Ellie and the Harpmaker Read online

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Hazel Prior

  Readers Guide copyright © 2019 by Hazel Prior

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  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Prior, Hazel, author.

  Title: Ellie and the harpmaker / Hazel Prior.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018041996 | ISBN 9781984803788 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984803795 (ebook)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6116.R59 E44 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018041996

  First published in the UK by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a division of Penguin Random House UK

  First Berkley Edition: August 2019

  Jacket design by Jo Thomson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To my dear parents, who loved music, the countryside and fun

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  A thought:

  Some things are easier to hide than others.

  A fact:

  Harps come under the “others” category. So do small boys.

  A quote from Shakespeare:

  If music be the food of love, play on.

  | 1 |

  Dan

  A woman came to the barn today. Her hair was the color of walnut wood. Her eyes were the color of bracken in October. Her socks were the color of cherries, which was noticeable because all the rest of her clothes were sad colors. She carried an enormous shoulder bag, canvas. It had a big buckle (square), but it was hanging open. The woman’s mouth was open too. She was shifting from one foot to the other by the door so I told her to come in. The words came out a bit mangled due to the fact that I was wearing my mask. She asked what I’d said, so I took it off and also took off my earmuffs and I said it again. She came in. Her socks were very red indeed. So was her face.

  “I’m sorry to be so rude, but I’m gobsmacked.” She did look it, to be honest. “Did you . . . you didn’t, did you . . . make all these?”

  I told her yes.

  “Wow! I just can’t believe it!” she said, looking round.

  I asked her why not.

  “Well, it’s not exactly what you expect to find in the middle of nowhere! I’ve been past the end of your lane so many times and I just had no idea that all this was here!”

  I put my earmuffs and mask on the workbench and informed her that indeed, all this was here. Perhaps I should have pointed out as well that this is not the middle of nowhere. Not at all. Exmoor is the most somewhere place that I know and my workshop is an extremely somewhere part of it. I did not say this, though. It would have been rude to contradict her.

  Morning light was pouring in on us from the three windows. It outlined the sloping rafters. It floodlit the curls of wood shavings. It silvered the edges of the curves and arcs all around us and made strung shadows on the floor.

  The woman was shaking her head so that the walnut-colored hair bounced around her face. “How lovely! They’re beautiful, so beautiful! It is like a scene from a fairy tale. And how strange that I’ve stumbled across this place today of all days!”

  Today is Saturday, September 9, 2017. Is that a particularly strange day to stumble across a Harp Barn? I smiled politely. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to ask why it was strange. Lots of people find things strange that I don’t find strange at all, and lots of people don’t find strange the things that I find very strange indeed.

  The woman kept looking at me and then gazing around the barn and then back at me again. Then she pulled on the strap of her canvas bag to rearrange it in a different way over her shoulder and said: “Do you mind my asking, have you been here long?”

  I informed her that I’d been here for one hour and forty-three minutes. Before that I was out in the woods, having my walk. She smiled and said: “No, I mean, have you had this place a long time? As a workshop?”

  I told her I came here when I was ten years old and I was now thirty-three years old, so that meant (I explained in case her math was not very good) that I’d been here for twenty-three years.

  “No! I just can’t believe it!” she said again. She seemed to have a problem believing things. She shook her head slowly. “I think I must be in a dream.”

  I offered to pinch her.

  She laughed. Her laugh was interesting: explosive and a little bit snorty.

  The next thing that happened was I went across and shook her hand because that is what you are supposed to do. You are not supposed to do pinching. I knew that really. “My name is Dan Hollis, the Exmoor Harpmak
er,” I said.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ellie Jacobs, the Exmoor . . . housewife.”

  “Housewife” does not mean you are married to a house. It means you are a woman who is married to a husband and your husband goes off to work every day and you don’t go off to work at all but embark on house dusting, house hoovering and various ironing and washing duties and other things that happen in a house, and in fact you aren’t really expected to go out of the house at all except to get yourself to a supermarket and then you go up and down the aisles with a trolley and a list looking sad. What a lot of things are embedded in that housewife word.

  “It’s funny,” she mused, her eyes wandering around the barn again. “Harp playing was on my list.”

