Ivy Inchness. Ivy Inchness stood by the door. She never thought she would welcome and be relieved at the death of another human being; it conflicted with her understanding of what she termed Humanistic ethics, derived from her childhood-fostered Christian morality. But as she stood inside the door of her father's bedroom, and saw his podgy body slumped back against the pillows, his head tilted forward, she sensed a wave of relief flow through her body, a feeling of deliverance, redemption and she hoped, salvation. Moving further into the room she kept her eyes on her father all the time. For all she knew it could be part of his scheme to torment her again. At any moment, she felt, he could suddenly open his eyes and let his lips escape in to one of those menacing, intimidating grins that she so feared and loathed. She tiptoed to the window, drawing the dark curtains and letting in some of the light to which her father appeared to have an aversion. The dull March morning allowed a slight glimmer of sunlight to invade the room. Turning, she glanced back at her father still slumped in the bed: no movement, no opening eyes, no intimidating grin. She turned her head and peered down at the small garden below. Frost lay like a soft white blanket on the lawn and flowerbeds. The malus at the side by the wall was beginning to blossom, its pinkness contrasted with the whiteness about it. At the bottom of the garden was the large wooden shed where her father, in his healthier days, spent much of his time. But the shed also had other memories for her and these made her shudder momentarily as she stared at the frost covered construction. She closed her eyes and saw again the little girl locked in the shed for hours on end after being beaten and tormented. Once again she sensed the feeling of fear ride through her and almost paralyse her as it did then. She breathed in deep and turning from the window, glanced at the bed. Again no movement. The tilted head with its mass of thick grey hair, was motionless. She moved forward and touching the edge of the bed, knelt down to look at the face. The dark eyes were open, but were glassy, lifeless and vacant. The grey moustache drooped over the top lip and the jaw sagged downwards as if he'd been stopped in mid-sentence. His small stunted hands seemed as if they had been sculptured; claw like they lay on the eiderdown as if frozen. The bell that he used to ring for her, lay just out of reach, discarded, abandoned. Ivy moved her right hand across the bed and felt the hand nearest to her: it was cold. She drew back her hand and clutched it to her breast as if it had been bitten. She moved away from the bed and stood for a few moments staring at the man who had for thirty-six years, abused, tormented and ridiculed her. Even now as he lay dead he stilled seemed able to torment her; still seemed to have the ability to stir up fear in her. She looked down at her hands, they were held tight together like two frightened children. Her whole body, she realised, was stiff, as if waiting in anticipation for something to happen, some words to be spoken. But nothing happened, nothing was said. Gradually she let her limbs loosen, her hands released each other, and suddenly, although not hysterically, she began to cry and laugh at the same time, and the echo of both seemed to mock the lifeless corpse and fill the whole room like an obnoxious odour. Ivy sat in the parlour. Upstairs in her father's bedroom, the doctor was examining the body. She looked around the dim room and felt her father's presence everywhere. The heavy curtains were open, but still dullness permeated the room like a dark spirit. Against the wall opposite was the upright piano which she seldom played, but which her father would demand she play when he was in his artistic mood and would want his Beethoven sonatas, which she barely managed to play to his satisfaction. Once she recalled how he slammed the lid down on her fingers when displeased with her performance. On top of the piano was her violin case containing the violin her mother had bought her in 1924 when she was seven, just before her mother died. Her mother, she recalled, loved music; loved to play the violin in a manner that could bring tears to any that heard her. It was after her mother's death that her father set about her, her mother being no longer there to protect her. Gazing at the violin case, Ivy wished that she had had the courage to leave her father and tour with her friends who wanted her to join their string quartet; but she lacked the courage and they toured without her and became quite renowned. Occasionally they would come round and together they would perform for her father one of his beloved Beethoven's string quartets. To them he appeared kind and amiable, but one of them, Edgar who played the viola, knew her father wasn't as he seemed. Ivy turned her head and gazed at the small fire beneath the black mantelpiece. Edgar Topstead, she murmured to herself. He understood matters. He knew what she suffered