Before All Else Page 8

  Can she strip back the layers and reveal the house in its many subtle and its more extreme mutations? Can she see herself pointing out the seventeenth-century beams, fashioned from decommissioned sailing ships by Roger de Willoughby, former cloth merchant – while keeping an eye on the more portable of her possessions? Could she recreate for the visitors the conditions inside the Victorian Bethel Missionary School for children of proselytising and absent parents? Or what it must have been like for the twelve-year-old Jewish refugee from Poland, billeted on the Stour family resident at Hingham House at the time of World War Two?

  But that all belongs to the outer pulse of the house. There is another pulse – the inner life of the house, her life in the house. Such that, after his naval service, Dr and Mrs de Mare acquired the house within a decade of the end of the Second World War – the Jewish refugee having left East Anglia, presumably to start the uncertain task of finding her family, leaving only her name and date and place of birth carved in a sill in the cellar. Hannah Metzger, 1929, Kraków. Their three daughters, Cecily, Amelia and Tilly were brought up here, each leaving for respective careers and marriages. Upon Dr de Mare’s retirement, the eldest daughter, Cecily, moved back to Hingham House with her husband, Henry Marchant, and his two sons, Michael and Thomas, from his first marriage. Dr and Mrs de Mare were cared for by Henry and Cecily Marchant who retained the title to the house upon their death. Henry Marchant also deceased.

  True but bland. A potted history that said nothing about the adder in the garden, bringing newborn babies home, the trusty Christmas tree fairy, the triumphs and tragedies of school and first love, tearful departures, joyful reunions, the delicate negotiations involved in combining two stepsons and two ageing parents, the day the two-year-old Tilly came screaming in the house with a stag beetle in her hair, planting the orchard, parties, wakes, the conversions to vegetarianism, the returned wedding dress, the myriad Hammies and Jerries and Sookies buried in the garden, violin practice, trips to A&E, midnight feasts, the ash tree that fell on the greenhouse, the flood, sliding down the bannisters, finding the George III penny, the arguments with the Parish Council about the Sky dish, driving lessons, slammed doors, plaster casts, each trip to the consultant that seemed to bash Daddy like a nail further and further into a piece of wood, colour schemes, colour TV, fibre optic, microwave, camping in the garden, bonfire nights…

  The wash and rinse and spin of so many lives lived in this house. Within the last sixty-five years, three generations, albeit dog-legged, could call this house, Hingham House, their home.

  And what of her ghosts? Ghosts which come out when it is quiet. Which it is too often these days.

  Henry is at the forefront. Others flicker in and out, invited or not.

  Henry is everywhere. His tools are in the shed at the bottom of the garden, pretty well as he’d left them, nails and tacks in rusting tobacco tins, paintbrushes in jars of slowly gelatinising white spirit. Sometimes a shade only appears during a particular time or function, such as the closing down of the house at night-time. The slide of the bolt, the turn of the key, the extinguishing of the light, the placing of the key in Henry’s coat pocket that still hangs amongst hers in the hallway. At times it feels as if Henry’s hand is still on hers. Steadying her, making her go through the motions, ensuring everything is secure, guiding her.

  Other ghosts rattle noisily around the house at the imagined click of the catches of his briefcase, the imagined clatter of his work boots on the hearth after a hard weekend’s work. Occasionally she strains her hearing to the sound of his voice in the passageway.

  But then, people do not have to die to have ghosts. Amelia and Tilly still walk this earth and have left their younger selves behind in the house. Henry’s sons, Michael and Thomas, weekend and holiday visitors, tall, awkward, fearful of being in the way, ever obliging to their father’s parents-in-law, by this time inclined to wander, to shout, to choke. But this was never their home, and their real selves no longer reside here.

  Ghosts have secrets too. Daddy’s penchant for garden bonfires, to hide his occasional Benson and Hedges habit. Boxes of shoes in Mummy’s closet, their soles unblemished, labels still attached. A fragile, almost transparent love letter. Pills in packets. Booze.

