Читать книгу The Silence - Joss Stirling - Страница 12

Bridget Whittingham was exactly as Kris had described when he rang Jenny to say that he’d fixed up the interview. Tall, thin, with fine-boned neck, wrists and ankles, Bridget moved like the dancer she had once been, her arm unconsciously leading her as she swept from room to room. Her auburn hair – Jenny assumed this was dyed – twisted into a soft peak on top of her head like a Mr Whippy cone. Not that Bridget looked the sort to buy that kind from street vans with blaring tunes. Jenny imagined Bridget’s ice cream came from hushed artisan shops that made flavours that included elderflowers or Madagascan vanilla pods.

‘And this is the drawing room.’ Bridget opened the door onto a high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were covered in an astounding plum flock wallpaper patterned with stylised peonies tumbling from urns. It was only saved from being overpowering by the white panelling that reached waist height. Chairs and sofas with well-turned wooden arms competed for attention in dusky pink upholstery like Victorian children come down from the nursery for their daily parental inspection. Family portraits hung in heavy gold frames; those pictured looked either faintly amused or terribly bored to be gazing down on a room that appeared not to have changed for a century. It was like walking into Schmann’s Symphony No. 1, thought Jenny. She’d played it recently with its nineteenth century lush inner tensions somehow resolving into harmony.

‘It’s still as Admiral Jack intended – the first owner. I redid it on my marriage to freshen it up and I have to say it’s held its colours quite well. North-facing – I suppose that accounts for it.’ Bridget’s tone was very BBC Radio Three, gently refined and pitched low for a woman, fit for commentating on the Proms. She would’ve been shocked by Jenny’s Estuary English if they’d met before Jenny lost her voice.

Jenny didn’t know if she should be appalled or impressed by the room. She was certain she would be too afraid to use it in case she damaged one of the vases on the side tables. Where were the ropes and reverential guide steering a party past a glimpse of historical old England?

‘Of course, we don’t use this much – just high days and holidays.’ Bridget adjusted a blind. With a tilt of her head catching the light just so, Jenny was suddenly aware of the skull beneath the skin, the high cheeks, eye sockets. She disliked these moments when her brain went x-ray on her. Bones, we’re just a collection of fragile bones. ‘We prefer to gather in the snug,’ continued Bridget.

Jenny shook off the disturbing vision. She was quickly learning that posh people had a different language. Drawing room, she’d met before in nineteenth century literature but snug was a new one. She decided to wait to see what it meant rather than show ignorance.

Bridget took her towards the back of the house through a generous hallway tiled in geometric patterns and into a room half the size of the first. This one looked out on the garden; south-facing French windows were partly shaded by a vine that clambered over the wrought iron balcony. New leaves were just unfurling.

‘That’s a Black Hamburg vine, sister plant to the famous one at Hampton Court, or so my husband claimed.’ Bridget opened a window to let in the sound of birdsong. ‘How anyone would know is beyond me as I’ve not found anything about it in the family archive but it does bear some passable black grapes in good years.’ Seeing Jenny approach, she added swiftly. ‘Don’t go out on the balcony, please, dear: I can’t swear to the soundness of the structure. The wretched thing is listed but far too expensive to repair. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let it moulder elegantly until it rusts entirely to nothing.’ Her gesture indicated the intricate wrought iron structure that ran across the back of the house. ‘It’s debatable if it’s the vine keeping it up or the other way around.’

Jenny smiled politely as if she understood the headaches in keeping a listed house going. Bridget was quite something, like a dinosaur left over from an earlier age found unexpectedly still roaming the earth.

‘You see that it’s much more comfortable in here compared to the drawing room.’ Bridget patted the top of the old television set. It looked like an antique rather than something capable of streaming Netflix. ‘The sofas I admit are a bit lumpy but I hate to throw anything out.’

The grey couches with winged armrests did indeed look like warty Indian elephants reclining on sisal matting. Bridget had attempted to liven them up with ruby red scatter cushions but they still looked a little sad, their best circus days over. The walls too had once been white but now had faded to a buttercream colour.

