’

  ‘Alfie isn’t particularly kind,’ Hattie replied, matter-of-fact. ‘He does his duty. And that’s all we can expect of him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think good manners dictate a bit more than just duty. Not to mention Christmas spirit.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Hattie said patiently. ‘It’s very good of Alfie to come and see us. We don’t expect any more of him.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t.’ Gwen replied. ‘But I do.’

  Hattie stared at her a moment, then took her hand. ‘Come on in. Let’s unpack your things.’

  She opened the door and turned on the light revealing a large attic room with dark oak beams and a sloping ceiling where, to judge from the brown stains on the white emulsion, the roof had once leaked. The room was furnished with a selection of pieces ranging over the last 150 years, all of them ugly, some of them chipped and scratched. The floorboards were bare apart from a few rag rugs faded to indeterminate hue and an Indian dhurrie, which Gwen identified at once as Habitat c.1980, because she’d grown up with it. There were two dormer windows, hung with gaudy patchwork hangings in place of curtains, and an exuberant hexagon quilt on the double bed.

  ‘Grandmother’s flower garden!’ Gwen exclaimed, walking over to the bed and laying her hand reverently on the quilt. ‘I love that old pattern! Oh, where did you get that green? It’s very unusual. You can’t get greens like that now.’

  ‘It was a summer dress of my grandmother’s. From the 1930s.’

  ‘Thought so… These hexagons are quite small, Hattie. And you’ve done it all by hand. It must have taken you ages.’

  ‘Years. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t live long enough to finish it. Viv used to call it Hattie’s Unfinished Symphony. But I did in the end. It’s cheerful isn’t it? I like to have it on the bed in winter because it reminds me of summer. Flowerbeds surrounded by lawn.’

  ‘I like your big quilting stitches. They’re a design feature, aren’t they?’

  ‘It’s meant to look like rain coming down. You know - like stair-rods.’

  ‘Oh yes! How clever.’

  ‘I can do very small quilting stitches but I fancied a change. I called the quilt Summer Showers. It won second prize in a local show.’

  ‘Congratulations. Did you make the curtains too? I love them!’

  ‘They were going to be quilts for twin beds but I got fed up and decided to make them into curtains instead.’

  ‘Where do you keep your other quilts? You must have more. I’d love to see them.’

  ‘My unfinished quilts - and all the old ones, made by dead people - are in the trunk.’ She pointed to a large leather trunk at the end of the bed. ‘I’ve put all my finished quilts and my sewing things into the cupboard under the eaves, apart from some hand quilting. I left that out to do in the evenings. I like to have something to do with my hands, otherwise I’m fidgety and get on everyone’s nerves. But I haven’t really got time to sew at the moment. I’m supposed to be practising my piano part.’

  Gwen folded back the hexagon quilt and lifted her case up onto the bed. ‘Are you giving a recital?’

  ‘Well, not exactly a recital. We do a little concert every Christmas Eve. It’s a family tradition now. Alfie and I do Flanders and Swann and Tyler and I murder the classics.’

  ‘Alfie sings?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very well.’

  Gwen unzipped her case and carefully removed some wrapped presents while Hattie watched, wide-eyed. ‘What instrument does Tyler play?’

  ‘The cello. He’s very good.’

  ‘Do your sisters take part?’ Gwen shook out some clothes and Hattie indicated a rail with coat-hangers.

  ‘Deb used to recite the odd poem, but she hasn’t performed since Bryan left. We don’t ever mention him, by the way. Well, we don’t, but Rae does. She can’t seem to get it into her head that Bryan isn’t part of the family any more. You’ll have to turn a blind eye - or rather a deaf ear - to Rae’s ramblings.’

  ‘I gathered from Tyler that Rae has a problem with names generally.’

  ‘Yes, she does. She probably won’t remember yours but you mustn’t take any noti
ce. Fanny makes things worse by bringing a different man every year - well, almost. We long ago gave up trying to get Rae to remember the name of the new incumbent. She calls them all Henry because that’s what Fan’s first husband was called.’

  ‘Oh dear. That must be awkward for Frances. And her men friends.’