  Daddy had a fascination with the Black Prince and all things heraldic. When the girls emptied out his study, they found boxes and boxes of hand-painted lead figures. “A last bastion of manliness,” Tilly observed. “Imagine living with us three and Mummy! Would drive anyone to toy soldiers!”

  Ghosts have movement, they have secrets, and they also have an aroma all of their own. The scent of roses, where once, all summer long, Mother had arranged gloriously extravagant blooms that dipped their heads and their earwigs onto the hall table. Bonfires. The occasional, elusive, heart-breaking whiff of Henry’s soap on the pillow.

  For Cecily, the question is, does her real self reside in this house, the house she has lived in as a child and as a wife and as a stepmother, and as a widow? Or is it a gilded cage? Can there be any escape?

  Might there be a lighter, more carefree life for her beyond the confines of the bars? A life less hamstrung by obligations to the past? Or would she be like Amelia – once out, never finding her way back in?

  Tilly, surprisingly, has it right. Tilly, the youngest by a good many years, scoffed at, overlooked, occasionally petted and then put down, has it bang to rights. Married the first man she slept with, a man still rugged but suave, a dry wit but not depressive, who worships the ground she walks on, even after twenty-five years, in her docker’s wellies and torn tartan fleece.

  Cecily rises to begin preparing lunch. A tiny unopened white-green waxy flower falls from the sole of her boot.

  The Village

  The crowd that has taken over the corner of the pub while Marcus is tucking into his early evening steak and ale pie is made up of members of the Village Summer Fair Committee.

  “Right. Has everyone got a drink? When we’re all seated, we can start. Well, get a drink, Brian. No, there isn’t a kitty. Hurry up about it.” Stanley Mercer, owner of Hammer and Tongs, the ironmongers, is the self-appointed Chair of the committee. There is a good turnout. Too good, in fact, as there proves to be more bums than seats and some squashing up required. Cecily Marchant looks decidedly uncomfortable to be sharing a hard curved-back chair with Madge from the post office. “Cecily. Cecily. Over here. Come and sit by me. You need to be close at hand in order to take the minutes, anyway.” Cecily gratefully shuffles between the round pub tables and knees, apologising as she goes, to Stanley’s side.

  “Thank you, Stanley,” she whispers, and places a tonic water in front of her before pulling out a large pad from her bag.

  “Right. If everyone’s present and correct, I’ll call this meeting to order. When I call your name, if present, please say ‘Aye’.”

  “Oh, come on, Stan. Just get on with it,” shouts Peter, on the margins of the group, rocking on his heels, arms crossed, holding a pint glass in his hand. “I’ve got to get back to milking.”

  “Right. Well, as I was saying. Following the success of last summer’s fair, or should I say, ‘fay-re’, I take it we are all in agreement that we should take it upon ourselves to repeat the experience this year.” Stanley looks round at all the faces nodding agreement. “You should all have sight of the agenda, namely items for consideration in the planning of this year’s fair, or fay-re.” There is a collective stretch as people reach for the pieces of paper on the tables in front of them. “Item One. Situation. Major Welding has kindly agreed that we can use what is known as the Town Field this year, on condition that we undertake some remedial works, clear up after ourselves and arrange for separate parking. I think we owe a debt of gratitude to Cecily Marchant for negotiating this deal following the refusal by the Borough Council to let us use the playing fields, as has been the tradition for the past four years.”

  Stanley p
auses for a small trickle of applause. “This leads on to Item 1A, a proposal that we ask Year 6 children from All Saints to be our litter-pickers. Agreed? No objections? No? And Item 1B, that we write to the landlord of The Hare for permission to use the car park. Are we all happy with this?”

  The assembly nods, some mutely asking their neighbours how long this is all going to take. “I’d forgotten what a boring bastard he is,” someone whispers. “This is going to take forever.” Stan glances across at the dissenters.

  “Be quiet. He can hear you.”

  “But there’s fourteen items on the blinking agenda. Why can’t he just say, you, you, you, do this, do this, do this, and be done with it?”

  “Because it needs to be organised. Now shut up.”

  “Right, well, if I could call this meeting to order again and ask that if there’s anything you wish the meeting to be aware of, that you address your comments through the Chair.”

