‘Was Aunt Ettie a good pianist?’
Rory hesitated, then shook his head, slowly.
‘She must have been a good teacher, though.’ Rory put his head on one side and looked a query. Embarrassed, Theo said, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean me - I meant you. You were the best! That’s what my dad said. And he loves music.’
Rory looked away. Theo thought he noticed a tremor in the scarred hand that held the manuscript book. Concerned, he looked up at Rory’s face and saw his lips part slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. A low buzzing sound seemed to issue from his mouth. Theo thought it sounded like the noise a trapped bumblebee makes as it beats against a window-pane. As the boy watched, Rory’s lips moved almost imperceptibly as he uttered two barely recognisable words.
‘Thank… you.’
Theo sat completely still. The tremor was now quite marked and had spread to both of Rory’s hands. Staring at them, Theo said softly, ‘Perhaps you can’t be both… I mean, perhaps if you were a really good pianist you wouldn’t be a good teacher. Imagine having to listen to all those boring scales and wrong notes. It’d drive you crazy, wouldn’t it? But Aunt Ettie, she never lost her temper with me. Not once.’
In the silence that followed, Theo heard the low sound again, this time like a hum.
‘N-nor me…’
The pencil and manuscript book fell to the floor and Rory swayed. Theo grabbed hold of both his father’s hands and cried, ‘Uncle Rory - you’re talking!’
Rory’s left hand clutched at Theo’s; his right lay motionless, crushed in his son’s grip.
‘Y- yes… I… am…’
1955
When he’d finished playing, Rory turned to Ettie, his face flushed with awkward pride. She regarded her former pupil, no longer a boy, not yet a man. Ettie wondered whether the time was ripe to say what she wanted to say, what Rory needed to hear. There was no doubt that his current teacher had brought out the best in him, had taken him to levels of technical proficiency quite beyond the scope of Ettie’s own teaching skills, but something was missing. Or rather, something was there that shouldn’t be.
‘That was excellent playing, Rory. Quite brilliant.’
His smile faded. ‘But…?’
‘There’s always a “but”, isn’t there? My dear, you must bear in mind I wouldn’t say what I’m about to say if I didn’t believe you were a fine pianist. A very fine pianist. This might be rather difficult for you to understand at the moment, but I’d like you to try to remember it. You will understand one day.’
Rory nodded, his expression serious and a little apprehensive.
‘You must always remember that you aren’t important. The music is what matters. You are simply the channel through which the music flows. If the audience is thinking what a wonderful player you are, then you have failed. They should be thinking about the music, what a genius Beethoven was, or Mozart, or whoever it is you are playing. Does that make any sense?’
Rory nodded his head slowly but couldn’t disguise a look of disappointment.
‘It’s very hard, I know, especially for a boy with your talent. But I’m afraid the music doesn’t need you, it’s you who need the music. Never forget what you owe the music and always treat it with respect. It has been lent to you for a while. For your lifetime. You don’t own it, so don’t play as if you do. Do you understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good! I thought you probably would. Remember: the music is much bigger than you, Rory. However good you get, it always will be.’
1975
When Hugh looked up from hoeing between the lettuces he saw Theo and Rory walking towards him along the path. He was astonished to see they were holding hands. Hugh didn’t recall ever seeing Rory touch Theo before. Indeed, he’d observed him go to considerable lengths to avoid physical contact with the boy, who was by nature tactile and affectionate.
Theo seemed to be leading Rory down the garden, tugging at his good hand. The boy suddenly let go and ran towards Hugh, waving and shouting.
‘Daddy! Uncle Rory’s started talking! He spoke to me!’ Theo launched himself at Hugh who dropped his hoe, caught him and lifted him easily into the air, settling him on one hip. Theo put his arms round Hugh’s neck, squeezed till he gasped, then exclaimed. ‘It’s a miracle! God sent us a miracle!’
Hugh loosened Theo’s grip round his neck and turned his head towards Rory who stood on the path, a few feet away.
