The Old Silent

Abby was wearing her Wellingtons and a dark dress made of wool stuff and, this morning, a black shawl, as if there were no length to which she would not go to prove she was plain and grim.

Melrose observed them from the distance of the shadowy doorway, since Stranger had now been joined by a much larger dog, smooth-haired, about the size of a Scotch deer-hound, a hundred pounds, give or take. It slouched over to see if anything interesting was happening and stood there giving the impression that it wasn't any more eager to develop a more intimate relationship with this person than the border collie was. It annoyed Melrose that his championing the gray cat did not seem to admit him into the closed world of other animals. The cat itself was stretched out in a pool of cold sunlight and showed even less interest in his savior than did the dogs. They sat side-by-side, looking up at him.

He was not sure whether it was a barn or one of the old long houses that provided shelter for both people and animals. The roofbeams were high with heavy crucks and, at one end, three rows of loopholes that allowed for needed ventilation (given the somewhat pongy dung-smell coming from the other end) and on this brighter-than- ordinary morning tossed confettilike patterns of sunlight on the floor.

At the other end, off to his left, where Abby seemed to be ministering to a cow, was the byre with wood- framed slate boskins that partitioned off the animals: in this case, the pony and donkey he had seen earlier behind the barn.

What must have been the old threshing floor lay between doors on either side of the barn. The door across had been boarded up. Melrose stood on a large slate floor with small rugs strewn about to make it appear homey, he imagined.

In front of a stone fireplace were a makeshift table (an oblong board across two sawhorses), a heavy mahogany chair, and a high stool. He concluded this was the dining area, and the kitchen was beside it: here was a table covered with oilcloth on which lay a loaf of bread and some meat and cheese. Refrigeration was left to the window ledge, where a bottle of milk sat beside a square of butter on a plate. A kettle hung on an iron rod that swung into the fireplace.

Against the end wall to the right was a creaky-looking cot covered in a layer of quilts. Beside it was a crate piled with books and a lamp.

But what especially struck Melrose was the number of posters and prints decorating the walls-Dire Straits, Elvis Presley. The recent acquisition that Ethel had labored over was a poster of the rock group Sirocco. Indeed, it might have been that same glossy one lately in Malcolm's possession. It was tacked up beside a smaller scene of a Cornwall cliffside and beside that one… oh, hell, Venice. Venice floating in its unearthly way, distant across the water. Insubstantial as it was, it still looked more real than the Cornwall cliffs dashed with high plumed waves…

A very large and beautiful poster in a baroque frame that Melrose was certain was one of the Magritte 'empires of light' hung above the book crate. To see it in a barn-but then Abby Cable appeared to make her home in this place- was strange indeed. Strange as the picture itself. It showed a house with a lit window and a streetlamp glowing in darkness; yet above this was a clear blue sky with clouds. He had seen it before reproduced on cards.

Having been admitted, apparently, to this sanctuary, Melrose was not quite sure what to say, and so said words he would gladly have chewed up and swallowed once they were out of his mouth: 'Well! This is certainly a pleasant barn!'

Abby Cable turned upon him a look that might have been fashioned by the toilers at Stonehenge, a look that had come down through the ages by way of Antigone and Lady Macbeth, a look that had worn itself into the fabric of the world. A look that barely suffered fools to live. As if that weren't enough to stop a train, it had to be that deep blue that is often falsely, if poetically, attributed to Aegean seas and island skies.

'If you like barns,' she said. Then remembering apparently he had saved her cat, she said, 'That's Ethel.'

Ethel was much more forthcoming, probably because it allowed her to drop the odious paddle and come to have him look her over-her ruffled shirtwaist, her fancy ribbon. She smiled up at him and showed two missing teeth. 'We're having tea. You can have tea with us, can't he, Abby?' There was no response from Abby, who was busy trying to adjust the straps of the oat bag to the pony's head. Ethel adjusted the bow in her hair and seemed to provide the answer to her own question by announcing: 'I'm older than Abby.'

