Read Online House of Silence by Linda Gillard - Free Book Online Page A

but I didn’t care.
The house spoke to me, even at a distance. It looked neglected,
wounded somehow - quite possibly by its present owners. The part of
me that had considered textile conservation as a more worthwhile
and lucrative career roused itself and scented challenge. But I
determined to keep my eyes open, my mouth shut and my itchy,
exploratory fingers to myself. I was not on a rescue
mission.
    I dragged my eyes away from the chaotic
roofline silhouetted against the vast Norfolk sky and, as the car
came to a halt in front of a massive double oak door, I turned to
speak to Alfie, my excitement bubbling over. He sat braced, both
hands still gripping the wheel, his chin sunk onto his chest. It
occurred to me then that perhaps I was on a rescue mission
after all.
    His head shot up, he let go of the wheel and
turned to me, a bright, artificial smile plastered across his face.
He said, ‘Showtime, boys and girls!’ then leaned over, pulled my
head towards him and kissed me hard on the mouth. Almost as if he
was saying goodbye.
    Alfie didn’t knock. It would have taken two
hands to lift the iron knocker and he had a suitcase in one hand
and a large bunch of flowers in the other. He set the case down,
turned an iron ring and leaned against the door. It sidled open,
protesting, revealing an enormous entrance hall. A gigantic dark
oak table - clearly Jacobean - stood in the centre of the room,
piled with unopened Christmas cards, junk mail, a flashlight,
secateurs, a ball of twine, old newspapers and a pair of dog leads.
In the middle of the table stood a scruffy arrangement of
evergreens and berries in a jumble sale vase. Hanging from a laurel
branch was one of those jokey wooden signs announcing, I’m in
the garden , complete with robin perched on garden fork, for the
benefit of those who didn’t read English. In the dust beneath,
someone had written Please clean me .
    I could hear hysterical barking coming from
another room and I looked around, expecting someone to appear.
There was an imposing, rather forbidding oak staircase, down which
you could have driven a coach and horses. (The state of the
threadbare Axminster suggested a previous generation had .)
Coats and scarves lay heaped on a carved wooden settle, together
with a tartan rug which, to judge from its noisome condition,
belonged to the owners of the dog leads. A welcoming light was
provided by a standard lamp with an exuberantly fringed and floral
shade, but the fireplace - about the size of my bathroom in
Brighton - was empty. It began to dawn on me that the hall seemed
scarcely any warmer than the winter’s afternoon we’d left outside.
I shivered and remembered Alfie’s dire climatic warnings.
    The paroxysms of barking continued unabated,
but still no one appeared to greet us. Then from another direction
- overhead, I thought - I heard footsteps moving quickly. As they
reached the stairs, they broke into a heavy-footed run. A woman
turned the corner of the stairs, stopped dead and cried, ‘Alfie!’
She galloped down the remaining flight of stairs, long corkscrew
curls flying out behind her, and I feared for her safety. She
jumped the last two treads and landed, knees bent like a
skateboarder, feet shod in striped socks and voluminous fluffy
slippers, on a rug that slid across the polished oak floorboards,
bringing her to a standstill, no more than arm’s reach from
Alfie.
    I waited for them to embrace, but instead
they stood facing each other. Each waiting for the other to make
the first move? I couldn’t see Alfie’s face, so there was no way of
knowing. Eventually he extended his arm, offering her the flowers,
and said, ‘Merry Christmas, Hattie.’
    Seizing the bouquet, she squealed, ‘Ooh, lovely ! Are they for me?’ and plunged her face into the
blooms. When she emerged again, her nose was freckled with dark
pollen from the lilies. Alfie smiled and withdrew a handkerchief
from his coat pocket. Dabbing at her face, he said, ‘Yes, they