When the man came down out of the attic his manner was unchanged and he gave his ponderous, practical report.
‘You do have mice, and spiders. An old house like this, with the fields so close, it stands to reason. You might want to get a cat. Good company they are, too, cats. I saw no sign of rats, so you can be easy on that. You want to get that roof fixed, of course, and clear up all that mess. I can put down poison and traps . . .’
‘I don’t care about mice,’ I said sharply. ‘What made that nest, that’s what I want to know. You’re not telling me it was built by mice?’
‘Stands to reason they’d nest there,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it does. But what built that huge nest in the first place?’
He looked a shade uncertain. ‘Maybe you’d like to come up and point it out to me. Maybe I don’t know which nest you mean. Maybe I missed it.’
‘You can’t possibly have missed it! It’s huge – I’ve never seen anything like it. Five feet tall, at least, and made of twigs and straw and mud and bits of old newspaper and – ’
‘You mean that heap of rubbish? Shocking the way it’s piled up, isn’t it? It’s because of that you’ve got the spiders and the wood-lice and everything.’
‘It’s not just a rubbish heap,’ I said patiently. ‘It’s a nest. The nest. If you’d looked at it properly you would have seen that it didn’t just grow, it was put together as a shelter, with an entranceway and everything. If you were doing your job, you should have seen that. You just left it?’
He gave me a blank, steady look. ‘It’s not my job to clean up other people’s rubbish. Not very pleasant sorting through it to see what might live there, but I poked my stick in and turned it over and stirred it around. That’s how I know about the mice and all. It’s no wonder you’ve got them, a mess like that. You need to get it cleaned up. Hire someone, if you don’t fancy tackling it yourself. Once you’ve got that lot cleared away and the roof fixed you won’t have any trouble.’
I recognised the sort of man he was. If he couldn’t understand something, then for him it did not exist. There was probably no way I could get him to see what I had seen. Well, it didn’t matter, and I agreed with his advice. ‘Could you recommend someone to clear it away for me?’
‘I do have a nephew who does the odd job,’ he said. ‘Since you ask.’
The nephew came out that same afternoon to do his work, as did a team of roof menders for a preliminary survey. Getting the roof mended took a full week and more. It could be done no faster, no matter how I stressed the need, no matter what bonuses I promised. Winter days were short. They told me they would do the best they could.
During this period, when the house was always full of workmen, Sylvia and I barely communicated. She went out, most days, and did not tell me where she went. But these were not like her previous disappearances, and so they did not worry me. I saw her go out through the front door every time, and saw her walk down the road and turn towards the village. She did not return until after dark, when the house was empty and still again. I saw those days as a precarious intervaclass="underline" once I had made the house safe there would be time to talk, opportunity to mend the rift that had come between us.
Finally it was done. The roof was fixed and the house was whole again. Sylvia and I sat in the warm front room that evening, each in an armchair with a book. I couldn’t concentrate on mine; I looked around, admiring the harmony of the room, the warm conjunction of colours and furnishings, all so carefully chosen.
Sylvia said, ‘You’re happy here.’
I smiled. ‘Of course. Aren’t you?’
She didn’t answer and I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘You will be,’ I said. ‘Give it time.’ I hesitated, and then added, very low, ‘I did it for you.’
‘I know how much this house means to you,’ Sylvia said. ‘And you’re happy here. This is your place. I wouldn’t expect you to give it up just because I . . . you wouldn’t have to pay me back, even though it was half my money.’
‘What are you talking about? ’
‘I mean if I was to go away.’
‘But why should you?’
She shrugged and shifted in her chair. ‘If I . . . stopped wanting to live here.’
‘Have you?’
‘If I was to get married. You wouldn’t want my husband to move in here with us?’
‘No, of course not.’ The idea made me tense. ‘But why talk about that now? It’s not likely to happen for years. Is it? There’s not someone now . . . someone you want to marry?’
She sighed and fidgeted and then suddenly glared at me. ‘No. There isn’t anyone I want to marry. But someday, maybe, I’ll meet a man I do want to marry. And then I’ll want to go away and live with him. That fantasy we had as children would never work, you know. We’re not going to marry two brothers and all live together in one house! Someday I’ll want a house of my own – ’
‘Then what’s this?’ I demanded. ‘This is your house. You can’t go on waiting for your life to start with your husband. You’re not a child, you’re grown up and you made the decision to come live here with me. This is our home; we have an equal responsibility for it. If you’re not happy here, then we can sell it and move somewhere else. We’re not trapped. Only a child would talk about leaving like that, as if the only choice you can see is between running away and staying. Just tell me what you want, and we’ll work together for it.’
‘Maybe I want something you can’t give me.’
‘Oh? And what’s that? Excitement? True love? What is it you want?’
‘I don’t know,’ she muttered, suddenly unable to meet my eyes.
‘Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t. You can’t go through your life expecting other people to solve your problems for you, and give you what you want, you know. You’ve got to accept responsibility for your own life at some point.’
‘I’m trying to,’ she said softly, staring into her lap.
‘Sylvia, please tell me about it. I’ll try to understand, but you must give me the chance. Don’t blame me too much – I was trying to help. I wanted to save you.’
She stared at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
I wanted to scrape that fake innocence off her face with a knife. I wanted to slap her, to hurt her into honesty. These lies, the unspoken words kept us apart. If she would only confess we could begin again, start clean.
‘The attic,’ I said, watching her like a hawk. I cleared my throat and began again. ‘Now that the roof has been fixed, and all that garbage cleared out, we could use the attic as another room. You could buy some paints and make it your studio.’
‘Why do you keep going on about that?’ she cried.
‘Going on about what?’
‘About my painting! As if I did!’
‘You used to. You were very good.’
‘I never did.’
‘Now, Sylvia, you know – ’
‘All I ever did was take an art class when I was fourteen. Because I had to do something, everyone did, and if I didn’t find something of my own I’d have had to take dancing classes with you. That’s all it ever was.’
I’d let her evade the real issue long enough. ‘But what about the attic?’
She threw herself out of her chair. ‘Oh, do what you like with it! I don’t care. Just don’t fool yourself that you’re doing it for me.’ She was on her way out of the room as she spoke.
‘Sylvia, wait, can’t we talk?’
‘No, I don’t think we can.’ She didn’t look back.
Later that night, after I had gone to bed, I heard Sylvia moving around restlessly in her room. Then I heard the soft, unmistakable clatter of the attic door.
I held my breath. She was safe; I knew she was safe. The attic was clean and bare and utterly empty, and the roof was intact. But I had to know what she was doing up there. Since she wouldn’t tell me, I would have to find out for myself. I rose from my bed and went onto the landing, where I could hear.