to a degree. He wanted her to tour with them abroad. But that was before the War. In the flames she felt she could see his face. But it was sometime now since he had visited, since any had come round, except Charlotte. She came a few months back. She and Charlotte had played together, she on her violin and Charlotte on her cello. Her father had listened from his bedroom and had shouted for more and more." Damn him!" Ivy said suddenly. "Damn him! Damn him!" she repeated to the room. Spittle sat on her lips. She paused and clutched her hands together. No more music where he's going, she mused to herself darkly. Do I really believe that? she asked herself looking away from the flames. No. Most of my childhood faith has gone now, she mused sadly, bringing her joined hands to her lips. He killed it in me. Ivy sat in the dark. Out of her bedroom window she could see the shadowy outline of the shed at the bottom of the garden. The pale moonlight revealed other shadows that gave the garden an eerie, ghostly demeanour. As a child, sitting where she was now, she would imagine the garden was inhabited by all kinds of mysterious beings. Now she remembered only the tears in her eyes peering out on the garden, wishing her mother would return and rescue her from her father's cruelty and spitefulness. But her mother never returned from the dead. And she was never rescued. Even now, years after her last beating, she could still feel the pain on her flesh and fear in her heart. She looked up at the wan moon and wondered how many times she had gazed up at the moon and pleaded for God to end it all. Numerous, she told herself, but it didn't end. She turned from the window and looked at her bed. It was the same bed she had had as a child, though it seemed smaller now. She smiled weakly as she recalled the times when she and Edgar had managed to make love together in that very bed, when her father had been away on business for a few days. Yet even though she knew he was away, she still felt uneasy, as if any moment he would return home unexpectedly and find them together. She rose from the chair by the window and lay down on top of the bed. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what it had been like, she and Edgar embracing, kissing and them both naked making love, and her listening all the time for the front door and her father's footsteps on the stairs. She lay and pretended Edgar was beside her now; his warmth; his lips; his hands slowly moving across her body. But it was too long ago to bring back. Edgar had married another. She, too cowardly to leave her father, had missed out. The ship had sailed. The shore was empty. Opening her eyes she stared at the lampshade and began to weep in a soft, childlike whimpering, that seemed to echo around the room like a lamentful melody. The undertakers had taken the body away. Ivy stood in the parlour watching, making sure that her father had really gone. The black van pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner of the street. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she went to the piano and opened the lid. Sitting down she put her fingers on the keyboard and struck a minor key. C Minor. Then she slammed her fingers heavily on a series of minor keys causing the piano to vibrate. Then she paused. Sighing she gently placed her fingers back on the keys and played a few bars of a Beethoven sonata. Then stopped. No more would she play Beethoven. No more sonatas. Sitting back she lifted her fingers from the keyboard and turned them over, so she could see her palms. She studied them for a few seconds and then placed them on the keyboard again. Her fingers. as if by their own choice. started to play again. Bartok, the very composer her father loathed. She played with as much gusto as she could, as if to say to her lingering father's spirit, now I play what I like, now I play what makes me feel free and good. Her fingers moved with the freedom they had never felt before. No fear of her father slamming the lid down on her fingers as he once would have done; no fear of his hand across her head if she spoke out of turn. She let her fingers move as if they were children, no longer restrained, no longer gripped by fear. Ivy sat by the fire. Charlotte's visit had been unexpected. She sat opposite Ivy by the fire, staring into the flames. "Do you expect many at the funeral?