‘Is this true?’
Rory looked at Hugh. His lips parted, then he nodded.
‘Speak! Speak!’ Theo shouted, bouncing up and down in Hugh’s arms. Rory raised his good hand towards Theo, gesturing silence. He bowed his head and appeared to be studying the cracks in the paving stones. His shoulders heaved and without looking up he murmured, ‘I’d… like… t-to teach… your son…’ His hands began to tremble again. ‘P-piano.’
Hugh was bereft of words. Unnerved by the long silence, Rory lifted his head slowly and saw Theo wiping tears from Hugh’s eyes. In a voice somewhere between a laugh and a sob Hugh said, ‘Welcome back, Rory!’
Tired now and unsteady on his feet, Rory stepped forward, raising both his arms. He put one round Theo’s neck, one round Hugh’s and, closing his eyes, laid his head on Hugh’s chest.
PART FOUR
Chapter 19
I never really forgave Rory for speaking to Theo and not me. I’d assumed if he ever spoke again it would be to me. I found it just as hard to forgive his enthusiastic resumption of marital relations. Tension fell away from Grace almost visibly and she regained the beatific smile that sometimes made me want to slap her. Once Rory started talking, Grace never confided in me again, except once to say that her period was late and she dreaded she might be pregnant, with another mouth to feed. Her fears were unfounded, but mine were confirmed. Rory was lost to me.
So at the age of thirty-three I decided I would make a new start.
I told Hugh, who’d resigned from the ministry and was working his notice, that I was leaving him and taking Theo. I said I intended to work to support myself but asked if he would send me money to help support Theo as I didn’t wish to be beholden to Rory, who in any case hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together. Hugh threw me by saying that he wanted Theo to continue to live with him and that he’d already spoken to Dora about possible living arrangements. (By now Grace had moved her family to a rented house near the girls’ public school where she taught music and Dora was faced once again with selling up.) Hugh said Dora had invited us to move in to Orchard Farm and to my astonishment I found he had tentative plans for a business venture there.
I told him there was no way I could face living at Orchard Farm, nor could I cope any longer with having a homosexual husband, let alone one who was in love with my brother. I told him he was welcome to raise Theo if that was what Theo himself wanted. The truth was I’d never known how I was going to start a new life as a single working mother, nor had I relished the thought of raising a son on my own - a son who was, in addition, the living image of Rory.
So Theo was allowed to choose. To give the poor boy his due, he had the grace to pretend to deliberate. Should he move to Orchard Farm with his indulgent Granny and his devoted ‘father’, where he’d have a large garden full of wildlife, familiar school friends and piano lessons with his hero-‘uncle’? Or should he move with his emotionally remote mother to a tiny flat in London, become a latch-key kid at a city school where his quiet, sensitive nature, angelic looks and Suffolk accent would single him out for the special attention of playground bullies?
Theo chose to stay with Hugh.
I didn’t even pretend to be hurt. I loved and respected Theo enough to be honest with him. (Well, partially honest. I never found ‘the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ a very manageable concept.) Hugh, Theo and I were all satisfied with the arrangement, but my mother told me if I deserted my husband and son, she’d never speak to me again. To be fair to her, I don’t think
she thought it was a threat she’d ever have to carry out. She underestimated me, or rather my desperation.
I was sorely tempted to tell her the truth about her son-in-law, her son and her favourite grandson, but Dora was sixty-eight. Archie was sinking, Rory had moved away again and she was facing a lonely and painfully arthritic old age. There was no point in a truth-telling session. The truth wouldn’t benefit anyone - least of all me - and it would cause any amount of pain to every family member, most of whom were innocent. Refusing to tell Dora some home truths about her family was one of my few unselfish acts. Hugh gave me his blessing and said he’d send me money whenever he could. Quite where he thought he was going to get it, I didn’t like to ask. As a fifty-four-year-old ex-priest, his employment options were limited.
