It was assumed that the poor man was on the verge of breakdown. Heaven knows, he’d had a year of tribulations. There’d been the terrible car accident in which his good friend Miss Sinclair had died and his brother-in-law had been so tragically disabled; then his father-in-law had sickened and died; now his wife had upped and left him with that poor mite of a boy. If Father Hugh was cracking up, it was no wonder. Those broad shoulders had had much to bear and, there was no denying, he was no longer a young man.
His mother-in-law had opened her heart and home to Father Hugh and her grandson. The musical branch of the family had moved to a house in the next village and poor old Mrs Dunbar had been left alone with her grief in that big old house and garden, which were nothing but a burden to her in her seventieth year. She would surely have to sell up. What else could she do, with her arthritis getting worse every year and her only daughter gallivanting round London without a thought for her family?
Parishioners kept a watchful eye open for an estate agent’s board but none appeared. Builders did, however. Builders arrived and converted disused outbuildings into a self-contained unit, complete with shower and kitchenette. Plumbers installed showers and washbasins in the bedrooms and converted the scullery into another bathroom. The grand piano was taken away by a firm of specialist removers. Some said it was being moved to the other Dunbar household for young Mrs Dunbar’s use, but others pointed out that there was no room in that modest little house for a grand piano. When an upright was delivered a week later, it was assumed the grand had been sold.
While builders worked, Father Hugh (it was a long time before people in the village could bring themselves to address him simply as ‘Hugh’) renovated and repaired the greenhouses and cold-frames. He hired a rotavator and ploughed up the croquet lawn. (Some wondered whether poor Dora Dunbar would survive the shock.) Trees were lopped or felled, moribund shrubs and fruit bushes were grubbed up, manure and compost dug in. The old garden sat for the winter like a blank canvas, waiting for spring to sketch in the outline of a new scene. At Easter a large sign was erected at the front gate announcing Orchard Farm Garden & Nursery. There was another, smaller sign indicating that bed and breakfast (en suite) was also available.
Father Hugh’s erstwhile flock was pleased. They did their best to support the new venture, buying plants, donating propagating stock, telling friends and relatives about the guest-house and - with relish - the various sad stories attached to it. The renovated garden was featured in a gardening magazine, then as an item on local television. Hugh and Theo made a telegenic pair and the producer of the programme didn’t miss the opportunity to mention (against Hugh’s advice) that this was where the famous pianist Rory Dunbar had grown up.
Orchard Farm Nursery was not an immediate commercial success and wouldn’t be for some years yet, but Hugh’s bank manager was no longer sceptical. Gardening seemed to be enjoying a huge revival of interest, thanks to television programmes and a back-to-the-land move towards self-sufficiency and organic gardening. The business looked set to make a profit and everyone agreed it was a blessing that old Mrs Dunbar would now be able to stay in her home, to which end the dining room had been converted to create a downstairs bedroom for her, with a good view of the rose garden and the white border.
The old lady could be seen travelling round the village and patrolling her garden in her battery-driven cart. She offered advice to plant buyers and even learned how to operate the till. Widowed and estranged from her daughter, Dora Dunbar remained doggedly cheerful. She cherished her three grandchildren - especially poor motherless Theo - and told anyone who would listen that her son-in-law was nothing short of a marvel.
No one was inclined to disagree.
1977
‘Theo, hold that flashlight steady.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Yes, I know you are. You’re doing very well. Goodness knows what I’d do without you - my right-hand man.’ Hugh bent over the greenhouse bench and sprinkled the contents of a packet of seed into a tray of compost. He flicked the seed into position, spacing them carefully, then scattered more compost on top.
‘What are they?’
‘Nasturtiums.’
‘They’re orange and red, aren’t they?’
‘That’s right. And these have variegated leaves. That means mottled. Patterned with cream and green. They’re very pretty. That is if the blackfly don’t get them.’
‘Have we nearly finished?’
‘Nearly. Are you getting cold?’
No,’ Theo replied, shivering.
‘One more packet, then we really must call it a day. And you must get to bed.’
‘But there’s no school in the morning,’ Theo said, his fair brows raised, pleading.
‘No, I know, but a growing lad needs his sleep.’ Hugh looked down at Theo’s spindly legs, brown and colt-like in grubby shorts. ‘I swear you’re an inch taller this week than you were last.’
‘I’m going to be tall, aren’t I? Like you.’
‘Yes, I think you will be tall.’ Hugh smiled and in the dim light Theo couldn’t be sure of his expression. He thought he looked proud but somehow he also looked sad; except that Theo couldn’t see how a happy thing like a smile could look sad, But he’d noticed it was sometimes like that with grown-ups. They’d say one thing and look another. Uncle Rory would crack jokes about sad things like his hands, or Granny having to travel around in her cart, or even about Theo’s mother having gone off to London, ‘like Dick Whittington’. You couldn’t help but laugh at Uncle Rory’s jokes, even though he never did. Theo had asked him why and Rory had laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘I suppose it’s because all my jokes are serious.’ Theo thought about this for a long time afterwards. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he knew what Rory meant.