� Charlotte asked, not turning her head from the flames. "Quite a few," Ivy replied. "He was popular with those who knew him least." She looked at the woman opposite her. The golden hair neat and drawn back; the eyes a large brown; the smile friendly. "Few knew him," Charlotte said. "He was an actor. He managed to portray himself as he wished to be seen," she added. Ivy nodded. "You are one of the few who really knew him,� she said. Charlotte looked away from the flames. Her eyes studied Ivy closely. "If only you had managed to get away years ago," she informed. She reached for Ivy's hand and held it. "You could have been famous. Could have toured with us and been fulfilled, "Charlotte said softly. "Duty," Ivy said," is what kept me here." "Fear," Charlotte stated,� is what kept you here, Ivy. A fear I can understand. I knew him." A silence settled between them. Ivy sighed deeply. She stood up and let Charlotte's hand drop. Going to the piano top, she took out her violin. "He had me taught to play this properly," Ivy stated coolly. "He wanted me to be as good as my mother." Charlotte stared. "He also prevented you from being your true self..." Charlotte paused. She stood up and went to Ivy's side by the piano. "He almost destroyed you," she said in a whisper. Ivy closed her eyes. She felt as if her inner being was now left stranded, abandoned. She laid her head on Charlotte's shoulder. Feeling the warmth there, she imagined she lay on her mother's shoulder, secure momentarily, safe and protected. What Charlotte said after that seemed a vague memory. She remembered only the warmth and love. She recollected moments when all her fears were temporarily swept away in affection and tenderness. And music, she and Charlotte, playing, violin and cello, vigorously, until it grew dark and she drew the curtains. Looking up she spotted a black and white photograph of her father on the wall. His eyes seemed to glare down at her in that way he had. She cringed. Charlotte seeing the effect the photograph had on Ivy, turned it over so that the face was against the wall. "He�s gone now," Charlotte stated firmly. "He�s no longer here to torment you." But Ivy wasn't so sure. Even now she feared his return. And feeling the fear again, she clutched at Charlotte's hand and drew it close like a child fearing the dark. Ivy ascended the stairs. The funeral was over and the mourners had gone, except for Charlotte who was tidying up in the parlour. She stood on the upper landing and looked out on the garden at the back of the house. The weather was damp and the late afternoon had a greyness about it that dulled everything. The shed, where many memories lay, still seemed threatening, even though her father was now six feet under and out of her life. She turned away and climbed to the top landing, where she stood outside her father's bedroom. She hesitated before the door. Strangely, she still expected to find him there, sitting up in his bed, his hair uncombed, his grey moustache concealing his upper lip. Opening the door slowly, she looked around the room. The bed was bare; all sheets, blankets and pillows given to The Salvation Army. All his clothes too had gone. Nothing was left, except the bed and the old mahogany tallboy. Moving further into the room, she sat on the bed. She closed her eyes and imagined herself a child again waiting for her father's return to his room for her punishment. Then came the latter years of tending to him as he became an invalid, all out of duty, not love. And what to show for it all? she asked herself. The Will had stated that she was left the house and all his money. But the conditions were strict. The house was hers to live in and own until her death, but she could not sell it. At her death the house was to go to her heirs, if she had any, or sold and the assets to go to The Salvation Army. The money she was left was sufficient to cover needs, but the capital must remain with the bank. She shook her head in her darkness. Still a prisoner in the house, as if his spirit wants me to tend to it still, she said, beneath her breath. Hearing footsteps behind her in the room, she froze. Has he returned to haunt me so soon? she mused darkly, too frightened to open her eyes. A hand lay on her shoulder, a voice breathed close to her ear. "All cleared up downstairs, Ivy, my dear,� Charlotte whispered. Ivy opened her eyes and looked up at friend standing beside her. "Thank you, Charlotte," Ivy said. She patted the bed and Charlotte sat next to her. She felt Charlotte's arm about her shoulders and remembered the last time they had been together, the day the undertakers had taken the body away. It was a strange memory, but still it lingered and warmed her. "This was his room," she sighed. "I hate this room. So many painful memories here," she added. "Why stay in here?� Charlotte asked, drawing Ivy closer to her. "I want to exorcize his evilness from this room," Ivy stated. She stared at the bed and headboard. "I want to desecrate all that he stood for," Ivy informed, coldly. Charlotte studied Ivy with deep understanding. She said nothing, but nodded her head. She turned Ivy's head towards her and gazed into the pale-blue eyes. She saw her twin reflection in both eyes like miniature portraits. Ivy closed her eyes and lay back on the bed. She wanted her father to see her here; wanted him to fume where he can do her no harm; wanted him to understand how he had harmed and pained her. The room gradually became dim as the March evening sky darkened. They lay like grey shadows on his bed, embraced naked in their sleep, and they exorcized the nightmares that haunted like cruel ghosts.
Copyright © 2000 Terry Collett |