  ‘Oh no, they’re always very obliging once the situation’s explained to them. Fan likes her men biddable, so they answer to anything. She calls them all “darling”. I think that’s because even she gets confused at times. But we have to make allowances for Rae and our visitors do too. Did Tyler tell you his real name?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Gosh, you must have made an impression!’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because Tyler doesn’t tell anybody anything. He’s been working for us for - oh, I don’t know how long… years. Yet nobody knows anything about him. Well, I do, a little bit, because we’re friends, but none of the others know much about him. I think Fanny tried to get him into bed once, but I suspect she failed. Either that or he was no good when she got him there.’ Gwen choked suddenly and Hattie rushed to the bedside table, poured a glass of water from a carafe and handed it to her. Gwen controlled her coughing and stood blinking away tears, unable to suppress a smile. ‘Anyway,’ Hattie continued, ‘Fan was pretty grumpy, for whatever reason. Of course, she was still married to Husband Number Two then, so that could have accounted for it, even if Tyler hadn’t turned her down… Sorry - am I boring you, going on like this? I forget you won’t be interested in all our complications. You’re not family.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m still interested in everything you have to say. You’re good company, Hattie. We must sit and sew together and have a good old natter. Put the world to rights.’

  ‘Did you bring some sewing?’

  ‘I never travel anywhere without.’

  ‘Oh, yes - let’s! That would be wonderful!’ said Hattie, clapping her hands.

  ‘Did you know that in the days of the American pioneers, it was essential for women to turn up for the communal quilting bee? If you didn’t, your character would be assassinated in your absence by the assembled needlewomen.’

  ‘Really? Just think of all the stories those old quilts could tell, if only they could speak!’

  ‘I think they do tell stories, in their way. Silent stories.’ Gwen removed her case from the bed and smoothed the quilt back into place, stroking Hattie’s pattern of stitches. ‘You just have to know how to read them.’

  Chapter Seven

  Gwen

  Hattie said she needed to go and peel potatoes, so she left me to sort myself out. I drew the heavy patchwork curtains, shutting out the darkness. I set out my toiletries on a chest of drawers and peered at my tired face in a cracked gilt mirror. I hoped the blemishes were on the mirror’s surface and not mine. Contemplating the luxury of a bath, it occurred to me that, although she’d left me towels, Hattie had neither shown me where the bathroom was, nor invited me to use it. I thought this was more likely to be a reflection of her social skills than an embargo on hot water usage. And it was cold. Once you moved out of the vicinity of the Aga, the draughts made their presence felt. A chill rose up from the stone-flagged floor in the hall and lodged in the marrow of your bones.

  The idea of a bath began to seem more and more appealing, so I set off down the little winding staircase with towel and toilet bag, hoping that the plumbing wouldn’t prove to be Jacobean.

  Well, it wasn’t twenty-first century. Barely even twentieth. I found a cavernous bathroom in which you could have held a small cocktail party and still had plenty of room to circulate. There was something that I thought was probably a primitive Edwardian shower, but it might equally have been a relic from an aqueous torture chamber, so I decided to play safe and run a bath. As I contemplated the depth of the claw-footed, cast iron monstrosity, it struck me that if I wanted to be ready in time for dinner, I should have started running the water an hour ago. Nothing daunted, I turned on the mighty brass taps.

  The room echoed with the distant sound of trumpeting elephants. Trumpeting elephants in pain. The pipes juddered and the wooden floorboards began to vibrate. Was this a quirk of the plumbing or was Creake Hall now the epicentre of a minor earthquake? I almost lost my nerve and turned the water off, but as steam rose from the depths of the bath, the thought of a long, hot soak proved irresistible. The herd of elephants began to retreat, the earthquake abated, until there was just the sound of water cascading into the bath. I poured in some bath oil, removed my clothes, clambered over the high side and wallowed.

  Bliss… Or it was until I remembered this was Christmas. A family time. For once I was spending it with a family, but not my own. Would that make it easier or harder for me to get through the yearly ordeal of remembrance? Spending Christmas with Alfie’s eccentric relations surely couldn’t be any worse than spending it alone, or in the dubious company of the night shelter derelicts at St. Patrick’s?

  Perhaps I would have a wonderful time. Viv and Hattie seemed very nice and the gardener was… Was what? ‘Interesting’ was as far as I was prepared to commit myself. Now, if Alfie would just thaw a little towards his family, surely a good time could be had by all, even me?

  A good time… My family’s speciality. Burning the candle at both ends and melting it in the middle. Perhaps they were all still having a good time, wherever they were. Given their track record, presumably not Heaven. But surely the afterlife in the other place must be like one gigantic party, with people turning up unexpectedly, decidedly the worse for wear. The music would be too loud, the food would be stale and the white wine would - naturally - be warm. But Sasha, Sam and Frank would still be having a good time, of that I had no doubt.

