Mother slowly rose and embraced Joy — not something I say often, so that was one thing to thank the woman for, I suppose.
‘Come on in,’ Mother gushed. ‘Have some food. You, Angel man. Get the food.’ She turned to Less. ‘It’s fucking awful but there’s wine.’
Less settled her tight little frame into the seat opposite me and scanned the room. Angel began serving her some slippery fish but she held her hand over the plate. I don’t think Angel had realized the meaning of the gesture as he carefully let the dead sole fall over her hand. Less made a strangled squeal like a snared piglet. She had not touched real food since 1983.
‘Less, darling, you look famished!’ Aunt Charlotte announced. Some relatives are not born tactful.
‘So how are you, Less?’ Mirabelle asked. She knew full well that Less’s current husband had lost his job in the City and that this was the only thing that mattered to her. It would be an arduous few months of extricating herself from another victim of a life of Less. Then the meat grinder would have to crank up again and there would be an inordinate amount of attention focused on finding Less another husband — or sacrifice, as I know them. There is an old adage that you can choose your friends but you cannot choose your relatives. I take this just a little step further in that you cannot choose your mother’s friends — or kill them. That doesn’t exclude harbouring malevolent thoughts. No one can see those.
Keener psychologists would perhaps put this line of reasoning down to a child’s jealousy, but you see in my case I had never had any of my mother’s attention to start with. I just thought — and circumstantial evidence can attest to the fact — that Less was utterly and unashamedly foul.
‘Struggling on, Mirabelle. Thank you for your concern.’
With her uncanny sensitivity to a room’s atmosphere, Aunt Charlotte set off on some tale of her train journey and a bright young man who hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs. Aunt Charlotte has always enjoyed the imagined attention of men. Whole meals have been spent in whispered conspiracy concerning a man at another table who is looking at Aunt Charlotte. ‘Look at him! Just look! He’s undressing me with his eyes. I’m naked! Naked, I tell you. The dirty bastard!’ Aunt Charlotte has never been a good whisperer.
Her voice rattled the air now with a long, drawn-out explanation of what the gentleman on the train had intended to do to her from behind his newspaper.
Less cleared her throat and everyone tried to ignore the irritating caustic squall of her voice. She was forced to resort to her usual tactic of blatant rudeness.
‘Excuse me, but can I just have my light on for a tiny moment?’ It’s this kind of needy assertiveness squeezed through that pinched tight mouth that makes everyone she meets wish her catastrophic harm. Or perhaps that’s just me.
‘I suspect you’re all aware that I have lost someone I had a special place for,’ Less began, the facsimile of a smile imprinted on her lips.
Was this a heart beating for the departing husband?
‘My wonderful housekeeper, Tia, has had to leave the country and I’m bereft.’
‘Can we just get to talking about the book, please?’ Bridget interrupted. ‘It is why we’re here,’ she sang, with a pained grin.
‘Later, Bridget,’ Mother sighed.
The rest of the meal was odious.
* * *
Walking through the house to bed, it felt as if this entire world had fallen into a deathly sleep. Night sat heavily on these rooms, a tired darkness slumped across the corridors, exhausted with life. This house demanded a stately pace. There would be no rushing here to find shoes, to dress children, no shouting for dinner — no shouting at all. It had an undeniable elegance in its faded layers of velvet and silk wallpaper worn smooth by time. But like a fragile wedding dress stored for countless years among layers of delicate tissue papers, its bygone beauty was being slowly corroded by time.
The only time I ever saw Mother’s wedding dress was on a mannequin in the charity shop window next to Dad’s favourite suit after he died. It was like seeing a fun, headless version of them.
My bedroom at Ambergris Towers was dank and cold in that upper-class way. The slightly frosted, mildewed air spoke of the decades of privileged inhabitants, the austere custodians of such monoliths, struggling to maintain a dignified decay. There was a severity to the furnishings. The mattress was limp, the drawers heavy with ancient paper linings and the lingering scent of mothballs. The rugs still clung to their luxurious past but relentless footfalls had mown familiar pathways into their pile. A serene atmosphere lent the room a sense of peace and security. This would not last through the night.
The day was being slowly unpicked and a long ribbon of darkness wound through the house. There were none of the sounds I was used to in London — no distant cars, no planes or alarms, no boarding school tears or thumps in the night. Not even the occasional scream. This house and the land around stopped for those hours of darkness, like a child afraid to move an inch for fear of detection by whatever might be stalking the night world beyond her bed.
That was one of the worst things about my dad’s death. No one came to me in the night anymore. No one unmonstered my sleep. I would lie there in petrified silence, unable to move or speak as the familiar phantoms rose up around my bed. It was as if they had been set free to roam where they wished without anyone to check them anymore. My champion had gone, and I was all alone with my fear. Mother said it was character building to deal with my concerns myself. She was right, but what kind of character it built remains to be seen.
In the overpowering hum of silence, I heard something. Music. My mind scrambled for clarity in the smothering darkness. A strange, unnerving melody carefully arrived. I looked at the clock: midnight. Of course.
It began with the slow, careful tap of each separate note. The ghost of a familiar tune I half remembered began to form and circle my room. I slowly sat up and felt the sudden pinch of cool air. The soft notes threaded between one another, weaving a slow song that rose and fell in delicate waves. I leaned and slowly clicked on the light. Was there a shadow that lingered too long, caught on the edge of my vision for a moment? So often, it’s not the things we see plainly that scare us. I blinked and it was gone. But the music still curled through the room, much clearer and more inviting now the light was on. It was quite recognisably a piano and, though distant, unmistakeably the melancholy tones of Clair de Lune.
I rose quickly and didn’t wait to put on slippers, dressing gown or any of the other things I’d forgotten to pack. As I opened the door, a great wave of music ran over me. It was elegant and accomplished — and just as Dad had always played it. I began walking hurriedly but soon broke into a jog, fearful it would end before I got to the piano.
The long leaded window at the top of the stairs cast a gaunt light. But as the clouds splintered open the moon appeared, opaque as a blind eye in the darkness. Its light bloomed out under the clouds and cast a strange gaslight blue all the way down the stairs and into the hall. There was no one there but the music continued.
I bolted down the staircase and swung round the end of the bannister. Still no one appeared. This house was iron cold with loneliness. And yet the music still played.
I paused with my hand on the sitting room door. Fear gripped my breathing until it was so shallow I felt nauseous. I could smell the sweet tang of his tobacco smoke. The clear memory of my father at the piano rose before me. I closed my eyes and pushed the door open.