House of Silence (9 page)

‘Anyway,’ Hattie replied, a note of defiance
in her voice. ‘
I’ve
got a present for Gwen.’

‘Have you?’ Viv looked surprised. Clearly
not to be outdone, she said, ‘As it happens,
I’ve
got her a
little something too.’

‘Well,
mine
,’ said Hattie
mysteriously, ‘is a
big
something.’

Alfie opened the door for her and Hattie set
off along the corridor, rattling crockery, triumphant.

~~~

Vivien led Gwen through a dingy lobby littered with
dead leaves, dried mud and discarded boots and shoes. Once outside,
she paused for a moment to allow her guest to take in the view: a
formal garden divided by intersecting brick and gravel paths into a
patchwork of flowerbeds edged by lavender and low box hedging.

‘The structure’s pretty formal, as you can
see,’ Vivien said as they walked across a paved area broken up by
clumps of low-growing plants that Gwen thought might be herbs. ‘But
I like to keep the planting pretty
in
formal. The plants have
to be hardy - we’re not far from the coast here - and they have to
earn their keep, year round.’ She turned to Gwen and smiled. ‘I’m
ruthless! There’s no room for slackers in my garden! Take this
bronze fennel, for example.’ Vivien stopped by a skeletal, spindly
plant, almost as tall as she was, and touched the umbrella-shaped
seed-heads, festooned with spiders’ webs. ‘It’s good for flowers,
for scent, for seeds - the birds love them -
and
it’s good
with fish! What more could you possibly want in a plant? It’s one
of my favourites. And it looks just as good in winter as in
summer.’

As they moved along the path, Gwen said, ‘I
love gardens in winter. You can see the shapes more. The
structure
. I think trees are just as beautiful without their
leaves, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, definitely! And there’s more time
to stand and stare in winter. It’s the only quiet time for a
gardener. A time to take stock. Plan for the future.’

‘Is the garden as old as the house?’

‘Bits of it are. Creake Hall was an
Elizabethan manor house originally and some of the garden walls are
sixteenth century. Over there - can you see? That’s the original
walled kitchen garden. Hattie cultivates that. We also have a
gardener who helps out and does odd jobs around the house. There’s
always something that needs doing in a place this old. The garden
went to rack and ruin while Rae was ill. She used to be a very keen
gardener - it was she who taught me - but,’ Vivien sighed. ‘She
never leaves the house now. Barely leaves her room. Observes it all
from her window... And leaves me
notes
.’

Gwen glanced up at Vivien, observed her
mouth set in a thin line and said, ‘It must be very difficult for
you and Hattie. I mean, coping with Rae... Families can be such a
trial, can’t they?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Vivien replied. ‘But if you don’t
marry and don’t have a career - well, the expectation is there. One
has to do one’s duty. After all, nobody
chooses
to become
old and infirm, do they? Lord knows who’ll look after me when I’m
old and losing my marbles. Some paid stranger, I suppose. God
forbid it should be Hattie!’

‘What happened to Rae? Or would you rather
not talk about it?’

‘Oh, it’s common knowledge. The papers had a
field day. She had a breakdown about ten years ago. A second one.
Hasn’t Alfie told you about this?

‘No, he hasn’t.’

Vivien peered at Gwen in the failing light.
‘What
has
he told you?’

Gwen thought of all the information Alfie
had given her about his family and tried to remember something
repeatable. She drew a blank and said, ‘Not a lot. I know about the
books of course. And how successful they are. But I don’t know much
about the family history. Hardly anything, in fact.’

‘Well, I think all you really need to know
about us as a family, Gwen, is that we’re...
fragmented
. We
aren’t close. Never have been, never will be. Oh, I’m fond of
Hattie, but she’s only a half-sister and I’m old enough to be her
mother. Ours is a strange relationship... We’re an odd bunch of
siblings altogether! The only thing we have in common is Rae. Our
ambivalence towards her. And our concern for her. But since Rae’s
literary estate is worth millions and the house is worth another
couple, concern for Rae hardly falls into the category of pure
altruism. Alfie comes to see her once a year and we’re all very
grateful to him for that. It keeps Rae going. He’s her obsession
now - has been since the last breakdown. He’s her precious
son
. But she was never a mother to him. Never a proper
mother to any of us, if truth be told. Rae was very ill after Alfie
