The Song House (25 page)

From the window she can see that the tree is still standing,
the branch torn from the trunk like a severed limb. The wound
is butter-yellow and so fresh she can almost smell the sap. The
branch itself is gone, submerged, or carried away, and the field
opposite the cottage has been transformed into a broad swim
of water. Maggie watches the run-off pass below her, rapid and
brown, hurrying away with its loot of tangled twigs, an upturned
dinghy, a child’s buggy. She follows its progress down
into the valley and then switches back to look in the opposite
direction, back up to the bend in the hill, where she sees that
the road has become visible again, emerging from the water
like a drawbridge.

At the start thes ound is as sweet as a
summer morning

The sound is like

If you imagine all the sum er mornings wrapped up inone

Christ-All-Bloody-Mighty!

Kenneth puts the tip of his finger in his mouth and sucks
on it. Holding it under the lamplight, he sees a purple line
darkening along his fingernail, a thin streak of a bruise from
the tip to the bed. He waits for the throb of pain to pass. He
has been trying to describe Ravel’s string quartet. Beside the
typewriter is a bottle of Glenfarclas and a cup containing rehydrated
mushrooms. Occasionally, he’ll fish one out and feed
it into his mouth, chewing slowly on the salty, rubbery sliver.
It’s only early evening but he’s on his second whisky and his
eighteenth sheet of paper. The rejects are crushed and scattered
around his feet: some of them have tumbled away across the
floor to nestle beneath the furniture. He takes another mouthful
of his drink, then another. His trousers are rolled up to his
knees, and on his feet he sports a pair of William’s old trainers.
There’s a draught blowing in around his ankles. Kenneth’s
gaze searches along the library windows: all closed, the
raindrops on them twinkling like diamonds. He takes another
sip of his whisky.

When he woke this morning, he made a promise to himself:
he would start again with his project, without anyone’s help,
first thing. He delayed the start by rewarding his idea with a
cooked breakfast. He planned to have eggs and bacon and
mushrooms and beans and just the one slice of fried bread. In
the cupboard, he found a tin of pilchards he couldn’t remember
ordering, an untouched packet of crispbread, and a can of
borlotti beans. Some dried mushrooms, like toenail clippings,
sat in a dusty cellophane wrapper. There was one egg left in
the tray, and he couldn’t read the tiny red print to see how old
it was, but he’d learnt a trick years ago about how to tell if an
egg was fresh. You put it in a pan of water, and if it sank to
the bottom, it was fresh. Or if it floated to the top. He couldn’t
remember which way round it was supposed to be, so when
he tried it, and the egg floated, he decided that it was a fifty-fifty
chance, and what’s more, he was going to eat the damn
thing anyway. Looking in the fridge, he was delighted to find
a half bottle of champagne that had rolled to the back. There
was some sort of healthy spread William had insisted that he
buy, a jar of pickled onions and an opened pack of streaky
bacon. This was going to be a good day. Kenneth ate an onion
or two while cooking, steeped the mushrooms in a cup of
boiling water and forgot about them. His breakfast – of bacon
and egg and borlotti beans covered in tomato ketchup, with a
slice of the healthy crispbread on the side – tasted completely
superb. The Buck’s Fizz (without the orange juice) made the
meal twice as enjoyable as the real thing.

After breakfast, he carried the typewriter from the prefect’s
office to the library and set it on a low table in front of his
chair. He would do the washing-up first, then get cracking.
Back in the kitchen, he turned the radio on to hear the news,
ran hot water into the bowl and leaned over it, peering into
the steam.

