The Devil's Music Page 7

  Mummy’s peg basket is by the door, next to her wellies. And the bundle that is the new washing line. It’s tied in loops.

  I open the door leading back into the house, turning the handle slowly, peering round like they do in films, to check if anyone’s about. The painting man has finished his cup of tea and gone back into the dining room. I think about going to see him but now I have the washing line. Across the hallway in the kitchen I see Mummy’s back and her arms lift and fall because she’s washing jumpers at the sink. She is singing ‘la la lah’ with the radio. On the floor, Elaine is propped up with lots of cushions. She’s half-sitting, half-lying, her chin right down on her bib. The bib stops dribble soaking into her clothes and making her chest sore, but it makes her chin sore instead. I waggle the washing line at her and put a finger to my lips so that she knows it’s a secret. Elaine wobbles her body a little bit from side to side a couple of times. Elaine is four now but she wobbles because she’s fat like a Jelly Baby, much fatter than me or Susie, that’s why Jelly is my special name for her. I wave to Jelly and do our Secret Sign, before I tiptoe up the stairs.

  Susie has my old wigwam in her bedroom. The sides have got too short for the poles and I can see her ankles and slippers moving about inside. She’s talking to her dolls. I stick my head in through the flaps.

  ‘Look what I found.’ I flick the washing line like a whip to shake out the kinks.

  Susie is putting her golliwog in a dress Elaine has got too big for. It looks very stupid. She’s undone the plaits on her Indian headdress and the black hair is all in crinkles round her ears.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘How about I put all the animals in a stockade for you?’

  She looks at the new washing line on the floor. ‘All right.’ She closes the flaps of the wigwam again.

  There are three teddies and a big blue elephant and Eeyore to tie up. Then there’s Susie’s new hobby horse which was a present from a patient. Susie’s hobby horse doesn’t look like a real horse. Its eyes and mane are painted on to its wooden head. My hobby horse is furry and grey and has real glass eyes and a real woolly mane that shakes about. Mummy made it out of Father’s old grey dressing gown. I rub at the painted eyes on Susie’s hobby horse with my finger and pull on its leather harness. It would come off if I had some scissors or Hugh’s penknife. Susie’s horse could have the red dressing-gown cord from my horse instead.

  Grampy says the Fiador Knot is the cowboy’s best emergency bridle, but it’s hard to do without two cords of different colours and I can’t cut the washing line. So I make Harness Loops for each animal, joining them all together, then I crawl back into the wigwam.

  Susie has wrapped Looby Lou in a shawl and is rocking her to and fro in her arms. ‘Shhh, Andy. Sshhh!’ She puts a finger to her mouth. ‘It’s night time.’

  ‘You need to know some knots, don’t you? To keep the animals safe from rustlers.’

  ‘Tell Big Doll. I’m the Mummy. Big Doll can be the animal looker-afterer. She can stay out all night.’

  Susie does not like Big Doll. Big Doll came from another one of Father’s patients. The patient saw Mummy and Susie at the surgery once and said to Father, ‘What an adorable child.’

  Father lifted Susie on to his lap at teatime and stroked her hair and said to her, ‘Do you know you are adorable, Susie? Someone else apart from me thinks you’re adorable. Mrs Reeves thinks: A, you’re adorable, B, you’re so beautiful, C, you’re a cutie full of charm ...’ and he sang the whole song.

  Big Doll came in a huge box on Christmas Eve when the tea trolley was in the sitting room and the fire was lit. Father answered the door. Patients are supposed to see him at the surgery, not at home. It was Mrs Reeves and she said, ‘Merry Christmas, Michael,’ and didn’t call him Doctor.

  Big Doll has hard arms and legs and she walks and talks. In her back she has a string with a ring on it to pull. ‘I want my mummy,’ she says, and, ‘Is it time for bed?’ Her hair is orange and has a funny smell. Every bedtime Susie makes Mummy put her out on the landing.

  I fetch Big Doll from the landing. Big Doll can only stand and walk, she can’t sit down. Susie has poked in one of her eyes and it does not open now. I tie a Jack Ketch’s Collar around Big Doll’s neck and stand her in the stockade with the other animals. Her fingers stick out straight.