was born and her second husband, Freddie - that’s Alfie’s father -
looked after him, with the help of a series of nannies. Until
Freddie decided he couldn’t cope any longer and ran off with one of
them. Taking Alfie.’

‘How on earth did Rae cope with that?’

‘She wasn’t really living in the real world.
I think her mental state insulated her against the worst of the
pain. Nothing much ever got through to Rae in those days. That’s
one of the reasons her husband left her. In the end Rae dealt with
her loss by writing.’

‘The Tom Dickon Harry books?’

‘Once she got going, they just poured out of
her, one after another. I think she saw TDH as her son, not Alfie.
TDH was somehow more
real
to her.’

‘Perhaps she felt she could exercise more
control over an imaginary son than a real one.’

‘Yes, that’s a good point. Maybe she
did.’

‘I don’t really understand the creative
process of writers, but I gather their characters can seem as real
to them as actual people. Alfie says it’s the same with actors. You
think you’re just playing a rôle, but the rôle can take you over.
You
become
the part. The boundaries can become blurred.’

‘Is that so? Well, Alfie would know, I
suppose... Damn, that’s the bell!’

‘Bell?’

‘That’s Hattie ringing a school bell. The
kind they used to have in playgrounds. It means I’m needed back at
the house. I expect there’s some problem with Rae. Look, do you
want to carry on, on your own? You can’t get lost. Just follow the
path and keep turning left. You’ll get back to the main entrance
eventually. Don’t be alarmed if you come across a man somewhere in
the grounds. It’s just Tyler, the gardener. He always works until
it gets dark. Stop and say hello. He’s not the most forthcoming of
individuals, but he’s a nice chap. Almost part of the family. Sure
you’ll be happy finding your own way back?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Well, we’ll send out a search party if
you’re not back in half an hour. I’ll go and sort out Rae and get
dinner started. You’re not vegetarian, are you? It’s not a problem
if you are. Hattie is, so we always have a veggie option.’

‘No, I’m as carnivorous as they come.’

‘Jolly good! I’m roasting a big joint of
beef. I’m hoping to lure Rae downstairs to watch Alfie carve. She
thinks it’s a job only a man can do properly! The poor woman’s
living in the Dark Ages.’ Vivien shook her head. ‘In more ways than
one... I’ll see you later, Gwen. Enjoy the rest of your walk.’

Gwen

It was so cold, the grass crackled underfoot,
stiff with frost. I strolled through the garden in the fading
light, preceded by the cloud of vapour emanating from my mouth. The
air felt heavy and cold as I drew it into my lungs, so cold it
almost hurt. Skeletal trees cast long, weird shadows across my
path. In the distance I could hear a cracking noise, a snapping and
tearing. Something horticulturally violent. A tree or shrub being
mutilated by the gardener, I supposed. As I turned the corner round
a russet-leaved beech hedge, glowing in the last of the sunlight, I
saw him bent low over some cut branches of holly and laurel,
hacking the evergreens into pieces suitable for Christmas
decorations. His white head was bare and he wore no coat, just a
shapeless woollen jumper over what appeared to be another shapeless
woollen jumper. Baggy cords and muddy wellingtons completed the
ensemble: the last word in Designer Scarecrow.

His back was turned towards me. I doubted
he’d heard my approach over the racket he was making, so I hailed
him from a distance, hoping not to startle the old man. He turned
slowly and easily, straightening up as he moved. Even before I saw
his face, I realised I’d got it wrong. Really wrong.

He wasn’t old. His hair was silver - short
and sleek, moulded to his head like a cap - but from his face and
the way he’d moved, I guessed he was only in his forties,
mid-forties at most. As I approached, I’d scarcely adjusted to his
age when I was struck by the strange beauty of his features - a
beauty so odd, it seemed almost to border on ugliness. His eyes
were large and sad, so dark a blue, it looked navy - almost violet
as he faced the low, setting sun. His brows were black and
well-defined and dark stubble shaded his jaw. His nose was too long
for handsomeness but high, wide cheekbones and a full mouth
compensated. Together with his height (even stooping slightly, he
was considerably taller than me), the overall impression was
striking, but his features seemed out of place in an English
country garden. There was something other than Anglo-Saxon blood