I packed up my few personal possessions into cardboard boxes and my clothes into a large suitcase. I went to London because it was the only city I knew. I thought I’d be able to find work, possibly even friends, in a city. I was confident I’d never bump into Rory who I knew would avoid all his old haunts: concert halls and music studios, the pubs and wine bars where he used to meet his musician friends. I knew London was the last place I’d ever see Rory.
And so I escaped. Temporarily.
1984
‘Aunt Flora?’
Flora raised her eyes from her typing and peered over the top of her reading glasses at the young man standing in the doorway.
‘Sorry? Did you say something? I can’t hear a damn thing with this on.’ She removed an ear-piece and set it down on the desk beside her typewriter. ‘Can I help you? If you’re here to audition, you need to tick your name off the list and take a seat.’ She rose and handed him a clipboard and pen. ‘They’ll call you when they’re ready.’
The young man beamed at her, his large brown eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’
Flora removed her glasses and studied his face. ‘Should I? Are you famous?’
‘No, not yet! I’m not really surprised you don’t recognise me. I must have been nine the last time we met.’
Flora stared at him, frowning, then her mouth fell open. ‘Oh, my God - Colin?’ He laughed and nodded. ‘Colin! I don’t believe it. But - you’re huge!’
‘Well, not exactly. Bit of a short-arse in fact, but I suppose I was in short trousers the last time you saw me.’
‘With perpetually scabby knees, I seem to remember.’
‘That’s because I picked them.’
‘Spare me the details, please! Well, who would have thought such an objectionable little boy would have turned out so well? Just look at you…’
Colin laughed and pushed his heavy dark hair away from his eyes and off his forehead. It fell forward again immediately and it wasn’t until then that Flora noticed the resemblance between father and son. The same large eyes, but Colin’s were a lustrous brown; the same slim build and breadth of shoulder, but his hands, Flora noticed as she glanced downwards, were nothing like Rory’s. These hands were workmanlike, the fingernails clean but chewed. There was strength in these hands, but no poetry. She felt something like relief.
‘But - what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m auditioning.’
‘For the acting course?’
He pointed to the clipboard. ‘12.30. Colin Dunbar. That’s me.’
‘You want to act?’
‘Yes.’
Flora’s smile was mischievous. ‘Your parents must be absolutely livid.’
Colin laughed again and nodded. ‘Dead right. Mum’s not really speaking to me. Says I’m throwing away my education.’
‘I bet Rory tried to talk you out of it too.’
‘Yeah. How did you know?’
‘Oh, I know my brother. He doesn’t approve of drama. Never has. Thinks it’s a vastly inferior art to music. It was the great debate when we were teenagers: Music vs. Drama. Rory always won, of course, despite the fact that he doesn’t really believe in words. Doesn’t trust them. Sometimes I think I decided to become an actress just to spite him.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said. And you were held up as a shining example of how spectacularly unsuccessful I was likely to be—’ Colin’s face fell and he reddened. ‘Oh, hell! That wasn’t very tactful, was it? Sorry.’
‘My dear, don’t apologise! It’s all water under the bridge. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me now, least of all Rory. Life’s too short. But tell me - how on earth have you avoided becoming a musician with Grace and Rory for parents? That seems like quite an achievement.’
‘It wasn’t easy. Non-co-operation, basically. I refused to have any more piano lessons after Dad’s accident. I kept up the violin for another year or so but I hated it and I never practised. In the end they gave in and bought me a guitar as a sort of compromise and I taught myself. I’m pretty good! I write my own stuff and sing a bit.’
‘Do you? How wonderful! Well, don’t lose any sleep over disappointing your parents. They would never have been satisfied unless you’d gone to the Guildhall or the Royal Academy - neither place suitable for normal, healthy, young people if you ask me. But when did you decide you wanted to act?’
‘When I was thirteen. Uncle Hugh took Lottie, me and Theo to the theatre to see Romeo and Juliet.’ Colin spread his hands. ‘That was it. I thought, “That’s me. That’s what I want to do”.’
‘Good for you! And good for Hugh. Now there’s a man who knows the value of words.’