  I make another running noose. Now I’ll teach Susie how to untie a Jack Ketch’s Collar. Jack Ketch was a hangman, but not a very good one. I crawl back into the wigwam. ‘Just try this on.’

  She holds out her wrist.

  ‘No, nit twit.’ I put the running noose over her head and her headdress gets knocked crooked.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘take it off.’

  ‘Sit still. Sit still!’

  The black hair from her headdress gets in the way and her face is all red and cross. She’s turning her head this way and that and pulling with her fingers at the washing line around her neck. ‘It’s too tight, Andy,’ she says, ‘too tight! It hurts.’ Her fingers pull at my fingers.

  ‘It’s nearly done.’

  ‘Noooo!’ She stamps her foot. ‘I don’t like it.’

  She’s wriggling and slapping at my hands. She’s very silly.

  ‘SIT STILL! SIT STILL!’ I hold her ankles, she falls over and my teeth press hard together. There’s a hot fizz in my chest that tells me I can hurt her.

  She’s kicking and yelling, ‘I’m telling!’ She gets up and runs out of the room, the washing line trailing behind her down the stairs. All the teddies and Eeyore and Big Doll and everything get pulled across the floor because they’re all joined together with the washing line. She spoils everything. I kick the wigwam pole.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Susie screams.

  Thump and stop, thump and stop – her feet go down the stairs one at a time. She can go down them properly but today she’s being a cry-baby and making a fuss. I sit on the yellow-and-black carpet in her room and listen. There’s the painting man’s voice and Mummy’s laugh. After a while, Mummy’s footsteps come slowly up the stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke comes into the bedroom with her.

  ‘Susie’s so silly. I was showing her how to undo it.’

  But Mummy’s face is boiling red and she slaps my leg.

  It doesn’t hurt.

  She puts her face next to mine and says in a very quiet voice, ‘Don’t you ever, ever fool around with that washing line again. What on earth? Round her neck?’

  She snatches Grampy’s book on knots, ties and splices up from the floor. ‘I’m taking this away until you’re more sensible, Andrew.’ She shuts the bedroom door and is gone.

  I shuffle on my bottom until I am wedged in the corner between Susie’s bedroom door and the side of her white painted wardrobe. If anyone comes I will be hidden. I sit with my chin on my knees. Downstairs, the television goes on. I hear Mummy call out from the kitchen for Susie. Then she’s talking. The painter must be having tea in the kitchen again. I put my ear down to the floorboards to listen and that’s when I see Mummy’s lost thistle brooch on the floor under Susie’s chest of drawers, right back by the skirting board.

  Yesterday, when Mummy put her coat on to go to the shops she saw her favourite brooch was missing and she put her hands over her face and sat on the bottom step and cried real tears.

  I reach under the chest of drawers and put my fingers around the brooch. It’s hard and scratchy in my hand. On Susie’s chest of drawers is a photo with Mummy smiling. Auntie Jean took it ages ago, before she had the Ilford. The photo is just me and Mummy sitting on the hospital blanket next to a breakwater. Susie and Elaine are not born yet. In the picture, Mummy is doing Cheers! with the mug from the top of her thermos.

  Yesterday, after Mummy saw her brooch was gone, she went out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. It was raining but she went out all the same and stood by the rhododendron bushes to see the buds coming. When she came back in, the rain was in her hair like drops in a spider’s web. I put my hands in her hair.
It was soft and wet.

  Chapter 3

  The daylight has almost gone by the time I wake up. I’m on the sofa. My neck’s stiff and my throat dry.

  At first I curse Susie for taking the last of the water, but then see the empty plastic bottles scattered around with the boys’ buckets on the grass. I try the taps again and check the mains, but finally resign myself to dying of thirst or traipsing next door for water.

  Lights are on, but there’s no answer when I ring the bell, nor when I rap on the door. Some flinty stones, sharp-edged, are piled to one side of the step and an assortment of cockle and razor shells fills an aluminium bucket. Someone has hung pebbles on lengths of string in the porch. I start to count but give up when I get to thirty.