flowing in his veins. He was too tall for a Celt and his cheekbones
were too wide. Despite the wellingtons and the grubby Aran sweater,
Mr Tyler managed to look
exotic
.

He returned my greeting. ‘And a merry
Christmas to you.’

‘It’s Mr Tyler, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon. Are there two
gardeners? Vivien only mentioned Mr Tyler.’

He smiled but the smile didn’t reach his
eyes. ‘It’s not
Mr
Tyler.’

‘Tyler’s your first name?’

‘No.’

‘Well, now I’m thoroughly confused. How
should I address you? Or shall I just beat a retreat and pretend we
never met?’

‘That would be a pity.’ Finally the smile
reached those extraordinary eyes. ‘The family call me Tyler, but
it’s not my name. Mrs Holbrook calls all the gardeners Tyler.’

‘Is there more than one?’

‘No. There’s a line of succession. My
predecessor was called Tyler. So was his. I presume there was once
a Mr Tyler who gardened for Mrs. Holbrook, in the days when her
memory was in better shape than it is now. Miss Holbrook hired me
and she likes to keep things simple for her mother. Out of
consideration for the old lady, I was asked to adopt the dynastic
name. So the family call me Tyler. Just Tyler. No Mister.’

‘Doesn’t anyone use your real name?’

‘I doubt anyone remembers it now. If they
did, they probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.’

‘Will you tell me what it is?’ He regarded
me, unsmiling. I took a deep breath and said, ‘My name’s Guinevere
Rowland... Oh, well done for not laughing! Not everyone shows so
much restraint. I’m known as Gwen. I only told you my real name to
explain why I’m taking such an interest in yours. It’s not just
nosiness.’

‘I didn’t suppose it was.’ He leaned forward
and extended a hand towards me: large, long-fingered and very cold.
‘Marek Zbydniewski.’

‘Oh my goodness! What a
wonderful
name. Say it again!’

He laughed then, a deep, un-English sound
and his face creased into dozens of fine lines radiating from his
eyes. I decided I liked him and resolved on the spot to avoid him
for the rest of my stay. He showed every sign of being dangerously
attractive and I, like poor old Rae, liked to keep things
simple.

As he released my hand he repeated, ‘Marek
Zbydniewski. At school they called me Zebedee.’

‘In England?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re Polish?’

‘Half. Polish father, Scots mother. The two
temperaments lived side by side for fifty years in semi-permanent
discord. Now they slug it out in me. You’re here for
Christmas?’

‘Yes. I’m a guest of Alfie’s. I don’t
normally do Christmas. I’ve no family and my friends are always
busy with theirs. I’ve always meant to go away and do one of those
singles house parties, but I’ve a nasty suspicion they might just
be like an extended office party, one that goes on for days and
days, with matching hangover. So I usually just hole up in my flat
with a lot of M & S food, a few good books and wait for it all
to blow over. But I gather I’ll get the works here - brandy butter,
silver threepenny bits and Charades.’ He smiled again and the word
mistletoe
drifted unbidden into my mind.

‘Yes, the Holbrooks keep a good
Christmas.’

‘Do you join them? Or do you have your own
family Christmas?’

‘I live alone. In the old windmill.’

‘
Windmill
? You’re in danger now of
sounding terminally picturesque.’

‘It’s draughty, uncomfortable and the
furniture doesn’t fit, but it comes with the job, so I don’t
complain. But picturesque it isn’t.’

‘So will you be joining us at Creake
Hall?’

‘I’m always invited for drinks on Christmas
Eve. And I’ll see you at lunch on Boxing Day. Vivien and Hattie do
a big buffet.’

‘And who gets to wash up?’

‘Mrs. Colman and Mrs. Judd.’

‘Named after long-dead domestics, I
presume?’

‘No, they’re the middle sisters,’ he
replied, unsmiling. ‘Deborah and Frances. There are four. Two
married. Two didn’t.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to deck the halls with
boughs of holly. I must go and unpack. Will I get back to the house
if I continue along this path?’

‘Yes. It’ll take you back to the main
entrance.’

‘Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’

He didn’t reply but raised a hand in
farewell.

~~~

He watched as the young woman retreated. He tried to
place her age. Rosy-cheeked in the cold December sunset, she’d
seemed fresh-faced, girlish. But there was something knowing about
the eyes. A hint of invitation. Twenty-two going on thirty-two, was
his guess. Gathering up the cut greenery, he wondered when was the
last time he’d seen an attractive woman, or rather
registered
one.