The Bellwether Revivals (28 page)

‘Oh?’

‘With it being my final year and everything, I think it would be better being closer to things. Don’t you think so? I mean, we’re not supposed to be off campus during term time anyway.’

He doubted whether her parents would allow it. Too often he’d seen her try to sell an idea to her father and fail. Like the prospect of doing a residency in a hospital overseas, or the possibility of going into dentistry instead of paediatrics, only for Theo to give his final, unanswerable verdict: ‘No, darling, I don’t think so.’ Her mother would chime in with a few words of reinforcement—’You heard your father; it’s a bad idea’—and that would be the end of the matter. Iris would flop back in her chair, red-cheeked, huffing out her frustrations. This was surely how the conversation would go if she asked to move out of Harvey Road, but Oscar knew better than to point this out to her. It would only upset the balance that had been restored between them.

Later that day, he called Cedarbrook to rearrange his shifts for the week ahead, and Iris helped him pack some things into a holdall. They agreed that if Crest was going to stay over at the house, they should both stay over too. ‘How’s Eden going to get this past your parents?’ he asked. ‘All of us turning up unannounced tomorrow—they’re bound to wonder.’

She folded up a round-collared shirt he never wore and packed it into the bag. ‘You should wear more green things,’ she said. ‘Green suits you.’ She moved back into his wardrobe, skittling through his hangers. ‘They’re away. Barcelona. Some
conference of Dad’s. He invited me to go with him—can you believe that? Said it would be good for me to show myself amongst my peers. My peers! He thinks I’m a surgeon already. It’s kind of sweet, when you think about it.’ And she gave him a little peck on the lips, breezing past him on the way to the window, where she slid the pane upwards and leaned out, lighting a cigarette. This was more like her, Oscar thought—the girl he’d fallen in love with.

‘Oh, did I tell you?’ she said. ‘I found the perfect cello. A friend of Jane’s was selling it. It’s not a Guadagnini or anything, but it has such a lovely tone. And, between you and me, I think I robbed the poor girl blind. It’s worth triple what I paid for it.’ She drew contentedly on her clove, blowing the smoke out into the pleasantness of the afternoon. ‘I’ll play it for you sometime.’

It was around eight o’clock, one quiet Monday evening in March, when Herbert Crest’s black Mercedes came rolling along the tree-lined driveway towards the Bellwether house. Standing with Iris under the cold blue of the garden floodlights, Oscar watched it reach the end of the road and take a hesitant turn into the forecourt, make a slow circle around the fountain, and come to a stop behind Jane’s mud-splattered Land Rover. He could see Andrea’s indignant face through the windscreen. She got out of the driver’s side, slamming the door behind her, and helped Crest out of the back seat, walking beside him, step for step.

Oscar moved to greet them, and Andrea handed the old man over to him without a word, as if she was returning a rented tuxedo. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You found the place okay.’ She didn’t reply, just gave him a hard stare and walked back to the car.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Crest said. ‘She thinks she owns me.’ There was the sound of another slamming door, and Crest turned to look in its direction, shaking his head. Andrea was sitting back behind the wheel, arms folded. ‘Oh, the kindness of women, huh?
They just care too damn much about everybody. Even stubborn old assholes like me.’ He smiled at Iris. ‘You changed your hair. It suits you.’

She blushed. ‘Thanks, Herbert. I’m not sure if I like it yet.’

‘It’ll grow on you,’ he said, laughing at the cheap pun, and lifted his baseball cap, ‘not like mine.’ He eyed the vastness of the grounds, absorbing the white house, the pristine front garden, the fields and blossoms that surrounded them. ‘Helluva place you’ve got here. Reminds me a little of home. Where’s your brother?’ he said. ‘Not part of the welcoming committee?’

‘We don’t know,’ Oscar said. ‘Only just got here ourselves.’ They’d come directly from Cedarbrook. He was still wearing his uniform, and his overnight bag was still in the boot of Iris’s car.

‘He’s probably in the organ house,’ Iris said. ‘He’s
always
in the organ house.’

‘Right. The place from the videos. Intrigued to see it.’ Crest looked up towards a light blinking off in an upstairs window. ‘Maybe I could pop in to say hello to your parents while I’m here?’

‘They’re away,’ she told him. ‘On business.’

‘Spain,’ Oscar said, as if to endorse her honesty.

‘Busy people, I imagine.’

‘We hardly get to see them at this time of year. Always going off somewhere.’ She gestured towards the back of the house. ‘Shall we go through?’

