7
“A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know”
—Diane Arbus
I walk from empty room to empty room. In the time since we viewed the house someone has been working hard. The rooms have been cleared of furniture, the curtains taken down, the dust and the cobwebs swept away. All that remains are the carpets, softly releasing their musty scent, and an exquisite writing desk in the sitting room with a note taped to its glossy surface.
Hi, so sorry but we couldn’t fit this one in the van and didn’t want to damage it. I’ll pop by either later today or tomorrow and collect it if that’s okay. Sorry for any inconvenience, Gemma.
I assume “Gemma” is Mrs. G. Maitland, who handled the sale on behalf of her father—a Mr. Connor, I’ve since learned.
I run my hand across the desk’s surface. The intricate map of the walnut veneer is polished to a shine, smooth and cool as glass beneath my fingertips. I ease open one of the drawers. Inside is a pile of old photographs and a tiny lacquered box. Intrigued, I take out both and sit on the floor. The first of the photos is of a wedding, from the late 1960s from the style of the clothes. The groom, whom I assume is Mr. Connor, is gazing in wonder at his stunning bride. In Tom’s words he’s “batting well above his average.” The same couple appear again and again. On holiday, in the garden, proudly holding a baby of indeterminate sex and later on with two small children. There’s a sturdy little girl and a striking boy, with the family dog sitting at their side. The girl looks awkward and bored and I wonder if this is Gemma. In contrast, the boy is smiling and looking directly into the camera. He is beautiful like his mother but it is the ruddy-faced father who really catches my eye. There is something that feels vaguely familiar about his face that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I turn my attention to the box. It’s like a Japanese puzzle box and it isn’t immediately obvious how it opens. I twist and turn and suddenly it comes apart and several small objects fall out onto the floor. As I reach to pick them up I recoil with horror. They are teeth. Five or six of them, their undersides browned with old blood. I scrabble back from where they’ve landed and as I do, I see they have no roots. I heave a sigh of relief. They’re milk teeth, souvenirs of a beloved child and unsurprisingly not the trophies of a deranged killer. I am ashamed of my foolishness.
I tenderly pick up the teeth and return them to the satin lined box. I’m filled with an inexplicable sadness for the now-dead mother who kept them and for the children I may never have. The tears are a sudden hot surprise against my skin.
There is a knock at the door and I quickly gather up the photos and the box and put them back in the drawer. These are personal things and I feel guilty for the invasion of privacy. I dash the tears away and go through to the hall.
A woman is at the door, aged somewhere in her forties with an open and pleasant face.
“Hi, I’m Gemma, sorry to disturb you but did you see my note? I hope I’m not interrupting but I was sort of passing and thought I’d pick up the desk now and get it out of your way. Oh, and here’s a card and a bottle of wine for you, hope you like white.”
She smiles and in her face I think I see a memory of the little girl in the photo.
“Oh hi. No, not at all, that’s absolutely fine and thank you for the wine, that’s so kind of you, it’s lovely. Please, come in.”
She follows me through to the sitting room and there’s a stilted moment of awkwardness where I feel as though it’s her home and I’m the interloper.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Isabel. My husband, Tom, has just popped out but I’m sure I can help you get it out to the car. It’s so beautiful, is it antique?”
Her handshake is warm and firm. I instantly like her. She has a calm capable manner about her, and I imagine her as maybe a nurse, kind and reassuring to her patients. In reality she’s probably an erotic dancer, I never seem to be very good at judging other people.
“Ah thanks, it’s for my father, I’m moving it up to Fairview for him. He’s got dementia so it’s important for him to have familiar things around him, especially things that hold memories, and he always loved my mother’s desk.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “that must be terribly difficult for you.”
“It is pretty awful. Dad and I were close, particularly after my mother died.” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. “Some days he’s still there and it’s all fine, other times he just seems so lost. I hate it, particularly when he gets agitated about something and I can’t help him.”
I see her mentally shake herself, as though casting off the thought.
“Anyway, you don’t want to hear about such depressing stuff when you’ve just moved into a new home.” She looks directly into my face and smiles. “I really hope you’ll be happy here. It was a wonderful place to grow up.”
I’m still intrigued by the children in the photo so ask, “Was it just you or do you have brothers and sisters?”
Instantly a shadow crosses her face. She hesitates for just a second too long. “No, there’s just me,” she says.
I sense sadness and the hint of things unsaid. I wonder if I’ve inadvertently touched upon some family tragedy. My next words are carefully chosen to steer the subject away.
“We’ve obviously not had chance to meet anyone yet but do you know any of the neighbors, are they nice?”
She seems relieved at the change of topic.
“I don’t really know them as it’s been years since I lived here, and Dad tended to keep himself to himself latterly. To be honest he became a bit of a recluse when my mother got ill and he was even worse after she died. I think there’s a young couple in Stour’s Lane though—that’s the one that runs down the side of here—they might be grateful for some new friends. My husband met the wife when we were clearing out the house. He said she seemed really nice. If you cut through the orchard and out by the old coach house you’re in the lane. Their house is about half a mile along on the left.”
“Oh, so that’s what it is,” I say. “I’d seen the building when we came for a look round and was thinking of converting it into a studio. I’ll probably spend a lot of time alone there so it’s nice to at least know there’re some people nearby.”
She looks slightly curious at this but doesn’t comment.
“It’s been locked up for as long as I can remember,” she tells me. “My father used it as a workshop for a while, way back when we were kids. Then when my mother got ill he lost interest in things. No one’s been down there for years. I didn’t even think to check what’s in there. It’s probably full of old rubbish.”
I tell her not to worry, we’ll clear it out at some point and if we find anything valuable I’ll let her know.
I offer her coffee as a courtesy, which she politely declines, and together we carry the desk out to her car. Luckily it’s not too heavy and I can manage despite the weakness I have in my right arm. We agree to exchange mobile numbers just in case I have any queries, and I promise to text her if we find anything useful in the coach house.