  Turning away, I catch sight of a sea-bleached branch stuck, upright, into the earth and hung with an assortment of flip flops and jelly shoes. Some adult, some child-sized. All lost. The once bright plastic and rubber has been faded by sun and salt. A sign, white paint on a piece of scaffolding plank, says: ‘The Jelly Tree’. The hairs on my forearms rise and I glance back at the windows of the house. Instead of being set at right angles to each other as at The Siding, the two railway carriages are parallel and joined with a wooden structure that creates a large living area. From here, I can see right through the house and out the other side. The window on the far side, the seaward side, gives a glimpse of dark sea and sky. And there’s a shape. Not moving. It looks like the outline of a leg; a pointed foot. I’ll get a better look from the beach side.

  When I get there, a woman is crouching on the decking. She’s wearing dirty white overalls and is holding a hose. Even in the half light I can see she’s in a trance, gazing at water coming out of the hose and whatever the water is falling on to. She has a long plait over one shoulder that swings as she stoops. The end of the plait is darker, perhaps wet. Her forearms are splattered with what looks like mud. She’s oblivious to my presence. She stands upright – she’s tall – and heads off round to the other side of the house, striding with ease over the pebbles even though her feet are bare.

  I hurry up to the decking to see what was holding her attention and find a head. A clay head. The hose is still running. I pick it up and hold it over the head. Water courses over the swerves of hair, slowing into twisting ribbons and smaller rivulets that spread before they spill on to the wooden decking. I’m kneeling down to get a closer look when the water stops.

  Scarlet toenails appear on the wet boards. I straighten up. Her eyes are snapping dark, almost black. She opens her mouth to speak, and it’s not difficult to see from the lift of her chin and the shock-ready turn of her back, that her fury is barely suppressed. I want to touch her. I want to prevent whatever it is she’s about to say. I reach for one of her hands. But she’s startled, I’ve gauged it wrong. She twists back. The swell of her muscle under my palm tells me I’m gripping her upper arm. I drop my hands hurriedly.

  ‘This,’ but my voice cracks, ‘is really good.’ I can’t read her expression. There’s a smudge of clay on her forehead. She’s a lot older than I thought at first and she’s shaking.

  I squat down on all fours again, admiring the head. ‘You must be pleased.’ I try smiling up at her, but she doesn’t look at all pleased. She’s breathing hard, muscular arms folded across her chest. She has no bra on under the thin T-shirt.

  ‘Need help?’ She brushes a windblown strand of hair from her lips.

  My attempt at enthusiasm has not won her over. She rubs her upper arms. Like me, she’s not dressed to be outside in this temperature.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ I stand and offer my hand formally. ‘Andrew.’

  She flicks the plait over her shoulder and for a moment I think she’s so pissed off she’s going to ignore my hand, but then her handshake is strong and dry and she says, ‘Sarah,’ without smiling. Her eyes are that pale blue-green that makes the pupils darkly noticeable.

  I start again. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I can see you’re busy. But – I’m from next door. Can’t get my water to work.’

  She doesn’t like me saying I’m from next door, her pupils have shrunk.

  ‘Is this your place? They certainly built these railway carriages to last.’ Talking is never my strong point.

  ‘Ah, no – not mine exactly.’ A response at last. ‘I just rent it. Did you want to fill your buckets?’

  She’s going to get rid of me as fast as she can, that much is clear.

  ‘Yes, please. That’d be great.’

  She hesitates and I realise she probably doesn’t want to leave me with the head while she goes to turn on the hose.

  ‘Where’s the tap? Round the side?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Round there.’ She points.

  I pick up my buckets.

  When I get back with the buckets filled, she’s gone inside. And taken the head.

  Chapter 4

  You turn the matchbox over and over on the bench. Wood pigeons murmur, sparrows chirp and flutter under the eaves. Smoke from your cigarette drifts across the garden.

  Jean had waved the packet at you. ‘Go on, take them,’ she said. ‘Take them all! They’ll help you think while you’re walking the dog.’ You took two. There’s a chance Michael won’t smell anything if you smoke them outside.