It was pitch-dark in the atrium. Iris flicked the switch to turn on the chandelier and its crystals sparkled warmly. The house seemed empty, though it bristled with some invisible energy, like the excitement of guests hiding at a surprise party. All at once, there was a stir of voices from the floor above and, in a charge of activity, three sets of feet came vaulting down the staircase: Jane, Marcus and Yin, their faces pink with laughter.

‘What were you doing up there?’ Iris said.

Jane was giddy. ‘Nothing. Just messing about.’

‘We all got talking about your father’s wine cellar,’ said Yin. ‘Spent the last hour trying to find the key. Do you know where he keeps it?’

‘No,’ Iris said. ‘Ask Eden.’

‘We did, but he’s holding out on us.’ Yin jumped the last stair. ‘He says your dad’s got a Screaming Eagle Cabernet in there. We don’t believe him.’

‘I wouldn’t have the faintest idea,’ Iris said.

Crest was still standing patiently in the atrium. ‘Always been more of a cold beer man myself,’ he said. ‘Nobody pays more than ten bucks for a drink where I grew up.’

Yin pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I guess it’s all Sam Adams where you’re from, huh?’

‘And I guess you’re one of those Napa Valley kids—wine on the inside,’ Crest replied. ‘We’re both a long way from home.’

Yin smiled broadly. ‘Yeah. We are.’

‘So where’s Eden?’ Oscar asked.

Marcus piped up then. ‘He’s out in the O. H. We’re not allowed in yet. He said to find a way of entertaining ourselves until you showed up, so we did. Nothing more entertaining than a good old root in people’s drawers.’ He was holding a cut-glass decanter in one hand and its shiny little stopper in the other. ‘There are so many rooms in this house, it probably has its own micro-climate.’

Iris didn’t seem discomfited by the idea of her friends scavenging in her parents’ empty house. She just turned to Crest and said, by way of introducing him, ‘I presume you all know who this is.’

‘Sure,’ Yin said, shaking Crest’s hand. ‘You’re the guy we’re here to help.’

Crest nodded politely.

‘We’re sorry to hear about your, you know—your condition,’ Jane said. ‘When Eden was trying to explain to me what music therapy was last night, I’m afraid it all went over my head. But I’ll do my bit. I just hope we can help you with the pain.’

‘I hope so too,’ the old man said. He cornered his eyes at Oscar. ‘You all seem very comfortable with the idea.’

Yin shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t see how a bit of music’s gonna make you feel any better. But whatever—if you think it’ll help, I don’t see the harm.’

Marcus was the last to shake the old man’s hand. ‘Well, I think you’ve made a good decision coming here tonight. If there’s even the slightest chance this can help you with the pain, it’s got to be worth it. Eden knows what he’s doing. Trust me. Nobody understands more about music than he does. If he says there’s something to this music therapy stuff, there probably is.’

‘Yeah, that’s me alright,’ Crest said. ‘I’ll take whatever’s free.’ He looked at Oscar, then at Iris, one eyebrow cocked. ‘I know you probably think it’s a crazy way for a man to get his medicine, but I’ll try anything once.’

‘I don’t think it’s so crazy. The five of us put Oscar under with hardly an effort—just a little madrigal Eden knocked up overnight,’ Marcus said. ‘Once he gets that organ firing, who knows what can happen? If he can put you to sleep for a while, at least that’s a few minutes you’re not in pain. Don’t you think?’

Crest nodded, smiled. ‘I do.’ He turned to Oscar, winking. ‘See, I told you they’d understand. Pain relief. That’s all this is.’

Oscar realised what Crest was trying to say. It was clear that the others had not been told the full story about what they were involved in. They seemed to think they were only going to be helping the old man with his pain tonight—not working towards
healing
him. And as much as Oscar wanted to fill in the rest of the picture for them, he was aware of Crest’s widened eyes, instructing him to stay quiet.

‘Come on, I’ll walk you to the O. H.,’ Marcus said, placing his hand onto the old man’s shoulder, and Crest allowed himself to be escorted through the dark house towards the kitchen. Oscar and the others followed behind. He listened as Marcus and Crest chatted amiably, walking towards an anaemic light that was filing in
from the sitting room. ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’ Marcus said. ‘I read one of your books in school, and now here you are.’

‘You did? Which one?’

‘The one about the God Complex.’

‘Ah, you’re in a very small club there.’

The house was so vast it took several strides just to reach the middle of the hallway, where the hardwood branched off in three directions, and the solid doors of four other rooms hung closed. Oscar was starting to feel calmer now. Yin and Jane had a way of steadying his heart somehow, and the squeeze of Iris’s hand was as grounding as it always was. He loved the way she hooked her fingers around his thumb.

