The Song House Read Online Free PDF Page A

cottage, through the long
grass to the trees at the far end. Cindy, smiling, was wiping the
dust from her cheek, picking her way through the rash of nettles
at the edge of the riverbank. She turned to look at Nell,
but Nell was craning her head, her eyes fixed on Ed’s retreating
form. Without stopping, he strode up to the bank and leapt
into the water. He was under for such a long time, Nell began
to worry. When he resurfaced, he had his shorts in his hand
and was scrubbing them over his head. He pulled out the elastic
from his ponytail and dived back into the depths.
    What do you think? asked Cindy, wanting approval.
    I’ll let you know when I can actually see him, Nell said,
relieved, waiting for Ed to reappear.
    My mother loved this story; she’d tell it to me over and
again. The odd detail might be added, a memory modified.
Sometimes, Ed looked like a ghost coming out of a haunted
house, sometimes like Windy Miller. Once, he was a bronzed
prince; only once. But always, after he’d washed himself off in
the water and pulled himself naked and dripping onto the bank,
she’d end the story with her happy-ever-after: And that was it,
my Bird, love at first sight, seeing as that was when I first actually
clapped eyes on him, properly, I mean, without all the
plaster dust and filth. Cindy wasn’t best pleased, of course. But
I’d made my mind up: I was there to stay.

    Maggie hears footsteps, quick, almost military in their rhythm,
coming along the corridor. She turns the notebook over and
closes it, just as Kenneth enters the library.
    Ah, Maggie, there you are, all ready with your pen poised,
he says brightly, I trust you slept well?
    Yes, thank you, she says, and to cover her guilt, holds the
book up for him to see, I was just wondering about this badge.
    Veritate et Virtute , says Kenneth, The old school motto. Truth
and courage. Quite apt, I think, for the journey we’re about
to embark upon. Didn’t you study Latin at school?
    I didn’t really go to school, she says, and seeing the surprise
on his face, adds quickly, My mother taught me at home. But
I went to the comp for my O levels. No Latin, though. It was
quite . . . progressive. I don’t think we had a school motto,
unless it was ‘Wake up, you at the back!’
    Kenneth rewards her with a quick laugh. He moves to the
window, fumbling at the shutters until he manages to open
them; light spills over her and across the floor.
    You know, you’ve given me an idea, he says, Because I was
wondering where to start. Well, of course, we should begin at
the beginning.
    Lesson one, says Maggie, but Kenneth’s not listening.
    He scrutinizes the wall of vinyl, drumming his lips with his
fingers.
    Schooldays, he says, to himself, Music lessons.
    His fingers track the row, stop, go back, until he finds the record
he’s seeking, slipping it out of the sleeve and holding it by the
edges. He places it carefully on the turntable of the record
player. It’s a slow benediction, him bending over, mouth slightly
open, dropping the needle onto the edge. In the stillness of the
room, Maggie waits.

 

four
    Lesson one begins with a click and a hiss. Kenneth, standing
in shadow at the far end of the room, bends slightly at the
knees, holding his arms out at either side of his body. He looks
as if he’s about to jump into the abyss. Nothing happens, neither
of them moves; but Maggie listens hard for a sound. As he lifts
his arms up high, it begins. To Maggie, the music sounds as if
it starts in the middle, building too quickly to a crescendo.
    ‘Jerusalem’! cries Kenneth, breaking into song: And did those
feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green!
    Maggie writes it down, the shout that comes over like a war
cry, and the breathless reminiscences that follow. The next – ‘I
Vow To Thee My Country’ – is accompanied by more of
Kenneth’s full-throated singing, until he finally gives up, overwhelmed,
and