Colin glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Aunt Flora, would you mind if I sat down and looked through my speeches? It’s nearly time for my audition.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, you must. And I must do some work! Sit down and get yourself organised. They’re running late but the next person hasn’t turned up so you might be seen on time. Are you heading straight home afterwards?’
‘No, I was going to have some lunch, wander round a few record shops, then get the train home. Though I had wondered whether to get a ticket for a show tonight and catch a late train.’
‘McKellen’s playing Coriolanus at the National. It’s worth selling your soul to get a ticket.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Yes. But I’d go again like a shot.’
Colin’s eyes brightened. ‘Shall we? I don’t know the play - but you could tell me all about it. Oh, but I wasn’t thinking - you’ve probably got plans for the evening.’
‘My plans, such as they are, involve a tin of tomato soup, an early night and a good book. I think they could possibly be set aside for Mr McKellen and an evening with my nephew.’
‘Well, don’t feel you’ve got to do the long-lost aunt thing—’
‘I’ve no intention of doing the long-lost aunt thing,’ Flora snorted. ‘In fact, I think we should drop the whole auntie business. It makes me feel a hundred. Just call me Flo. All the students do.’ She took his arm and propelled him out of the office. ‘Now, go and prepare to meet thy doom. What are you giving them?’
‘Henry V and Alfred Dolittle.’
‘Splendid! Which Henry?’
‘Upon the King.’
‘Oh, excellent! They usually do Once more unto the bloody breach. Or sometimes that nasty speech before the gates of Harfleur. God knows why, it’s just a rant. Not much scope to show your range. But Upon the King is good. Subtle. An intelligent choice, they’ll like that. I hope you play it as an ordinary man, not a king. That’s the whole point. You mustn’t try to be regal. Henry’s just a normal human being under terrible stress… Oh, hark at me giving notes! Sorry, I do go on. Just ignore me.’
‘No, that’s really useful stuff! Thanks a lot. Do you actually teach here?’
Flora laughed. ‘No, I’m just the secretary and general dogsbody. I’m a sort of librarian-cum-curator for the archive. We have our own book and picture collection here and people come to do historical research. Go and sit down, we’ll talk later. Over lunch maybe. You’ll be needing a pint by then, I should think - oh, are you old
enough to drink? You look it.’
‘I’m seventeen. A few months younger than Theo, remember?’
Her smile wavered. ‘Oh yes, of course. How silly of me. I was forgetting… How is Theo? Do you ever see him?’ Without waiting for an answer Flora continued hurriedly. ‘I’ve lost touch. With all of them really. I’m the Black Sheep. You’ve probably heard all sorts of horror stories about me.’ Colin looked away, nonplussed. ‘Ah, I see you have! Don’t worry. Some of them are quite untrue. You’re perfectly safe with me. I don’t visit opium dens in my lunch hour. Well, only on Fridays.’
Colin was that rare and wonderful thing in a man - straight men, anyway - a good listener. As an actor I suppose he was happy to be a student of human nature. Sometimes when he was listening to me prattle on, I got the impression he wasn’t just listening but watching, taking notes, filing away my verbal and physical mannerisms for future use. He was a superb mimic, a result no doubt of his eye and ear for detail.
Colin was only ever moderately successful as an actor and in his “resting” periods he filled the time by writing plays and film scripts. After I finished with him, he became depressed and started drinking, but out of all the mess he managed to salvage a novel, the protagonist a thinly-disguised version of me. He found a publisher, the book was successful and was eventually made into a film.
I didn’t hear any of all this first-hand. By then I’d lost touch with everybody - our friends, my family. I was in the wilderness. But I saw the occasional snippet about Colin in the newspapers I used to pick up. I once saw a photo of him on the gossip page of the Daily Mail. He looked very handsome in a DJ, escorting a glamorous older woman to a film première. I thought she looked a bit like me.
I tore the photo out and kept it. For old times’ sake.
1999
‘Dad - I’ve seen her.’
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