‘There’s nothing that you need worry about harming in here,’ said Bridget. ‘You can put your feet up on the sofa and no one will tell you off. That’s why it’s called the snug: it’s the place you come to feel comfortable. Now let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me about yourself.’ She led the way past a console table with its black Bakelite telephone. It looked like it was expecting to receive a call from an earl or a duke, certainly not some telephone marketer sitting in Swansea or Bangalore. Jenny had to hope Bridget bent enough to the modern world to have a mobile as she didn’t do calls, only messages.

Bridget put a kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. The kitchen was surprisingly rustic for London: a long dresser displaying willow pattern china and lace-edged creamwear plates; scrubbed oak table; blue and white Delft tiles. Jenny had been awed by the drawing room, not sure about the snug, but the kitchen was a case of love at first sight. She could be very happy here, its neatness keeping the chaos of life at bay. She waved to the room and gave Bridget a broad smile.

‘I know what you mean, dear: this is the heart of the house. Now, tell me about yourself. Kris said you’re a violinist with the London Philharmonic, is that right? And he also said you don’t talk?’

Jenny nodded to both questions.

‘Is that can’t or won’t?’

People rarely asked her that. Jenny pointed to her throat. There was a white scar across her larynx that should answer for her.

‘What, no sound at all?’

Jenny shook her head. Long ago, when she was recovering, they’d tried to make her talk. All that had come out were ugly grunts and Jenny had freaked out; she’d felt like her voice had been eaten by a monster. She’d felt safer with silence.

‘You poor dear. An accident, was it?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘Illness then. I’m sorry. Does it still pain you?’

Jenny nodded. She let Bridget keep her assumption that illness had taken her voice; it was easier than the full explanation. That particular horror was better left locked away, her ugly Jack-in-the-box.

‘How terrible for you. You’re getting good treatment, I hope?’

Jenny nodded.

‘So how do we communicate?’

She got out her iPad. Who else lives here?

‘Oh, what a clever little device. At the moment, just myself and Jonah. He’s been with me about a year. He’s a darling. Making his way as an actor. Recently he’s joined one of those hospital soaps. Tells me he’s spends all his days rocketing around London in an ambulance, talking urgently into the radio. He’s got the lingo down pat.’

He sounded normal enough but she would reserve judgement until she met him. She’d thought Harry would make a good flatmate, hadn’t she? Any plans to take in more people? She didn’t want a repeat of her current situation.

‘Not at the moment. Not that there isn’t room; I just think three makes a good number, don’t you?’

Jenny smiled. Perfect.

‘I’ll show you your bedroom.’

You don’t want references or a deposit?

‘Oh no. Kris’s recommendation is good enough for me. If you’d be so kind as to arrange for monthly payments into my account – I’ll give you the details when you leave – that’s best for me. Then we can forget the sordid detail of the rent and just pretend we all live together like a family.’

Jenny was beginning to think Bridget was too naive for this world. I’ll do that as soon as I leave here. I promise. With the minimal rent being charged, she’d be stupid not to.

‘No need to promise. You’ve the kind of face I know I can trust. There are very few house rules – nothing that’ll bother you, I’m sure; just ones to make sure we all get along well together, like tidying up after yourself. Are you originally from England? You don’t mind me asking, do you? Not very politically correct, I’ve been told. It’s just that if you had an accent I wouldn’t know, would I?’

It was tricky writing while mounting the stairs. Jenny paused to tap out her answer. I’m from Harlow. You couldn’t get more prosaic than that Essex new town. But my dad’s from Lagos. He’s an academic. Currently at Princeton teaching literature. That was Dr Jerome Lapido: always somewhere else. At Jenny’s age of twenty-nine, it shouldn’t matter, but she still hadn’t let the abandonment go.

‘And your mother?’