  I asked if she meant her shopping list.

  She paused and looked at me with arched eyebrows. “No, my before-forty list. Lots of people have them, apparently. You know—the list of things to do before you reach the age of forty. Like swimming with dolphins and seeing the Great Wall of China.”

  I asked if she had swum with dolphins and she said no. I asked if she had seen the Great Wall of China and she said no. Then she added that she had a few years to go yet. I asked her how many, but she didn’t answer. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her that. There are lots of things you are not supposed to ask, and I fear that might be one of them. So I changed my question and asked her what would happen if she didn’t manage to swim with dolphins or see the Great Wall of China or play the harp before she reached the age of forty. She said, “Nothing.”

  We were silent for a bit.

  “It smells lovely in here,” she commented finally. “I love the smell of wood.”

  I was glad she had noticed it because most people don’t, and I was glad that she appreciated it because most people don’t. Then she gestured toward the harps. “They’re utterly exquisite,” she said. “Will you tell me something about them?”

  I told her yes. I informed her that they are Celtic-style traditional harps and they would have been fairly widespread in Britain during the Middle Ages, especially in the north and west. I told her I had carved the Elfin from my own design out of the sycamore tree that had fallen by the brook four years ago. I mentioned that I had made the Sylvan from ancient beech and the Linnet from rosewood. I showed her the drawers of strings and explained about the red ones being Cs, the black ones being Fs and the white ones being As, Bs, Ds, Es and Gs. I told her about each one being a different thickness and the importance of tension. I showed her the holes in the back and how they were anchored inside. I explained the use of the levers for sharpening the note. I told her about the pebbles. I gave her a couple of pieces of wood so that she could hold them and compare the weight. I expanded on the different resonances of different woods.

  Then I realized that I had not asked very much about her, so I stopped telling her things and I asked the following eight questions: How are you? Do you have any pets? What is in your enormous shoulder bag? What is your favorite color? What is your favorite tree? Where do you live? Do you enjoy being the Exmoor Housewife? Would you like a sandwich?

  She answered me the following answers: fine, thank you; no; a big camera and a notepad and a thermos with soup; red; birch; about five miles southwest of here; um; that would be very nice.

  I made twelve sandwiches using six slices of bread and substantial quantities of cream cheese. I cut them into triangles because I reckoned she was a lady.

  I’ve noticed that the act of cutting always helps me think. I do some good thinking when I cut up wood to make harps too. That might have been why, over the triangles of the sandwiches, I came to a decision.

  | 2 |

  Ellie

  “He gave you one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, pretty much.”

  Clive lowered the motoring magazine and transferred his full attention to my face. His eyebrows drew together and two deep vertical creases appeared between them.

  “I presume you’re having me on?”

  “No,” I said, and added a “Not” to underline it.

  “So he offered, and you just took it?”

  “Well, it was . . . it was hard to say no.”

  This was going to be tricky. I couldn’t explain it to myself, let alone offer an explanation to anyone else. Which was why I’d been driving around Exmoor for the last half hour—with frequent stops to look in the back of the car and check that it was true—before I finally headed homeward.

  Our nice but nosy neighbor Pauline was out in her garden, so I had gone straight in. I had launched myself into the kitchen. I’d swept a brief kiss into my husband’s receding hairline. I’d sought out the kettle, filled it to the brim, spurted myself with water in the process and abandoned it. Then I’d blurted out a tangle of sentences that sounded frothy and ridiculous. I’d blushed, become aware of it, and blushed some more. Now I stood limply grinning by the fridge.

  Clive closed the magazine and tugged at the neck of his sweatshirt. “Sorry, El, but I have to ask: Exactly how long have you known this man?”

  My mind traveled back to the strange encounter of earlier: the huge open door of the barn that had enticed me in, the warm scent of wood, the light falling on the myriad harps, and there, in the center of them all, the lone figure. There had been some sort of tool in his hand, but already my memory was playing tricks on me and I couldn’t say what it was. He had initially appeared to be an alien. His lower face was covered by some sort of blue mask and he was wearing earmuffs, presumably protection from sawdust and machinery noise. But the minute he’d taken them off, I was struck by the beauty of the man. He was tall and sinewy with dark, disheveled hair. Although his skin looked weather-beaten, there was a strange translucent quality about it. His face was classically sculpted, as if a great deal of thought had gone into every line and curve. But it was his huge, dark eyes that really claimed my curiosity. I’d never seen eyes like that before.

