House of Silence by Linda Gillard

stains on the white
emulsion, the roof had once leaked. The room was furnished with a
selection of pieces ranging over the last 150 years, all of them
ugly, some of them chipped and scratched. The floorboards were bare
apart from a few rag rugs faded to indeterminate hue and an Indian
dhurrie, which Gwen identified at once as Habitat c.1980, because
she’d grown up with it. There were two dormer windows, hung with
gaudy patchwork hangings in place of curtains, and an exuberant
hexagon quilt on the double bed.
    ‘Grandmother’s flower garden!’ Gwen
exclaimed, walking over to the bed and laying her hand reverently
on the quilt. ‘I love that old pattern! Oh, where did you
get that green? It’s very unusual. You can’t get greens like that
now.’
    ‘It was a summer dress of my grandmother’s.
From the 1930s.’
    ‘Thought so... These hexagons are quite
small, Hattie. And you’ve done it all by hand. It must have taken
you ages.’
    ‘ Years . There were times when I
thought I wouldn’t live long enough to finish it. Viv used to call
it Hattie’s Unfinished Symphony. But I did in the end. It’s
cheerful isn’t it? I like to have it on the bed in winter because
it reminds me of summer. Flowerbeds surrounded by lawn.’
    ‘I like your big quilting stitches. They’re
a design feature, aren’t they?’
    ‘It’s meant to look like rain coming down.
You know - like stair-rods.’
    ‘Oh yes! How clever.’
    ‘I can do very small quilting
stitches but I fancied a change. I called the quilt Summer
Showers . It won second prize in a local show.’
    ‘Congratulations. Did you make the curtains
too? I love them!’
    ‘They were going to be quilts for twin beds
but I got fed up and decided to make them into curtains
instead.’
    ‘Where do you keep your other quilts? You
must have more. I’d love to see them.’
    ‘My unfinished quilts - and all the old
ones, made by dead people - are in the trunk.’ She pointed to a
large leather trunk at the end of the bed. ‘I’ve put all my
finished quilts and my sewing things into the cupboard under the
eaves, apart from some hand quilting. I left that out to do in the
evenings. I like to have something to do with my hands, otherwise
I’m fidgety and get on everyone’s nerves. But I haven’t really got
time to sew at the moment. I’m supposed to be practising my piano
part.’
    Gwen folded back the hexagon quilt and
lifted her case up onto the bed. ‘Are you giving a recital?’
    ‘Well, not exactly a recital . We do a
little concert every Christmas Eve. It’s a family tradition now.
Alfie and I do Flanders and Swann and Tyler and I murder the
classics.’
    ‘Alfie sings ?’
    ‘Oh yes. Very well.’
    Gwen unzipped her case and carefully removed
some wrapped presents while Hattie watched, wide-eyed. ‘What
instrument does Tyler play?’
    ‘The cello. He’s very good.’
    ‘Do your sisters take part?’ Gwen shook out
some clothes and Hattie indicated a rail with coat-hangers.
    ‘Deb used to recite the odd poem, but she
hasn’t performed since Bryan left. We don’t ever mention him, by
the way. Well, we don’t, but Rae does. She can’t seem to get
it into her head that Bryan isn’t part of the family any more.
You’ll have to turn a blind eye - or rather a deaf ear - to Rae’s
ramblings.’
    ‘I gathered from Tyler that Rae has a
problem with names generally.’
    ‘Yes, she does. She probably won’t remember
yours but you mustn’t take any notice. Fanny makes things worse by
bringing a different man every year - well, almost. We long ago
gave up trying to get Rae to remember the name of the new
incumbent. She calls them all Henry because that’s what Fan’s first
husband was called.’
    ‘Oh dear. That must be awkward for Frances.
And her men friends.’
    ‘Oh no, they’re always very obliging once
the situation’s explained to them. Fan likes her men biddable, so
they answer to anything. She calls them all “darling”. I think
that’s