The Silence. Joss Stirling
different language. Drawing room, she’d met before in nineteenth century literature but snug was a new one. She decided to wait to see what it meant rather than show ignorance.
Bridget took her towards the back of the house through a generous hallway tiled in geometric patterns and into a room half the size of the first. This one looked out on the garden; south-facing French windows were partly shaded by a vine that clambered over the wrought iron balcony. New leaves were just unfurling.
‘That’s a Black Hamburg vine, sister plant to the famous one at Hampton Court, or so my husband claimed.’ Bridget opened a window to let in the sound of birdsong. ‘How anyone would know is beyond me as I’ve not found anything about it in the family archive but it does bear some passable black grapes in good years.’ Seeing Jenny approach, she added swiftly. ‘Don’t go out on the balcony, please, dear: I can’t swear to the soundness of the structure. The wretched thing is listed but far too expensive to repair. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let it moulder elegantly until it rusts entirely to nothing.’ Her gesture indicated the intricate wrought iron structure that ran across the back of the house. ‘It’s debatable if it’s the vine keeping it up or the other way around.’
Jenny smiled politely as if she understood the headaches in keeping a listed house going. Bridget was quite something, like a dinosaur left over from an earlier age found unexpectedly still roaming the earth.
‘You see that it’s much more comfortable in here compared to the drawing room.’ Bridget patted the top of the old television set. It looked like an antique rather than something capable of streaming Netflix. ‘The sofas I admit are a bit lumpy but I hate to throw anything out.’
The grey couches with winged armrests did indeed look like warty Indian elephants reclining on sisal matting. Bridget had attempted to liven them up with ruby red scatter cushions but they still looked a little sad, their best circus days over. The walls too had once been white but now had faded to a buttercream colour.
‘There’s nothing that you need worry about harming in here,’ said Bridget. ‘You can put your feet up on the sofa and no one will tell you off. That’s why it’s called the snug: it’s the place you come to feel comfortable. Now let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me about yourself.’ She led the way past a console table with its black Bakelite telephone. It looked like it was expecting to receive a call from an earl or a duke, certainly not some telephone marketer sitting in Swansea or Bangalore. Jenny had to hope Bridget bent enough to the modern world to have a mobile as she didn’t do calls, only messages.
Bridget put a kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. The kitchen was surprisingly rustic for London: a long dresser displaying willow pattern china and lace-edged creamwear plates; scrubbed oak table; blue and white Delft tiles. Jenny had been awed by the drawing room, not sure about the snug, but the kitchen was a case of love at first sight. She could be very happy here, its neatness keeping the chaos of life at bay. She waved to the room and gave Bridget a broad smile.
‘I know what you mean, dear: this is the heart of the house. Now, tell me about yourself. Kris said you’re a violinist with the London Philharmonic, is that right? And he also said you don’t talk?’
Jenny nodded to both questions.
‘Is that can’t or won’t?’
People rarely asked her that. Jenny pointed to her throat. There was a white scar across her larynx that should answer for her.
‘What, no sound at all?’
Jenny shook her head. Long ago, when she was recovering, they’d tried to make her talk. All that had come out were ugly grunts and Jenny had freaked out; she’d felt like her voice had been eaten by a monster. She’d felt safer with silence.
‘You poor dear. An accident, was it?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘Illness then. I’m sorry. Does it still pain you?’
Jenny nodded. She let Bridget keep her assumption that illness had taken her voice; it was easier than the full explanation. That particular horror was better left locked away, her ugly Jack-in-the-box.
‘How terrible for you. You’re getting good treatment, I hope?’
Jenny nodded.
‘So how do we communicate?’
She got out her iPad. Who else lives here?
‘Oh, what a clever little device. At the moment, just myself and Jonah. He’s been with me about a year. He’s a darling. Making his way as an actor. Recently he’s joined one of those hospital soaps. Tells me he’s spends all his days rocketing around London in an ambulance, talking urgently into the radio. He’s got the lingo down pat.’
He sounded normal enough but she would reserve judgement until she met him. She’d thought Harry would make a good flatmate, hadn’t she? Any plans to take in more people? She didn’t want a repeat of her current situation.
‘Not at the moment. Not that there isn’t room; I just think three makes a good number, don’t you?’
Jenny smiled. Perfect.
‘I’ll show you your bedroom.’
You don’t want references or a deposit?
‘Oh no. Kris’s recommendation is good enough for me. If you’d be so kind as to arrange for monthly payments into my account – I’ll give you the details when you leave – that’s best for me. Then we can forget the sordid detail of the rent and just pretend we all live together like a family.’
Jenny was beginning to think Bridget was too naive for this world. I’ll do that as soon as I leave here. I promise. With the minimal rent being charged, she’d be stupid not to.
‘No need to promise. You’ve the kind of face I know I can trust. There are very few house rules – nothing that’ll bother you, I’m sure; just ones to make sure we all get along well together, like tidying up after yourself. Are you originally from England? You don’t mind me asking, do you? Not very politically correct, I’ve been told. It’s just that if you had an accent I wouldn’t know, would I?’
It was tricky writing while mounting the stairs. Jenny paused to tap out her answer. I’m from Harlow. You couldn’t get more prosaic than that Essex new town. But my dad’s from Lagos. He’s an academic. Currently at Princeton teaching literature. That was Dr Jerome Lapido: always somewhere else. At Jenny’s age of twenty-nine, it shouldn’t matter, but she still hadn’t let the abandonment go.
‘And your mother?’
Music teacher for the county music service. Her mum, Diana Groves had given her life to making Essex girls and boys just that little bit more musical. Driven by missionary fervour to convert her pupils to the same love for music as she had, she worked tirelessly. Jenny had thought it a thankless task until her mum explained that her reward was when she saw their eyes light up with joy when they discovered their own skill in playing a masterpiece or even just a nursery rhyme. With this as her motivation, Diana had more success with her students than one might think from the generally low cultural reputation of the county in the media. Jenny often met past pupils in her line of work who credited her mother with inspiring them as players and helping with the more practical task of getting them into music school. Harry had been one of Diana’s protégés, coming for tuition in music theory when he needed the extra help.
‘So that’s where you get it from!’ Bridget had the pleased expression of someone finding the missing puzzle piece. Was it a sign of a snobbish assumption that a girl from Essex wouldn’t be in classical music without some extraordinary explanation? That was too common for Jenny to waste time feeling offended. TOWIE had a lot to answer for. She’d be more offended if it were because she was mixed race – a fact that still surprised some old timers who didn’t recognize that society had changed. She chose to counter it by keeping on turning up in the second desk of violins. At the beginning of her career, with all