  At your feet, Honey slobbers and gnaws at a chew, head to one side, teeth bared. A blue Basildon Bond envelope lies on your lap: a letter for you this morning from Pierce. She’s sent a photograph. She poses in uniform, chin lifted, jaunty, under the circular light of an empty operating theatre, one arm leaning on the operating table, the other hand on her hip. A big grin on her face because she’s Theatre Sister now.

  What will you write back?

  Last night at the hospital dinner dance you sat with Michael at the top table with the other consultants and their wives. The Senior Obstetrician, eyes like beads behind his round spectacles, pressed his thigh against yours while his wife, opposite, talked about choosing between a frilled or a box-pleated hem for the loose cover she was making for her settee. The stiff lace on your gown chafed the under side of your upper arms.

  But this is not what you’re supposed to be thinking about.

  Mrs Hubbard’s key scrapes at the door.

  ‘For God’s sake get yourself out of the house for an hour or two while that woman’s here. That’s why Michael hired her,’ Jean had said as she left with Elaine.

  You tread the cigarette into the lawn and get up to prepare a tea tray for Mrs Hubbard with the Royal Albert china, silver sugar bowl and tongs, the Nice biscuits. In the hall, floral overall draped loosely across her bony front, Mrs Hubbard nods as she hangs up her coat. Seconds later she has disappeared to the sitting room to clear the grate.

  You stand in front of the sink and stare at the cracks in the green block of Fairy soap. Think, think about the notebook Jean found hidden under the mattress of the bed where Andy sleeps when he stays with her.

  The breakfast bowls plop, one by one, into the bubbles and slide below the surface.

  Michael keeps on about sending Elaine away. Jean, and even Hoggie, seem to agree. ‘You’d all get your lives back,’ is what Jean has said. Everyone acts as though your desire to keep Elaine at home is simple selfishness.

  You make your fingers loosen their grip, watch the wooden handle of the washing-up brush slip into the bubbles and out of sight.

  They say Elaine will not know the difference, will not know where she is. And yet, when she was a baby, a doctor said she’d know the smell of your breast. Not the milk, but your skin. Experiments have shown a baby will turn towards a pad that has been next to the mother’s breast, rather than to one on to which the mother has expressed her milk. ‘But it’s not just Elaine you need to think about, is it?’ Hoggie said last night, a hand on your wrist. ‘It’s the whole family.’

  Birdsong comes in through the open back door. You dry your hands, tug at the ties of your apron; dump it on the draining board. You pick up the notebook, hold it to your breast an
d walk out of the back door, leaving it open. Honey pads behind. You head for the river.

  The notepad is tatty, its cardboard cover creased and soft with use. ‘TOP SECRET’ it says in red ink, underlined three times with black. On the first few pages Andy has written lists of questions, the answers written upside down at the bottom of each page, like clues for a crossword puzzle. Every question has something to do with rope.

  The pages of the notepad are brittle as dead leaves and the pencil lines have scored hollows and ridges in the paper. Towards the back, there’s page after page with drawings of gallows in various stages of completion. One has a pin man hanging, the circle for his head drooping to one side. He looks dead, or dying. Seeing it, you’d remembered the incident with Susie and your scalp tightened.

  ‘Just look at this,’ Jean said, showing you a page with six dashes, with the first letter, A, filled in. Clue: Stress placed on rope due to increasing the velocity of the load. Answer: Abrasion resistance (A).

  She flicked more pages. ‘It’s his name, he’s spelling out his name, over and over again. Double Braid. D. A very strong and flexible rope that doesn’t hockle. What does “hockle” mean? – doesn’t hockle, kink or rotate under a load. It’s from that big book of Dad’s, isn’t it? On knots?’

  ‘What, Ashley’s?’

  ‘Look: Devil’s Rope. What’s that?’

  ‘No idea.’

  The dashes and drawings, surely – you think now – they’re just a version of that word game, hangman. You’d wanted Jean to stop flicking, to hand the notebook over. Playing it down in case she mentioned something to Michael, you said, ‘Andy only knows a lot about rope and knots because he spends time with Dad.’

  A match flared with the smell of sulphur as Jean lit up. Her words were distorted when she continued, cigarette slanted between her lips. ‘Wake up and smell the daisies! Why does Andy spend all his time at Dad’s? Because you’re too busy with Elaine!’