‘I hardly sold more than a thousand copies of that one when it first came out,’ Crest went on, walking slowly beside Marcus. ‘Now I’m obsolete my demographic is expanding. Typical luck. What brought you to reading it?’

‘I took psychology A level. It was on the reading list—
suggested
reading, not compulsory.’

‘Story of my life,’ Crest said.

‘Well, we had a very progressive teacher. John Fahey. Do you know him? I think he did his Ph.D. at Trinity, Dublin.’

‘Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’

Iris turned up the dimmer switches as they reached the end of the hall, and the sitting room revealed itself like a Polaroid image. Marcus continued, his hand upon the small of Crest’s back, steering him. ‘He’s only been at Charterhouse for a few years, I think. I would’ve failed for sure if it weren’t for Mr Fahey. Eden didn’t like him very much, but he was definitely the best teacher I ever had. One of those people who really makes you
see things
, you know?’

Crest seemed to make a note of this in his head. He gave a short, curious hum. ‘Why didn’t Eden like him?’ he asked.

Marcus took his hand away to fasten a loose button on his
collar. ‘Clash of personalities, I suppose.’ They were nearing the kitchen now and Oscar thought he could smell something burning.

‘Meaning?’ Crest said.

‘Meaning they were too similar. Mr Fahey was young and brainy. And so was Eden. Every lesson was like a—’ Marcus turned his head, briskly. ‘What’s that phrase you always use, Yin?’

‘A pissing contest,’ Yin said.

The kitchen was doused in a warm, wavering light coming in from the garden. The countertops were messy with apple juice cartons and an opened box of Jacob’s crackers; the remains of a blue cheese and a French loaf had been left to harden on the breadboard. Marcus opened the back door. He motioned his arm towards the winding path outside, its surface bright with the candle-flicker of mosquito lanterns flaming in the lawn borders. ‘Here we are. The yellow brick road. Let me show you the way.’

They walked along the pathway as if it were some ceremonial march, and arrived at the great oak doors of the organ house, one of which was held ajar by a large white rockery stone. Oscar felt a spike of trepidation in his gut, remembering the times he had come here to visit Iris’s bedside, wondering what they were now heading into. There was a strangely chemical smell in the air, like the burnt-out stench of a camping stove. He expected to hear music, but there was no sound except for the noise of their footsteps.

Herbert Crest went in first. He didn’t seem to give it a second thought.

As the door swung back, a woozy orange colour radiated from the building, and Oscar could see a circle of twenty or thirty old-fashioned oil lamps with glass flame-covers, glowing in the middle of the room. There was no sign of Eden.

‘Woah, check this place out,’ Yin said.

‘It’s like the bordello of my dreams,’ said Marcus, pressing further inside.

The organ console was adorned with tealights in jam jars. At the centre of the circle, between the lamps, was a worn green armchair. Everything else had been moved aside to make space: the four-poster bed was now shoved against the back wall, and the couches were turned on their sides, banked against each other near the entrance. ‘Well,’ Crest said, looking at Oscar and smiling, ‘I might not have been so wrong about those lithe young virgins.’ He seemed to think there was nothing disconcerting about what he was seeing, and casually wandered towards the organ to study its keyboard, its ornate stops and pedals, its pipework. The others followed. ‘I bet these things aren’t cheap.’

‘It was here when my parents bought the place,’ Iris said. ‘The pipes are eighteenth century, so my brother says.’

‘He’s always tinkering with it, taking it apart,’ Jane added. ‘He fiddles more with that thing than he does with me.’

Marcus laughed. ‘Have you ever tried getting the registration right on one of these things? They’re much harder to please than women are. Can take years to get them humming properly. And you know Eden—he’s a perfectionist.’

‘Oh, I know Eden alright,’ Jane said.

Crest ran his fingers over the ivory stops. ‘My father had an old sailboat in the garage that he liked to fix up on weekends.’ He turned to Iris. ‘I guess this is your brother’s version.’

Oscar thought about the Honda trail bike his father kept back home, leaned against the side of the house—a project he’d worked on so sporadically over the years that the flame-red paintwork had faded to a strawberry ice-cream pink, and the undercarriage had rusted away. He remembered that motorbike with a certain fondness. The only goal he and his father ever shared was to get it going again, even if they never got around to actually fixing it—even if it was sure to end up at the scrapyard with all the other father-son projects in the borough.