Nana Rose was teaching most of the following day and Lizzie and Emily’s mum went off shopping in Carlisle. It was raining and Lucille had a slight cold, so she decided to stay inside with Emily for the day hoping to get better. Sitting in the kitchen, the girls worked on the blog together.
Lucille noticed the shelf of photos and the old photo of the young man with his cello. ‘Is this your Great Uncle Leni?’ Lucille asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘He looks so young and is that the cello you are playing?’
‘Oh no, that’s the full-size one in the music room that Nana plays and the half-size one is the cello that she used to learn on when she was my age.’ Emily showed Lucille the original music notebook and she carefully looked at each page taking her time to read the music as best she could.
‘What is the tune you are playing?’ Lucille asked and Emily whistled it out loud and pointed it out in the book.
‘It is a pity the music ends, there’s actually more music written for the piano part but the cello part is mostly unfinished,’ Lucille said. Emily had a better understanding of how to read music notation now and could see what she meant. Lucille took a photo of the notebook and the music with its beautifully handwritten music notation.
Later that evening Emily played Nana her pieces and demonstrated how well she had progressed with her technique, exercises and scales. ‘Nana,’ she said, ‘Can you play the piece from the book and I will play along with my cello?’ Emily could play the first several bars of the distinctive melody and upon hearing this, Lucille came into the room.
‘Encore,’ she said and filmed the duet for her blog. Her Nana was very impressed with Emily’s progress. Emily said that her music teacher also had a cat and that she had the most amazing plants in the window of her music room. When they were watered, they smelled of lemons.
‘That must be lemon verbena plants. They grow tall and give out the most amazing aroma,’ Nana said, ‘my mother always had those plants in this house when we were children.’
‘That’s interesting. My grandfather loves the smell and has those plants in his house too,’ said Lucille.
The family more or less stayed in the house over the next few days due to the heavy rain that poured down most of the day. It did not really matter though because it was always cosy warm, especially in the sitting room which had a large fireplace and a big wooden chessboard which they took turns playing. Lucille showed off her cooking skills and made ‘tarte aux pommes’ or apple tart. After dinner, she would sit by the flames of the fire telling stories about her family and life in France. Babu curled up on the sofa next to her and kept her extra warm and snug.
When the last day came, the weather thankfully had improved, and the drive back was pleasant and restful. Nana had given Lucille a little box containing a pair of earrings as a little present to take home with her and the blog and video were mostly complete but for a few edits to complete on the journey home. The family all waved Lucille off at the airport as she met up with the rest of the French exchange group along with the other families. The girls promised to stay in touch. They had already agreed to meet in France the following year.
Chapter 8
The Grande Mosquée de Paris has a hidden jewel inside its doors. Escaping the busy crowds, it serves as a secret retreat away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Small glasses are filled to the brim with fresh mint tea that sit on the small silver trays with tiny pots of honey glistening in the sunlight. Birds flit about the small branches of the trees. Bertrand loved to spend whole afternoons just sitting in the gardens of the mosque. It was so tranquil for him and such a peaceful place.
Bertrand would often retrace his steps from where the bomb had hit many years before at the Metro at Porte de la Chapelle. He had lost his memory that fateful day and had been trying ever since to find out who he really was. He was told the exact location where it had happened, when he woke up in the hospital. The hospital staff explained that he had amnesia and since that time, he only ever remembered being in the hospital with no recollection of his life prior to that event.
In recent times, the doctor had advised that by possibly retracing his steps to the Metro, this could potentially trigger his memory recovery and life before the war. He would often be deep in thought, frustrated that his memory would not return and he could not recall his life before the bombing. He wished that he knew where he came from, what his real name was and who his family were and whether they were still alive. He did not show his feelings to his close family and the mystery surrounding who he was was something he tried to figure out on his own.
He took a long sip from the glass, which was cooling and refreshing, even though piping hot, and he dried his lips with his white handkerchief before putting it back into his pocket. He walked out from the mosque, into the street and hailed a taxi to be taken to the metro station at Porte de la Chapelle.
The yellow and brown autumnal leaves fluttered down before being swept up by the wind and circling down once more. The Metro was in sight and Bertrand looked fixedly towards the main sign trying to picture the angle in which he would have approached all those years ago. I wonder which direction I was coming from? he thought to himself and drew in a long breath of sharp air. Standing for some time, he looked at his old watch and remembered that he had better get back to the rail station. Happily, Bertrand had missed the rush hour, thus his journey was pleasant enough as he peered through the window of the train and looked out across the rooftops of Paris.
A week later, a phone call from his granddaughter saw Bertrand return to the city centre in Paris. He bought his usual mille-feuille pastry from his favourite bakery. It was a breezy day and the leaves swirled about the path. He met his granddaughter in the park. Taking her arm, they strolled along together.
‘Papa, what have you been up to?’ she asked, ‘I see you have been eating your favourite cake!’ she said wiping the cream from his cheek.
‘Oh, just walking and thinking, my usual past time,’ he replied. He had spent the summer at home in the house that he had shared with his late wife, Juliette. He had met Juliette shortly before the end of the war, and they had set up home outside of the city. He had assisted in the rebuilding of parts of Paris which had been devastated by the war. They had two grown-up children and he doted on his granddaughters. They walked arm in arm along the row of tall trees and beech hedges. Their scarves were placed high up to cover their mouths as the cool winds came in from the North. His granddaughter whistled a tune and merrily repeated it once again as they walked along avoiding small puddles in their stride.
They entered Le Petit Cadeau, a cosy restaurant that served hearty warm cuisine. They hung up their coats on the coat rail. They took a seat by the window and watched as a cellist began to play outside the main door of the restaurant.