When no congratulations were forthcoming from Melrose, and no sign from Abby that she had heard, Ethel flounced over to the oil-cloth-covered table where the loaf of granary bread sat and continued cutting. 'That's my dog, over there.' Ethel pointed with the breadknife toward the big dog. 'It's not a plain sheepdog; it's a Kuvasz.' She emphasized the word carefully, looking at Melrose to see if mention of this marvelous breed would stir him. When it didn't appear to, she went on (by rote, he thought, as if the child had memorized a book): 'They were owned by the King of Babylon who made laws for them. That they couldn't be killed or bothered. Long, long before that the King of Summertime breeded them. My dog's Hungarian and his name is King.'

Abby Cable squinted in pain at this account of the dog's pedigree. 'I told you before there's no King of Summertime. There never was. And his name's Tim, not King. Tim's what it was when you got him.'

Melrose's smile reached from one to the other. 'It's rather delightful, though, you must admit. The King of Summertime.' When the Fury looked at him he realized he'd made a tactical error. 'But I do agree. I mean practically speaking I doubt there's such a person.' He wondered what it was, though, or who, that Ethel had confused with 'summertime.' A king of Sumeria? That must be it.

'I told you he wasn't that stupid,' said Abby, dragging the feed bucket over to the donkey.

Melrose didn't know whether to be flattered she'd apparently been telling Ethel about him or wonder just how stupid, if not that stupid, he seemed.

Ethel, mouth clamped in a narrow, angry little line, cut away at the cheese.

'It's just rough sandwiches,' said Abby. The tone was neutral. She came out of the stall and latched the door. When it shut Melrose saw that here was another poster. Each animal had its own favorite, apparently. He couldn't see the cow's, but the donkey's was an old Dylan poster and the pony's was that American singer who, he thought, had died. Ricky Nelson.

'Thank you very much, but as it's only a bit after ten, I don't think I could handle a sandwich. Certainly not after that huge breakfast your aunt gave me.' Since she had said nothing by way of encouragement here, Melrose added, as the kettle screeched, 'But a cup of tea would be very pleasant.'

While the pony made mushy noises, content with his bag of oats, Abby stood back from the stall, hands on hips, regarding either Ricky Nelson or the horse. Since her back was turned, Melrose couldn't tell which. Ricky, apparently, for she said, 'We have to take your poster down, Ethel.'

Knife in hand, Ethel whirled. 'It's my poster.'

'It's my barn.'

Ethel wailed, 'I love him.'

'It's too bad,' said Abby, firmly. Melrose thought he discerned an echo of the words that had been hurled at the vet's receptionist when she added, 'He's dead.'

Stranger sat up, sensing a confrontation.

'He's in heaven, then,' whined Ethel. 'He's singing up in heaven. And I can marry him when I get there.' Her high little voice trumpeted forth with the triumph of a Gabriel.

Matter-of-factly, Abby answered, 'Who says there's a heaven?' She squelched a bucket of feed over to the door and sat it down in readiness for the chicken yard.

So appalled Ethel must have been at this heretical statement that she could think of no response. She slapped two plates down on the cloth-covered sawhorse table, bouncing the bread and cheese, furious. Then she dragged over the wobbly stool, apparently meant for Melrose, and thumped it down at one end of the table.

Abby gave Ethel a pained look. 'That's too little for him. He can have my chair. I'll get the other one.'

Before she collected the chair, she stood upon it, reached in her pocket, and brought out some chewing gum. Holding back the top corner of the poster as she chewed, she then stuck the doughy stuff to the stone and pressed the corner of the poster in place.

Ethel, red-faced, stuck her tongue out at Abby's back and, when she heard the voices at the door, quickly tried to regain her princessy demeanor. He could see, though, that she was searching for a killing last word. 'Well, then you'll never find my hiding place. I was going to tell you-'

A lie. Even Melrose knew that.