The Song House Read Online Free PDF Page B

I sound so
awful. ‘The day boys only brought tinned stuff.’ Did I really
say that?
    I couldn’t make it up, says Maggie.
    And I go on and on, two pages of . . . utter tripe.
    Kenneth removes his glasses and runs a hand over his eyes.
Maggie sees the age in his face, the lines and creases magnified by the low sunlight.
    Well, this won’t do. We’ll have to have a rethink, he says,
Change of plan.
    It’s just for you to read, she says, feeling a rush of pity at his
crestfallen look, That’s what you said, didn’t you? It’s only for
your eyes?
    Kenneth’s voice is very faint,
    I suppose, he says.
    Then what does it matter how it sounds? Maybe you just
need a few words, you know, to get the feeling again.
    Maggie looks keenly at him, her green eyes cool as glass.
Kenneth flips the papers, moving towards her so quickly, for
a second she thinks he’s going to hit her with them. He
scrunches the pages into a ball.
    Maggie, I don’t know what the prompt is. They came back
to life, you know, those moments? But it wasn’t just hearing
the hymn again, it was—
    It was telling me, she says, finishing the sentence he can’t
bring himself to utter, Telling me about your past brought it
right back.
    And why should that be? he asks, You don’t know me, or
my past. Why should I care about that?
    He throws the ball of papers at the waste-paper bin, misses, picks
it up again and dashes it into the basket. Maggie is silent for a
second, waiting for his anger to subside before she continues.
She weighs her words; she wants to make them count.
    Because what’s the point of memories, if there’s no one else
to share them with? You might just as well use a Dictaphone
if that’s what you believe.
    Kenneth drops himself heavily into his chair, smoothes his
hands across the blotter on his desk. He finds the truth of her
words baffling.
    But you don’t believe that, do you? she adds, You want to
share them.
    Kenneth’s laugh is cynical.
    Oh yes, Maggie, I want to share them all right. I want to
share them with me .
    The pause that follows is a kind of reckoning. Kenneth’s gaze
wanders over the blotter, the leather-topped desk, his knuckles
and his blunt fingernails. He won’t look at Maggie. In the
waiting, a shiver of fright courses through her, as if she has
been found out, as if he’s known right from the start who she
is and why she’s here. Her mind races back over the past two
days; she’s given nothing away. She could be anybody, nobody.
He can’t know, and he mustn’t know, and she must keep
courage. Truth from courage, she thinks, misremembering the
motto. She jumps when he speaks again.
    Why I hit on this scheme . . . I was standing down there in
the library, a few months back, and I was watching the blackbirds
bouncing over the lawn, and there was the morning, the
sharp air, and the light, everything rinsed and – it was brand
new, you know, the way only an early spring morning can be
– and I was listening to a flute sonata. It’s by Poulenc. Some
of his stuff is quite austere, but this is—
    Kenneth throws his hands up,
    The piece, for me, is how spring feels.
    Maggie is nodding, calm enough to find her voice, Sounds
good, she says, I’d like to hear it.
    But I wanted to record the moment exactly , so that I could
remember it again properly, without any . . . interference. So
other thoughts won’t sneak up on me, catch me off guard.
Because that was when I realized. There are fewer spring days
left now, for me. Who knows, maybe I won’t ever see another
spring day like that. So in the gloomy winter, I’d like to relive
it. Properly.
    Maggie searches for some conciliatory words. Finding nothing
to stem his self-pity, she simply looks at him.
    I’ll let you into a secret, he says, My mind these days, it’s a
runaway train. One minute I’m doing something ordinary –
opening a tin of tomatoes or writing a memo – or, or listening
to music – and the