Smaill - The chimes

Anna Smaill was born in Auckland in 1979. A classically trained

violinist, she is the author of one book of poetry ( The Violinist in

Spring , VUP 2005) and her poems have been published and

anthologised in New Zealand and the United Kingdom. She has

lived and worked in both Tokyo and London, and now lives in

New Zealand with her husband, novelist Carl Shuker, and their

daughter.

The Chimes

Anna Smaill

www.sceptrebooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Sceptre

An Imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright 2015 Anna Smaill

The right of Anna Smaill to be identified as the Author of the Work

has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 9781444794519

Hardback ISBN 9781444794526

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.sceptrebooks.co.uk

For my parents

Then music, the mosaic of the air,

Did of all these a solemn noise prepare:

With which she gained the empire of the ear,

Including all between the earth and sphere.

Andrew Marvell

Contents

The Arrival in London

Burberry

Ive been standing here forever. My arms and legs and head and even my bones are heavy with sleep. Clothes heavy with the rain that wont stop falling. Shoes heavy with mud. My roughcloth bag is slung over my shoulder and it jostles against my leg as I shift from side to side to keep warm. Its heavy too, weighted with objectmemories. The ones Ive decided to take.

Deep in the drilled-in mud of the fields behind me, our bulbs are wrapped in their brittle skins with their messages of colour stored inside. Blue iris, yellow crocus, tulips of all colours. I wont be here to see them open. Longcup, double trompet. Daffs with the flowers in papery bunches and their smell of pepper like the air as it is just before Chimes.

Along the horizon, the fields are lines of grey that get darker as they reach the sky. I stare at them hard to make a picture I can take, but its only objectmemories you can trust in the end. And Im carrying those in the bag already. You cant force them to flower either. Like bulbs, they show their secrets in their own time.

A trader rides past. A handful of farmworkers cross the fields to the neighbouring farm. A swagman sings the there-and-back of his days journey, a song whose cadence closes at our village square. All journeymen, lighting their way through near distance with a days tune. Most people wont venture further than a day tarry longer from home, and the memories kept there, and risk losing the melody back.

At last a horse and cart come to a stop. Whoa, says the carter and the horse blows steam. The cart is covered in a big tarp, and the carter sits up front and says nothing, just jerks his head to show get up. He waits there while the horse stamps.

When Im sat in the back with the wool bales, he takes an old burberry from his shoulders and passes it. Im wet through. I gather the burberry over my shoulders, and to save speech I sign the solfege for thank you. He shrugs to say its nothing. Then he shrugs two more times, not from choice, I realise, but because his muscles are dancing. I look away from that. The stink of woolfat is strong and I bury my nose in the sleeves of the burberry.

How far are you headed? he asks.

Into the city, I say. Or close as youre bound.

You going in to be prentissed?

I shake my head. Im going in to trade.

He studies my farmclothes and my single roughcloth bag and is tacet awhile. And a ride back? he says. Youll be looking for one, I suppose?

I meet his look and theres nothing in my eyes. I dont need a ride back. I have a name and a song to find, a thread to follow. But its not something to share. With my gaze I dare him to ask again, but he turns to the front and hitches the reins. We go forward and the carts bumping goes through me.

Im bound for Leadenhall. I can set you down where you want. But take my advice and get prentissed soon as you can. Instrument makers are always on the lookout for young fingers. He flexes his own hands, cracks his knuckles. His head jerks rough again on his neck. Dont wait too long, he says.

I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Around one toll after Sext we set down in Romford, where the carter buys lunch of cheese, bread, dried blood sausages. He spears one, passes it to me. I eat presto, like I dont remember my last meal. Then we are back on the A-road, straight as a viol string stretched under the sky. The further we go, the wider the road and the thicker the knots of people. And with each step closer the citys music grows.

At first its just the shouts and calls of song from traders. Then there are driving bursts of melody from highboy, viol, clarionet. We trot in past blankfaced buildings with hollow windows and buckled mettle and narrow cobbled streets. Music spills from the living quarters above shops, spins up from groups of musicians standing in door frames. Trompets send out brassy martial calls along the roof turrets. Viols speak with voices high and yearning and full of ache like human song. And under it all is the hard horsehoof beat of tambors. It grows and grows in a vast crescendo.

The carter looks at me with my mouth hanging open. I am gobsmacked. My face is up and ears peeled in what? Joy? Amazement? I know I have been to London for trade before. I had forgotten this.

The whole city is talking in music.

We move through the crowded streets. I turn side to side as if I could hear it all, but the melodies move presto and the meanings slip past. At home those four notes strung together mean one thing, but here the tunes words play a kind of trick on the meaning, pull against the notes so it says something else altogether.

After a while my ear begins to hold the tunes in my head long enough to unpick them. The official conversations are loudest roll calls for choir and orkestra rehearsals, poliss warnings, the announcement of a funeral mass. Below those are striding public conversations calls for new prentisses, invites to buy food or beer. Then threading through narrow and low are the in-between melodies. The songs people sing piano to their loved ones, calling to their minds the good things of home and reminding them of the streets to take to get there. A womans voice makes me lift my head. Its a song for a child, a simple lilted lullaby, and the sweetness of it hits me hard and for a while I cant move. I see the carter look at me again as I sit there with my face raised and eyes wet, and I shrug the burberry up, turn away.

And thats when I hear something else. Deep under the soundfabric of the city, somewhere to the south a voice of silver announcing itself. Like a hole of silence down there, a rip in the hubbub. I do not understand what it means. And voice is not the right word, either, as voice is sound. What I hear is the absence of sound, its opposite. The carter does not remark it, though, so I do not ask.