  Marcus

  Marcus is contentedly making his way through a golden suet crust, deep rich gravy, satisfying chunks of tender beef, silky mashed potato and strong, earthy kale and carrots while the meeting progresses through the items. He is surprised how many people he recognises. The woman across the road, who is busy scribbling away, presumably taking the minutes. The frightful woman from the post office, Madge, who greets him like a lost friend and clutches his arm while waiting at the bar for her drink. The proprietor of the delicatessen.

  Is there a similarity amongst them? Any old family names, he wonders? Names and blood corrupted over the centuries. Good old ruddy, rustic folk with roots reaching through the Suffolk soil. Or are they mostly retired professionals like himself? Hard to tell. He returns to his newspaper. Doubtless he would find out.

  “Right. Item Eight. Ticketing. Do we part with convention and offer e-ticketing, as has been proposed or do we stick with tradition and sell printed tickets? Your thoughts please.”

  A general groan rises up from the assembly. Marcus becomes aware of a movement and a press against the bar. He shuffles himself along to make room, taking his roly poly with him.

  Stanley’s voice rises over the hubbub. “Well, I’m sorry you all seem to feel this way. But the devil is in the detail.”

  “The devil’s dancing round your hat, mate.”

  Marcus looks through the now animated crowd around the bar. It appears that only four people remain of the Fair Committee, one of whom is arguing vehemently with Stanley. Even the note-taker has put her pen down and her hands in her lap.

  A husky voice breathes past Marcus’s ear. “Over here. I’m next. Over here. Large vodka please.” The two bar staff, a lad with his shirt tail hanging out at the back and a young woman with piled-up blonde hair, are busy down the other end of the bar. A strong scent of cheap perfume assails Marcus’s nose and makes his eyes water. “Hopeless they are in here.” He turns to smile non-committally. His first impression is of a small woman, lines deeply etched in her face, dark-ish hair combed and lacquered into a type of helmet, the grey roots showing through like underlay. The hand clutching the twenty-pound note which she waves in some obvious distress is puffy and blotchy. Her elbow digs sharply in his side as she places one foot on the rung of his bar stool to heave herself over the edge of the bar. Leaning between the pumps, she shouts towards the two young people. “Garcon! Miss! Vodka!” Marcus simultaneously fears for his pudding, his pint and his balance.

  “Busy tonight. I’m sure they’ll get to you as soon as they can.”

  “Not seen you here before. Visiting, are you?” Marcus feels disinclined to offer too much information so nods once and returns to his newspaper. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her rap her fingernails on the counter. They are honed, chipped and terrifying.

  “What can I get you?” The lad appears in front of them.

  “’Bout time too. Vodka. Double. Splash of tonic. No lemon.” She grins at Marcus. “Mandy. Married to Ned Gallagher. We have a nursery out on the Lowestoft Road. We supply garden centres in the area and Ned and his team do gardening and landscaping jobs.” Marcus smiles weakly. The lad, whose name badge announces him as Nathan Food and Beverage, places a tumbler of clear liquid in front of Mandy.

  “Eight pounds fifty please.”

  Marcus, assuming that there might have been a companion to Mandy in the pub, is surprised to see her hand over the twenty-pound note as she takes a mouthful. “No. No. Wait. Give me another one.” She retracts the note and takes another large swallow. Nathan returns with another highball glass. Marcus wonders if he should offer to pay but takes heed of the mute warning in Nathan’s eye and decides not to. Mandy puts the first, empty glass on the counter and turns to Marcus. “What did you say your name was?”

  He offered his hand. “Marcus Blatt.” To pre-empt any further questions, he asks, “Do you live in the village? Are you part of this committee?”

  “Yeah, we live over there.” Mandy waggles her fingers in a vaguely westerly direction. “Ned said to come along as he’s supposed to be clearing the field for the fete. Typical of him. He’ll do it for nothing, I know he will. It will take him days to clear all that rubbish and bramble. He said it’s good advertising. Last year we had a banner round the cricket pitch. Stan won’t pay a penny. But that’s men for you. Men. Short for ‘mean’.”