  “I only met him the first time this morning.”

  Clive was as nonplussed as I’d been an hour earlier. He leaned forward, his expression wavering between amusement and disbelief. “I don’t get it.”

  I laughed manically. Explanations swam round in my head, but not one of them was managing to formulate itself into words.

  Clive was clearly preparing to escort me to the nearest asylum.

  “Come and look,” I tried. Once he saw it, surely he would be as enthusiastic as I was?

  I led him outside into the bright chill of the September air. Pauline, I gratefully noticed, had disappeared. The car was still unlocked. I flung open the rear door. Clive’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  “Ah!” I cried in a voice that was half irony, half relief. “So I wasn’t hallucinating!”

  It’s a good thing we have a hatchback and seats that go down. I stood back to allow my husband a thorough examination.

  The harp was carved out of red-gold wood (cherry, Dan had told me, to go with my socks). It had a lovely soft sheen and there was a marbled swirl in the graining at the joint where it would rest against my shoulder. A light Celtic pattern was carved along the sweep of the neck, and embedded in the wood at the crest was a shiny blue-black pebble. Apparently Dan always puts an Exmoor pebble into his harps. Each pebble is carefully chosen to complement the style and character of the instrument. This harp—my harp—was a lovely size, just as high as my waistline when it was standing. Now it was lying on one side, nestled cozily on the tartan rug in the back of the car.

  Clive knocked at the wood of the soundboard with his knuckles as if to check it was real. “But this is quality craftsmanship!”

  “I know,” I said, smug now, almost proud of Dan. “He’s been making them all his life.”

  “This would cost—what—two thousand pounds? Three? More, even, if it’s all handmade. Look at the carving al
ong the top.”

  “The neck. It’s called the neck. Apparently.”

  Clive was scrutinizing as only Clive can scrutinize. “It’s—well, I have to say it’s pretty cool! But, honeybun, there’s no way you can keep it. You do know that, don’t you?”

  The voice of logic. It came hurtling through my haze of surreal, heady joy, and it stung. “Of course I do,” I mumbled.

  Clive straightened and shook his head. “The guy must be insane.”

  I sprang to his defense. “He’s definitely not insane. But he’s a little . . . unusual.”

  “That’s a cert! What could have possessed him? A woman he doesn’t know from Adam comes waltzing into his workshop one day and, on the spur of the moment, he decides to give her—to give her—nothing less than a harp. A handmade harp that took him God knows how long to construct. Sell, fair enough, I could understand sell, but give? Even the materials must have set him back a bit. Come on, hon, get real! You must have misunderstood. He must have meant you to pay.”

  “No, he didn’t. He made that quite clear.”

  Clive frowned, unable to comprehend such a concept. “Well then, I guess he gave it to you to try out, hoping for a sale, and you completely got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “I didn’t! Look, I told him about fifteen times I couldn’t possibly accept it. He just didn’t get it. He kept asking why not—and he was so . . . I don’t know, so open, so well-meaning, that I felt stupid and couldn’t think of an answer. Then he said, ‘Don’t you like the harp?’ He sounded really hurt.”

  “He sounded hurt? El, I think you’re pushing it a bit.”

  “No, I swear it’s true! And then he started pacing through the barn, hunting for another, better one to give me! So I had to tell him it was a lovely harp. I had to tell him I loved the harp. And it’s true. How could I not? But I said again and again I’d never be able to play it and it would be wasted on me, and I kept on protesting.” I leaned over and gazed lovingly at my gift. “While I was protesting he just carried it to the car and put it in.”

  My mind leaped back again. I had felt so touched by the man’s extraordinary gesture. I had not been able to resist plucking a few strings, as the harp lay there on its side in my car. I did it badly, of course, never having done such a thing in my life before, but the sound was rich, wild and resonant. It had a strange effect, like a shower of golden sparks soaring inside me.