  I lay on my back and studied the ceiling, seasonably festooned with chains of dusty cobwebs. ‘Merry Christmas, Sasha… Aunt Sam… Uncle Frank.’ My voice sounded hollow, echoey, not like mine at all. ‘I’m having a wonderful time,’ I murmured. ‘Wish you were here…’

  I got out of the bath, dried my body and my eyes, got dressed and donned comfy old slippers. I went back downstairs again, heading for the warmth of the kitchen and the sound of voices.

  The slippers were possibly a mistake.

  Marek was at the sink, washing his hands. (I couldn’t think of him as Tyler now I knew that wasn’t his name.) I tried to ignore the fact I felt pleased to see him again and in better light. Such an emotion seemed quite unaccountable, so I decided not to account for it.

  Viv and Hattie were preparing dinner. ‘Gwen!’ said Viv, smiling broadly. ‘Another cup of tea? Sit down and make yourself at home. Have you met Tyler?’

  ‘Yes. We had a chat in the garden.’

  Marek twisted round from the sink to nod at me - it wasn’t quite a smile - then said, ‘You didn’t get lost then?’

  ‘No. I stuck to the path, as you suggested.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted to stray?’ He smiled and, to my total consternation, I blushed. I turned away and sat down at the kitchen table, from where I was still able to observe him. He’d removed the scruffy woollen layers and his boots and I contemplated a tall, long-limbed frame that dwarfed even Viv as she stood beside him, beating hell out of a Yorkshire pudding batter. I couldn’t imagine why I’d thought he was old. It must have been his stooping posture and the silver hair, which gleamed now under the bright kitchen lights.

  Marek was washing his hands with a clinical thoroughness, scrubbing at his skin and nails with a brush. As I watched, one of his hands started to bleed. ‘Oh, stop!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  He looked up, surprised, and said, ‘It’s nothing. I just stabbed myself with some holly. Looks worse than it is because of the hot water.’

  ‘When was your last tetanus?’ Viv said, taking a break from her batter. ‘Perhaps you should you put a plaster on it.’

  ‘Have you got one of those Mickey Mouse jobs?’ he replied.

  ‘No, Hattie had the l
ast of those. We’re down to bog-standard Elastoplast.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll pass then.’

  ‘Serves you right if you bleed to death,’ Hattie said cheerfully, as she lobbed another peeled potato into a pan.

  Leaning over to grab some kitchen towel, Marek said, ‘Thanks, Hattie. You’re all heart.’ He dried his hands with the same thoroughness with which he’d washed them. I stared, fascinated, at his long, bony fingers manipulating the bloodstained paper. I remembered Hattie had said he played the cello, that we would hear him play on Christmas Eve. I didn’t actually like the cello - a mournful, depressing sound, I’d always thought, but I was prepared to admit I might have been over-hasty in my judgement. One should keep an open mind. (Though I wasn’t entirely sure it should be kept as open as mine.)

  Marek turned and caught me staring at him. I looked away at once and glanced round the kitchen, searching belatedly for Alfie, rather as a shipwrecked mariner might scan the horizon for land, but he was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly at my shoulder, Marek said, ‘He’s in the sitting room. Laying a fire.’

  ‘Oh… Thanks,’ I replied.

  ‘Tyler, drink your tea before it gets cold,’ Hattie scolded. He padded across the kitchen, sat down at the table and pulled a mug of tea towards him. Hattie offered him a plate of mince pies, her eyes watchful. The contents of the plate had been augmented with some cheese straws, too golden and uniform to have been created by Hattie.

  Marek didn’t even hesitate. He helped himself to one of Hattie’s mince pies and disposed of it in two mouthfuls, with every appearance of relish. She looked at me over his head and grinned. I smiled back, absurdly pleased. It occurred to me - and this was not a comfortable realisation - that Marek had passed some sort of test, not just in Hattie’s eyes, but mine. A test that Alfie had failed.

  Hattie poured a cup of tea for me and one for Alfie. I took them and Marek held the door open for me as I left the kitchen. As I walked along the corridor, heading for the sitting room, I told myself he might not have known Hattie had made some of the mince pies. Then I admitted to myself I was clutching at straws.