The view from the terrace was like shot silk: beautiful, hazy;
the air soaked and the birds like black buds in the trees. The
lawns were under water, so it was all river, practically, up to
the steps. Kenneth decided that it would be nice to have a glass
of wine, maybe a few slices of crispbread with some of the
pilchards on top (it was nearly elevenses, after all) and he could
sit with his raincoat on, in his best place, and admire the
weather. He took down the key from the top of the door frame
and made his way into the cellar. Immediately, he could taste
the change of air, slightly sulphurous, a damp match. The grille
of light at the back of the shelves showed him: the cellar was
flooded. Retreating, Kenneth thought about what to do. He
could call William. The last thing he wanted was to talk to
William. He knew the idea of phoning a plumber was ludicrous;
he’d heard the bulletins. Kenneth took off his shoes and
socks and rolled up his trousers. There was nothing else for it,
he would have to rescue his stock: the water would go down
eventually, but he couldn’t take the risk of leaving the wine in
there, the damp getting to it. The concrete floor felt gritty
under his bare feet, gritty on the first journey in and out –
Kenneth leaving a wash of water in his wake – then atrociously
sharp and painful on the second trip. He’d almost dropped the
bottles. Limping out to the bench, he sat down and tried to
raise his foot to see what he’d done. The effort of lifting his
leg so high filled his head with blood and made him dizzy. He
wiped the sole of his foot with his hand and felt again the stab
of broken glass in his skin. He stood on the step and paddled
his foot in the river water, gingerly at first, then with more
vigour. Underneath, the grass was giving and sweet to the
touch, and he raked it with his toes until the pain went away.
He’d need to put some boots on. Bound to be wellies in the
trunk room.

Only when Kenneth had hobbled round the side of the
house and in through the courtyard gate did he remember: the
trunk room no longer existed. The door that opened into it
had been bricked up years ago, and the space inside knocked
through to create a bigger wine cellar. He traced the wall with
his hand; such a close match to the original brick, he could
barely make out where the outline was.

It took five journeys to bring up his most vulnerable wines.
He put the bottles anywhere on the worktops, admired the
dust on them, his fingerprints in the dust, and didn’t worry
about laying them down; stood them up all around, a very
dusty, priceless cityscape in his own kitchen. Kenneth promised
himself he’d start work on his song notes straight after he’d
had something to eat. He felt ravenous: thought it had to be
lunchtime. It took an effort to open the tin of pilchards, having
to fiddle with the ring pull and getting oil all over the worktop
and on his fingers, but finally, he managed to concoct his lunch.
With the pilchards smeared on three brittle pieces of crispbread,
a glass of wine poured, and his book on the tray, he was
ready. He took his meal outside, all the better to watch the
weather, shivering a little but relishing the wild thrashing of
the trees, the scouring rain. In a while he would light the
chiminea, if he could find something to burn. That was one of
Will’s better ideas, unlike the fish tank, the electric toothbrush
that raked his gums, the motorized pepper mill. Always buying
him some present or other, as if to make up for, apologize
for – he can’t imagine what. You need to burn that stuff,
she’d said. Too wet for a bonfire, and the chiminea too small
to contain all the things he would like to burn. And the neons;
he must remember to feed them. She’d said to eat them, hadn’t
she, fried like whitebait. Would be more palatable than the
sardines. Sardines? Pilchards. Had fresh sardines once in Sicily;
not the same taste at all, even if they are supposed to be family.
And so his mind wandered away, little wisps of thoughts and
memories and vague ideas and inspired ideas, and all the while
Kenneth looked at the trees. The trees, and the river overflowing,
and the smell of fish on his fingertips; something
was floating to the surface. From deep in the house came the
sound of the telephone ringing. Smell of fish on his fingers,
metallic, faintly nauseating; the trees bending in the breeze; the
sound of a telephone. Kenneth closed his eyes to see it more
clearly.

It was the water bailiff calling, his words coming sharp and fast
through the handset. Kenneth had been avoiding him since
that business with Will and the child – must have been three
months ago now – but occasionally, when the land agent wasn’t
available, he’d have to give him instructions or ask him to look
in on one of the properties. And then he’d feel it, a new and
uncomfortable familiarity, an unspoken guile. Nor did he care
for the way the man looked at him these days, as if they’d made
some fiendish pact with each other. In truth, he preferred his
employees to be a little more servile.