Music teacher for the county music service. Her mum, Diana Groves had given her life to making Essex girls and boys just that little bit more musical. Driven by missionary fervour to convert her pupils to the same love for music as she had, she worked tirelessly. Jenny had thought it a thankless task until her mum explained that her reward was when she saw their eyes light up with joy when they discovered their own skill in playing a masterpiece or even just a nursery rhyme. With this as her motivation, Diana had more success with her students than one might think from the generally low cultural reputation of the county in the media. Jenny often met past pupils in her line of work who credited her mother with inspiring them as players and helping with the more practical task of getting them into music school. Harry had been one of Diana’s protégés, coming for tuition in music theory when he needed the extra help.

‘So that’s where you get it from!’ Bridget had the pleased expression of someone finding the missing puzzle piece. Was it a sign of a snobbish assumption that a girl from Essex wouldn’t be in classical music without some extraordinary explanation? That was too common for Jenny to waste time feeling offended. TOWIE had a lot to answer for. She’d be more offended if it were because she was mixed race – a fact that still surprised some old timers who didn’t recognize that society had changed. She chose to counter it by keeping on turning up in the second desk of violins. At the beginning of her career, with all that she had been battling, each rehearsal, every concert, had been an act of courage and defiance, but it had got a little easier as time passed. The music made it worth it and one day no one would question her right to be there.

‘You must tell your mother that she’s welcome to visit you at any time. And your father, of course. As you’ll see there’s plenty of room in yours.’ Bridget guided Jenny into a pretty front bedroom on the first floor, explaining the top floor was just attics. ‘You have a bathroom through there all to yourself.’

With a swoop of joy like a lark ascending, Jenny saw heaven before her. It was a huge house with only three people and she wouldn’t have to share even so much as a bath mat!

‘The mattress is new. Do you like the four-poster? I know it’s a little twee but Kris was always amused by it. I thought it might do for a daughter one day but sadly we weren’t blessed with one.’

It was perhaps a little early for Bridget to be telling her this kind of personal information but Jenny was used to the strange effect her silence had on people. They felt obliged to fill the gap and ended up divulging more than they planned. Sometimes that was very awkward, almost a burden as she shouldered the secrets of others; at other times, like now, she didn’t mind. They would be living together after all. Bridget was right: it was a bedroom fit for the missing daughter. The wooden bed had thin finial posts that held up a light square frame. Over this were draped net curtains, rather like a wedding veil. A sprig of lilac lay on the pillow. It was the kind of bed Jenny had dreamed of owning as a child but would never have fitted in her bedroom in Harlow.

It’s like a fairy tale.

Bridget laughed, a tinkling sound partly smothered by the hand she placed over her mouth. ‘Isn’t it? I’m afraid I have romantic tastes. Now what’s that lilac doing there?’ She moved it to join the others in a glass vase on the dressing table. ‘You should see my own room. I’ve gone the full satin curtain route in there. My husband thought I was insane. It was the late eighties, you know, and we were all terribly modern then, shoulder pads, permed hair, God forgive us. I was out of step with the times by about a hundred years, according to my husband. Do I take it you approve?’

Jenny poked her head into the bathroom with its clawfoot bath and black and white tiles, vanity unit and large mirror. She’d miss a shower but she was hardly going to complain about that when she had it all to herself. She mimed applause.

‘I’m pleased you like it. Yes, you’ll do very well here, I think. When would you like to move in?’

Jenny tapped her watch, indicating now.

‘Then come as soon as you can, dear. We look forward to having you.’

There was one drawback: it was around ten minutes on foot from Gallant House to the station down roads bordering the heath but Jenny decided not to care. The long dark walk in winter and fear of attackers lurking in bushes was a problem for another day. Sitting on the train heading home, she was still reeling. A beautiful house in mature gardens, an ancient vine, an overgrown tennis court, even a mulberry tree: she would be living in a Grade A daydream. She’d even possibly – maybe – be able to carry on as a professional musician and have only one job. It felt too good to be true.

Then she remembered the single jarring note: the sprig of lilac. If Bridget hadn’t put it on her pillow, that left the absent Jonah as culprit. That didn’t seem an appropriate gesture when they’d never met.

She didn’t want her perfect house spoiled. She was leaping to conclusions. There had to be a cleaner to keep a house that size in such good order; she might put flowers on a pillow to welcome a newcomer without it being odd, mightn’t she?