He reached for his drink and glanced at his watch. It was quarter past six. Nell would probably not be much longer. There seemed to be only a brief entry left in the journal, so Michael took a sip of his drink, and read on. Luisa’s next entry sounded just a short while after the previous one.
Today Mother was more angry and snappish than I have ever known her. At lunch she talked about inconsiderate people, and how some men become so caught up in their own concerns they have no thought for others. She added the usual comment about wishing she had married her cousin Charles.
I wish she had married her cousin Charles as well, because Uncle Charles is a cheerful person, and that morning when I phoned him, he drove out here the same day. My life might have been a lot different if Mother had married him.
The doctor has been again. He gave Mother a bromide to help her sleep. He offered me a half-measure of it, as well. It was important I remained strong and calm, he said, to help my poor mother. I accepted the pills he gave me, but later I threw them away. If I let my mind be taken over by pills, Leonora might find a way in. She’s dead of course, I know that. The Palestrina Choir is dead as well, it died in 1914 …
But I can’t rid myself of the feeling that Leonora is still here.
Everything is so quiet, and there are long, empty hours to fill. Ordinary activities don’t seem to be thought suitable. Mother keeps saying things like, ‘I would have thought you’d have found something better to do than read those rubbishy books, Luisa.’ And, ‘Turn off the wireless, those droning voices make my head ache.’
Late last night, after she was in bed, I got an electric torch from the scullery and went to open the panelled door. The broken lock has been repaired after they broke it down – Uncle Charles had a carpenter here within two days – and there’s a new key in the drawer of the hall desk.
‘Best leave that room locked up,’ Uncle Charles said firmly. ‘No need to go down there. Unpleasant places, cellars, anyway. Best forgotten altogether.’
But I couldn’t forget it, so last night I crept through the house, which was dark and silent – at least, it was as silent as it ever is, which is to say it was filled with odd whisperings and creakings.
The new lock turned with a slight grating sound, then the door swung open. The steps were in darkness, and it was like facing a climb into a deep old well, but I went down them and shone the torch cautiously around. Everything was exactly as I remembered it.
The oak chest was exactly as I remembered it as well. Without realizing what I was going to do, I knelt down and placed my hands on the domed lid. Oak is a lovely thing – oak trees are beautiful and friendly, and furniture made from them is beautiful as well. Solid and sturdy and with a satiny gloss. But the oak of the ancient chest felt dull against my skin, as if it had been torn from the tree, and left raw and untreated. I laid my cheek against it.
Stephen, are you there? Did my father succeed in hiding you in there? I think I even held out my hand, hoping – longing – to feel those poor sounded fingers close around mine again. But there was nothing. If Stephen or that strange fragment of him still lingered in this house, it did so invisibly and soundlessly.
The Holzminden sketch lay against the wall, and I had the curious impression that it did not like being down there in the dark— No, that’s absurd, I shouldn’t have written that.
I’ve brought it back upstairs, that sketch, and I’ll find a space to hang it on a wall somewhere. In the meantime, I’ve left it in Father’s room.
Going into his room upset me, which I hadn’t expected. I don’t think I love my father, and I don’t think he’s ever loved me. But entering his bedroom, I smelled the bay rum he rubbed on his hair and the wintergreen he used for his chest in cold weather. And I remembered that he was shut away in a place where the smell of sickness and insanity is everywhere, and where there are long, bare corridors that need painting, and that ring with people’s hurrying footsteps, and scrape-wheeled trolleys bearing nameless pills and injections for all the poor bewildered people who will never again see the outside world. I don’t think my father will ever see the outside world again, either.
I stood there in his bedroom, and I thought: I’m the cause of him being in there. His mind cracked because of Stephen, and I was the one who let Stephen in. Then I sat on the edge of his bed and cried for a long time over the pity of it all.
But later I hung the sketch on the small landing. It feels as if it’s a little piece of Stephen, and for that reason alone I’d like to be able to see it each day.
It looks quite nice. I think I’ll hunt out some of the photographs of Fosse House from the war, to hang with it – some of the nurses took photos of the men who were here convalescing.
Next week we have one of our permitted visits to see Father. They seem to think it’s unlikely that he will ever improve. He has created a hiding place in his room – a wardrobe – and he sits in front of it, watching and waiting. Sometimes he crouches on all fours, like an animal waiting to pounce. The doctors say they can’t find out what he waits for. I know, of course, but I can’t bring myself to tell them. I can’t bear to think of them discussing Stephen, analysing his life, making judgements about him. It wouldn’t make any different to Father’s treatment if I did tell them, so I shan’t.
Mother says she does not know what we will do for the fees of the nursing home, but Uncle Charles says we are not to worry about that; he will see everything is taken care of. Dear Uncle Charles.
When we get home from the visit, I think I might go down to the stone room again. I feel close to Stephen there – I feel Leonora would like prayers to be said for him. I can do that. Leonora grew up knowing about prayer, and I know about it as well.
The more I think about it, the more I think I shall go down there from time to time.