  Marcus watches, half enthralled, as Mandy chatters on. After a few minutes, it becomes apparent there is no need to offer any reply or feedback. His eyes zero in on her constantly moving lips, fascinated as a small ball of, he assumes, lipstick transfers itself from her bottom lip to her top lip and back again. It is like watching a game of bagatelle. “And then my second husband, God rot his soul, turned out no better. Ten-year stretch in Ipswich Prison, two years still to go.” Mandy pauses momentarily to study the bottom of her glass. “But you seem a nice enough chap. What did you say your name was?”

  Marcus excuses himself and slides down from the bar stool, making a hasty retreat towards the door. As he retrieves his coat from the stand next to the slot machine, he can hear a conversation between Stanley, the woman from the house opposite him – the note-taker – and a tall chap whom he had observed lobbing in comments from the margin of the group and who now seems to be objecting to some player in the upcoming fair.

  “I still don’t understand why we have to use the Major’s field. Think it’s a bloody cheek, I do, that he expects us to clear the field. It’s not been used for anything for decades. It’s full of nettles and thistles.”

  “But, Peter, if I can interrupt you there. Ned Gallagher has said he will arrange for it to be cleared.”

  “Well, that’s a bloody liberty, if you ask me. We don’t know him from Adam. He buys up the Hall and then expects to be involved.”

  “You’d complain if he didn’t get involved. Listen, Peter. Cecily has been in correspondence with the Major’s team for the last few weeks. You’ve got no reason to suspect anything untoward, have you, Cecily?”

  The woman shakes her head.

  Marcus shrugs on his coat and pushes the door. Cecily. So that’s her name. He wonders if he should call round one day and introduce himself. Giddy thought.

  Mandy

  Ned had told her to come to the meeting. Where is he for Christ’s sake that he can’t come to the meeting himself? Damned if she can remember. He’s always leaving her for some sort of errand or other. She’ll get the gist of it anyway, from the bar. She’d taken a couple of notes from his wallet so she’d have some lubrication for the night.

  Nice chap that Marcus. Bit old. Not her type really. Did she even have a type? Still, Ned, for all his faults, provided well. Never home, that was his bloody problem. She’d offered to give him a hand in the business. Would give her something to do. He always said he’d find her something, but never came up with the goods. Happy to have her at home. Old-fashioned that way.

  God, the vodka tasted good. That fi
rst hit. Like it could blow your tits off. Nothing like it. At least nobody could call her a secret drinker when she was in the pub, surrounded by everybody.

  Look at that bitch sitting over there, cosying up to the committee, clipboard in hand, taking the minutes. No better than she ought to be.

  Probably not more than five years between us. Well, that would be about right, wouldn’t it? Big house and only Cecily in it. Everybody else has buggered off. And who can blame them? Who’d want to live with that miserable cow?

  Thinks she’s so special. I’ve seen her, down at the graves every other day. It’s all fake, you know.

  And I know it’s fake. Because I’ve seen her. Coloured bright red she did when she saw me sitting across from her at the clinic. No such thing as patient confidentiality there. Obvious we were in for the same thing. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt.

  Marcus

  The night air is crisp and cool. A warm light emanates into the street from behind his red curtains. It isn’t home yet but it has promise. His footsteps echo along the alley towards his door. Holding his phone to shed some light on the lock, he notices there is a text waiting for him, from Velda. It says, simply, “Marcus?”

  7

  Tilly

  Tilly drives through the flat landscape of the fens. The sheep are feisty and unsettled, forcing the trailer to kick and buck sideways. For a brief moment, she imagines them all tipping into the ditch, the wheels of the Land Rover spinning, Moonspell’s heavy metal anthem ‘Wolfshade Masquerade’ blaring out from the speakers over the misty fields. “Steady, my girls,” she shouts into the rearview mirror. Pip the sheepdog pricks up an ear and stares lopsidedly from the boot.

  Lambing is finally over for another year. Already the early ones have reached weight and gone to market. The auctioneer had winked at her and held on to the bidding until top price was reached. She’ll send him a bottle of whisky at Christmas. In the trailer now, four prime Border Leicesters from a breeder in the Midlands. They will augment her flock in a fine way.