Despite the early hour and his half-awake state, Kenneth
knew that something was very wrong. He’d asked him to slow
down, repeat himself, but couldn’t get any more information
beyond: You must come at once. Kenneth took directions and
told him to wait until he’d arrived. He’d set off in his Range
Rover, driving quickly through the lanes, empty at that time
of the morning, then slowing at the bend in the valley. The
view dropped away before him; a sweep of brown and ochre,
the earth blasted into hollows here and there by the recent
storms. The fields, with no time to recover from the drought,
looked devastated. It had been wet again overnight, but now
the skies were clear, hazy; there was a soft September trace in
the air. Kenneth wound the window down to let in the morning,
and at once saw a young boy waving madly from just
below the verge on the opposite side of the road. So, the bailiff
had got himself another helper; it was to be expected. The
thought of Will, away at his new boarding school and hating
it, gave him a momentary flash of rage.

What is it? he barked at the boy, younger than William,
smaller at any rate. The boy simply pointed to the river with
a switch of wood, where Kenneth could just make out two
heads proud of the bushes.

What? he repeated, and the boy replied,

They said I’ve got to stay put.

Kenneth slid down the side of the bank, using the bushes as a
brake. Thomas Bryce and another man he couldn’t name were
standing at the bend of the river, beside a clump of willows.

Thomas Bryce, said Kenneth, alive to the moment, That’s
the devil. That was his name.

It came back quickly then. Thomas Bryce and Freddy Peel
were standing near the water, and a third man, unshaven, runty-looking,
was on the deck of a small dredger – Flynn; he was
known only as Flynn. The three of them were all speaking at
the same time, but it was Bryce who broke through.

Ah, Ken—Mr Earl, I thought, not again, not another child.
His voice was thick with drama. As Kenneth approached, Bryce
put his hand out and gripped his arm.

I thought: Not another one.

Flynn braced himself on the deck of the boat and pushed his
pole into the willows, trying to clear an overhanging branch
so that Kenneth could see.

It were tangled up here, he was saying between thrusts, After
the storm, right, and these needed cutting back, right? That’s
when I found him. Or some of him, any road.

The men laughed at that. Bryce took his cap off his head and
flattened it against his chest. He put his hand out to Kenneth
again, this time to stop him from getting any closer; and then
Kenneth saw. That was the source of the smell, fish but not
fish, flesh but not meat; putrefaction. A man’s clothed arm, the
full length of it from shoulder to fingertips, lay like a landed
carp in the undergrowth. Kenneth crept closer, not entirely
believing what he knew must be true, believing instead that
these idiots were playing some kind of trick on him. He bent
over it to make sure, because the arm didn’t look remotely real.
It was clothed in a checked fabric that was dotted with a patina
of green slime. The fabric had been torn away at the shoulder;
at the cuff end, the hand was open, the fingers fat as sausages.
He took a breath and wished he hadn’t.

Rest of him’s in there, said Flynn, gesturing to the branches
with his pole. The end of it gleamed black and sticky.

I tried to hoik him out, see, but look what happened.
The three men turned as one to where the limb had been
tossed.

I’m going to fetch the police, said Kenneth, And call an
ambulance.

Might be a bit late for an ambulance, said Peel. And the men
laughed again. Flynn, aware of his audience, leaned forward
from the waist and launched the tip of the pole back into the
branches. His gaunt face split in a grin.

Here, give me a hand and I’ll fetch him down, he said, to
more guffaws.

Kenneth spun on Bryce and whispered loudly, emphatically:

You will need an ambulance for the body. And the police
will need to be present. Show some respect.

The men sobered immediately. Flynn put down his pole
and climbed onto the bank, and Bryce went looking for his
lad. At least, thought Kenneth, he had the decency to keep the
boy away. But the smell was the thing; how could they bear
it?

Peel made to shake Kenneth’s hand then thought the better
of it, settled for wiping his palm down his trousers.

He will have fall in, he said, An’ got caught up in them, see?
He were famous for his drinken.

You know him? said Kenneth, not sure if anyone could
identify a body in such a condition.

Baggs, he said, Just look at the size on him. Been gorn
more’n a week.