Hugh took a block of wood, shaped something like a rubber stamp, handed it to Theo and said, ‘There - tamp those down gently, like I showed you. Pass me the torch. Gentle but firm, that’s right. Do you want to sow this last packet?’ He handed it to Theo, then straightened up, his back aching from several hours spent bending over seed trays. They’d sown fifty today - annual bedding plants to sell in early summer. Nothing unusual or exotic, but the profit margin on such plants was large if you ignored the cost of labour, which Hugh did, the work being done entirely by him and Theo, with Dora and occasionally Rory lending a hand. Hugh shone the flashlight steadily at Theo, gilding his curly hair which, he noted, could do with a cut. He must remember to ask Grace if she’d oblige. He didn’t trust himself near the boy’s ears with a pair of sharp scissors and Dora’s hands were not very steady now. ‘We’re all getting older,’ thought Hugh, not unhappily.
Stupefied with tiredness, he stared vacantly at Theo’s hands as they worked. The nails were too long and very dirty - Hugh made another addition to his mental list of jobs - but Theo’s fingers were long and capable as they tore open the seed packet and moved across the tray, scattering seeds with the same confidence and precision Hugh so loved to observe when the boy played the piano.
Hugh thought of Rory briefly, then pushed the thought away, as he almost always did. ‘Give the trays a good watering. But keep the can moving so you don’t drown them.’ He laid his large hand over Theo’s, completely enclosing it, directing the can as it swayed over the seed trays. ‘That’s the idea. Good lad!’
Hugh’s mind was too tired to exercise his usual self-discipline and the thought of Rory returned. Their relationship had changed over the last few years. Hostility had gradually been replaced by warmth, even a reserved form of friendship. That friendship met most of Hugh’s needs for Rory’s conversation, his companionship, his physical presence. He knew he’d earned the younger man’s respect, possibly even his affection.
It was very nearly enough.
Just occasionally - it was happening less and less often now, Hugh observed - he yearned for more. He never stopped to ask himself what precisely it was he wanted. His years as a monk had taught him
that the clamorous demands of the body for food, comfort, sleep or the touch of another body would, if ignored, eventually fade away, like the cries of a hungry infant, fallen asleep in despair.
At the age of fifty-six, Hugh’s mind was far from despairing - he considered his life showered with blessings - but he took care to keep his body exhausted. His heart was full of love and a profound desire to serve the Dunbar family, especially Rory and Rory’s son. To wish for more would be quite unreasonable. But Hugh, being a reasonable man, knew it was also only human.
1980
Theo hadn’t been playing for more than a few minutes before Rory interrupted. ‘You’re playing beautifully.’
‘Thanks.’
Leaning forwards in his chair, his eyes and body alert, Rory said, ‘No, that’s bad. You’re doing what I used to do. Stop!’ Theo swivelled round on the piano stool, his expression puzzled. ‘You’ve got a big neon sign lit up above your head saying, Listen to me! I’m playing beautifully!’ Theo laughed at Rory’s smug expression. ‘Don’t tell me about you, tell me about the music. That’s much more interesting than you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Rory said sweetly. ‘So - what’s it about? The music?’
Theo thought for a moment. ‘It’s about—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Rory said abruptly, holding up his hand. ‘Not in words anyway. Tell me what it’s about with your playing.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do.’
‘Yes, I know, but you’re working too hard. Look, imagine this Beethoven chap just barged into the room and thrust a piece of music under your nose - he’d do that, he was a grumpy old sod by all accounts - and said, “Here, what do you think of this?” What would you do? You’d play it through, think about it, think about what he was trying to say. You’d enter into a kind of dialogue with him, with him and the music, wouldn’t you? Well, that’s what I want to hear. That dialogue. I don’t want to hear you play beautifully. Anyone can do that - it’s just a matter of killing yourself with practice. Save beautiful for Granny. She’ll swoon. Women do. I want to hear what old Ludwig is saying to you… and what you are saying to him. But not in words.’
Theo looked up at Rory from under his fringe, his wide blue eyes ironic. ‘Oh - is that all?’
‘Yes. That’s all.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he replied with exaggerated relief. ‘I thought for a minute you were going to ask me to do something difficult.’
Suppressing a smile, Rory sat back and listened to Theo play - quite differently. He wondered whether Ettie had ever had to tolerate such heavy sarcasm delivered so charmingly. He thought she probably had, but never from Theo.
When he’d finished playing, Theo turned to Rory. ‘Was that better?’
Rory spread his hands. ‘The neon light went out. Beethoven spoke.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, thank you. And thank Beethoven.’
When Rory arrived home he heard the sound of a piano as he approached the front door. This in itself was unusual. No one in his family played recorded piano music or played the piano for pleasure. Grace gave cello lessons but not piano. In any case, what Rory heard was someone who could play well. And yet… The sound was limping, odd, incomplete. He felt sure he knew the piece but couldn’t identify it. He turned the key, still listening to the music, closed the door quietly and approached the dining room. He stood by the open door watching Grace.
