The Song House Read Online Free PDF

beats a teary retreat to a darkened corner of the
library. Maggie makes notes, trying not to be distracted by the
way he paces the room; he’s not so much listening to the music
as parading it in front of her. There’s a sudden break in this
activity. She pauses, waiting for the next stream of talk, a white
noise whine in her ears. Kenneth stands with his broad back
to her. He’s muttering something about apple scrumping
which she struggles to decipher.
    Can you repeat that? she asks, but he waves away her request.
    Never mind that now; listen to this.
    He places the record on the turntable, turns up the volume.
Maggie hears a few simple opening bars, the asthmatic wheeze
of an organ. Church music, she thinks. Kenneth slips behind
her chair just as the choir starts to sing. The voices rise high,
fall low: it is the singing of children. He’s near enough for her
to hear him, and speaking quite clearly, but Maggie can’t put
pen to paper. Her hand is stunned on the page.
    Something wrong, Maggie? he says, seeing her rigid posture.
    This song, she says, tilting her head like a bird, What is it?
Kenneth moves back over to the record player and plucks the
stylus off the record. He looks aggrieved at her interruption.
The silence that follows is thick as wool.
    ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, he says, I was put in mind
of it – if you’ll forgive me for saying so – when I first saw you.
He sees her again, down in the field, spread on the barrow.
Despite the knowledge that she can’t read his thoughts, his face
reddens at the memory.
    And I was saying, he continues, That this was a hymn we
used to sing at school. Harvest festival time, I think. It’s got
such an innocent theme, so full of optimism. Don’t you agree?
Maggie holds her right hand with her left to steady it. She
feels last night’s supper repeat in her throat: bitter courgette,
acid onion. Perhaps his cooking has given her food poisoning.
    Did they sing it here, she asks, The children?
    What? he says, frowning now, Oh. You mean when they
came to practise. Quite possibly; I wouldn’t know. It’s a popular
hymn; this version’s by the Winchester Cathedral choir.
    Would you like me to write that down? she asks, tasting
bile.
    Kenneth closes his eyes and sighs, as if dealing with a recalcitrant
child.
    Only, I can’t actually hear you over the music, Maggie adds,
quick with the lie.
    Kenneth hadn’t thought of this; she can see it in his eyes. His
response is tense, commanding:
    I will speak now. Please write down exactly what I say.

    It was quite an amazing experience, made all
the more amazing by the fact – extraordinary
– that everyone brought something; fruit in
baskets and what else was there – um – there
was fruit, and vegetables. The day boys only
brought tinned stuff, tinned stuff, of
course. Mr Vaughan at the piano. He erm,
anyway, the singing was the thing. All things
so very bright and so very beautiful in those
days, the colours and the church—

    Kenneth stops reading. They are in his office on the top floor,
a late sun slanting through the room. Outside, the fields are
nearly in shadow; the barley burning copper, wheat the colour
of pewter. Maggie has presented him with her afternoon’s
work: two closely typed pages of his words. He stands at the
window, holding the papers in his hand, while she sits on the
sofa behind his desk. Kenneth can barely bring himself to look
at her, with her face lifted, and that expression she has; so
solemn, so eager to please. She has done well, he should praise
her efforts: she has given him precisely what he’s asked for.
Except he can’t get beyond the first page.
    Something wrong? Maggie asks, fighting the urge to get up
and go and stand at his shoulder, Only, you tend to speak quite
quickly.
    Everything’s wrong, he says, It’s terrible.
    He sees her head twitch, her hair fall over her face.
    Not you, he cries, Me! It’s so . . . God.