Even before he saw her he’d worked out what she was doing and why. He stood quite still, trying to control his anger. Grace sat at the piano, not in the centre but slightly to the right. Her left hand rested by her side but fidgeted occasionally, rising towards the keyboard, as if instinctively. Eventually she sat on her left hand and continued to play with her right.
Grace was playing the right hand part of a Chopin étude, the so-called Revolutionary. Rory realised with grim satisfaction that, to sugar the pill, she’d had the decency to choose a piece with a taxing left-hand part. Clever Grace! He leaned against the door-frame and folded his arms.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Grace swivelled round on the piano stool. ‘Oh, God, Rory - you made me jump! I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘You were engrossed in your new piece. Or is it our new piece? What’s the plan, Grace? One-handed duets, sitting side by side on the piano stool like Siamese twins, joined at the bloody hip?’
Grace was silent, defeated before she’d even begun. She said carefully, ‘If you can’t live without the music - and I don’t think you can - then play! Play it piecemeal, play it badly - but play, Rory!’
His soft laughter was mirthless. ‘The music doesn’t need you,’ he muttered. ‘It’s you who need the music.’
‘What?’
‘Something Ettie once said.’
‘It’s killing you not playing. And it’s killing me to watch you,’ she added quietly. He said nothing and she looked up at him, her dark eyes beseeching. ‘People are more important than music!’
He arched his brows. ‘Really? Yes, I suppose that is what the rest of the world thinks.’
He turned away and went upstairs. Grace heard a door slam.
Charlotte put her book down and lay on the bed, listening to the silence. Her mother had stopped practising the piano because her father had come home and shouted, as he so often did. Charlotte was fairly certain that if she went downstairs now she’d find Grace crying. She picked up The Wind in the Willows again and stared at the pages, but the mood was broken. How could you read a story about talking animals when your family was always yelling? Why couldn’t people just be nice to each other, like Ratty and Mole?
She got off the bed, went to the door, opened it quietly and listened.
Nothing. Sometimes, Charlotte thought, the silence was worse than the shouting.
She went and stood at the top of the stairs, keeping an eye on her parents’ bedroom door, but she knew Rory wouldn’t emerge for some time, possibly not for the rest of the day. Door-slamming like that meant he would be lying curled on the bed, staring out the window at the sky for the rest of the day, like some hunted animal gone to earth.
Overcome by sudden anger Charlotte stomped off down the stairs and went into the kitchen. She filled the kettle noisily, comforting herself with familiar, domestic sounds. Bracing herself, she put her head round the dining-room door.
‘Want a coffee?’
Grace looked up, red-eyed, and smiled. ‘Thanks, love. That’d be nice.’
Charlotte took a deep breath and said, ‘Don’t let him get you down. He’s not the only person in the world with problems.’
‘No, I know, but other people are able to handle theirs. Your dad doesn’t know how. Life hasn’t really equipped him to deal with… setbacks.’
‘Well, I don’t see how being nasty helps anything.’
‘It doesn’t. And he knows it doesn’t. And that makes everything worse, don’t you see? He ends up hating himself. Feeling useless. And pointless. I don’t think we have any idea how hard it is for him, even after all these years.’
‘And I don’t think,’ said Charlotte sternly, ‘that he has any idea how hard it is for us.’
1985
‘Anybody home?’
Charlotte stood in the cool, flag-stoned hall of Orchard Farm, her eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light. She closed the back door, walked into the scullery and called again. There was still no response so she wandered out into the garden. The sunlight dazzled after the gloom of the old house and she raised a hand to shade her eyes as she looked out across the lawn.
Dora was in her cart patrolling the flowerbeds, poking at the soil with a long-handled hoe, awkward but absorbed. Theo was working some way off at the back of the white border, his lanky figure half obscured by lush undergrowth. He was wearing a frayed straw hat and dungarees. He wore no shirt and his brown skin gleamed with sweat. Bending, he caught a bare arm on a rose bush
and swore; Dora looked up and laughed; Theo glared at her, said something and Dora laughed again. Charlotte found she was smiling even though she hadn’t heard the exchange that had passed between her relatives. Just the sight of Theo and her grandmother together made her feel better.
Being at Orchard Farm made Charlotte happy - irrationally happy. She supposed it was to do with all the memories, memories of her extended family rallying round to look after them at a critical time, a sense that there was always someone you could turn to: Gran or Uncle Hugh, or even just Theo. There was always someone around to make you feel better, whatever was wrong. Very often in those dark days after her father’s accident, Charlotte hadn’t known what was wrong, just that the music had stopped and so had her father’s speech. She’d been glad to hear voices, any voices. Dunbar conversation, then as now, had been reassuring.
Theo leaned on his fork, looked up and saw Charlotte. His face was shaded by his hat and she couldn’t read his expression. He thrust his fork into the ground and picked his way through the flowerbed. He walked across the lawn towards her and called out, ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning. You look like Huckleberry Finn.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’
‘What are you actually doing in that border? It looks like hard work.’
‘Clearing weeds. Gran’s instructions. Ours not to reason why… I’m just the rather inadequate brawn round here.’
Charlotte looked down at his slim brown arms and pointed. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘Ours but to do or die… Her bloody roses. Why can’t they breed them without thorns?’
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