‘I haven’t seen you in ages and you know how much I miss you.’ Bertrand took his granddaughter’s hand and held it tightly for a moment. He ordered French onion soup for two and they listened to the faint sounds of the music from outside. The soft red velvet cushions and clinking of glasses made for a pleasant atmosphere away from the chilly outdoors.
Bertrand’s wife had sadly passed away some five years back and meetings with his granddaughter were always special times. She reminded him of his beautiful wife with her long curly golden hair and bright smile. As they sat and chatted, they felt warm in the familiar restaurant.
‘Papa, I have made a film of my travels this summer. You know the girl that came to visit us? Well, I visited her and we had such a wonderful time!’
‘Where did you go?’ her grandfather asked.
‘Well, we were based in Norwich which is a lovely city with a big colourful market and lots of great shopping and a castle and cathedral. There’s the Norfolk Broads which is a man-made waterway in Norfolk where there’s lots of sailing and motorboats so we sketched some of the boats and I saw an otter and a seal. It’s a very picturesque place to visit. Lord Nelson, who le
d the Battle of Trafalgar, was from there.’
‘Ah, I see you know your history,’ he chuckled.
‘The second week of the holiday, we drove up to a place in Cumbria which was a long way from any shops and stood on a hill. Sadly, it was freezing outside, and I caught a bit of a cold but there was a cat named Babu and he cuddled into me to keep me warm!’ Bertrand smiled and ate his hearty soup, listening intently to every word. Looking out of the window he watched as a passer-by leant down and dropped some change into the cellist’s cap. ‘The young daughter played a cello just like that one. Have a look and see my photos.’ She passed her iPad to him and he looked through the photos one at a time.
‘Their Nana Rose never sat down for a moment; she was always on her feet! A busy bee’s work is never done! This is what she said!’
Her grandfather stopped for a moment, took the handkerchief from his pocket and daubed his mouth. He remembered someone saying that to him before. The thought was fleeting. He looked at the photos and stopped at a picture of a grand house and again a picture flashed into his mind of a piano as if he were sitting opposite it. His granddaughter excused herself and went to the bathroom, while Bertrand continued to look through the photographs.
When she ambled back she hummed a tune under her breath and stood for a moment looking out across at the cellist. Sitting back down she looked deeply into her grandfather’s eyes. Bertrand continued to whistle the tune quietly to himself and carried on although she had stopped.
‘I whistle this tune myself in my head sometimes and wish I knew what it was called.’
‘Oh yes that tune is what Emily, the sister of my pen friend played on her cello, I’m sure of it.’ Scrambling for the video she took, she played it to him and he watched and listened. Once again he whistled it back and continued to whistle the tune, as if completing the piece when the video clip had stopped playing.
‘Wait a second,’ she said and texted her friend. ‘I’m just finding out what that tune is.’
A response immediately came back saying, ‘I don’t know, I’ll have to ask Emily. Give me a second.’
Reading out the text, it said, ‘It was composed by Leni. In fact, it was written by my Great Uncle Leni before he died in the war. He never finished it completely but I love the tune!’
Another text was sent, ‘Why are you asking?’
All these texts were read aloud by Lucille.
‘Because my grandfather knows it.’
Their main course arrived and they both settled back to eating once again, putting the phone and the iPad down. Her grandfather looked deep in thought whilst eating and they sat in silence once again, listening to the cello music from outside. Wiping his mouth with a serviette, Bertrand again held his granddaughter’s wrists gently but firmly. Tears welled up in his eyes.
‘Lucille,’ he spoke quietly. ‘I believe that you may have discovered part of my past.’
Laying on the bed in Lizzie’s bedroom, Emily had been reading the texts that had been coming in from Lucille. She looked wide-eyed at her sister, Lizzie. ‘Because my grandfather knows it,’ she said repeatedly. ‘Why would he know it? How would he know the tune? No one knows it, do they?’ she went on, puzzled.
‘Oh Emily, I don’t know about you but I’m going out and I need to get ready.’
Lizzie stood up and started rifling through her wardrobe, frantically trying to find an outfit to wear for going out. ‘What about this one?’
Clearly finding a dress and the right shoes was going to take time, so Emily went back to her own room quietly slipping out of the door. She thought how strange it was that Lucille’s grandfather could know this tune but then again maybe he got confused and mixed it up with another tune he already knew. She gave it little more thought just before picking up her cello for a short practice before dinner.
Chapter 9
After saying goodbye to Lucille at the train station, Bertrand walked home and sat straight down at his writing table. His wife had had some manuscript paper somewhere in the house and he found it amongst a pile of old papers. It was getting late but he did not think of the time or the late hour, just the music that was his composition. He started to write the entire piece for piano and cello, taking his time and not making any mistakes. A number of hours later, he yawned and stopped to reflect on the work he had completed. He was only part way through completing the score and there were many hours to be spent composing the entire piece. Tired, he knew he needed to rest so he lay down to slumber. He closed his eyes and soon fell into a deep sleep and began to dream.
In his dream, he was running about a meadow full of summer flowers with bees and butterflies hovering above the grasses. His sister giggled as they ran towards the big old house and into the arms of their mother. In the kitchen, he sat across from his sister pulling faces whilst eating jelly before playing music in the music room with his sister at the piano. Blue and white hues of light flashed into the dream leading out from the music room into the hall. The music notebook fleetingly came into view and a photographer who took photos of him with his cello. With a mix of colours, the dream changed from his youth to military school, where he was older now and sitting at a long table with officers at each side. He was being instructed about plans and responsibilities before finding himself sitting in a train surrounded by soldiers as it trundled towards its destination. A mist seemed to follow him as a smoky haze was surrounding him. He walked alone along streets and gutters as the colours turned to grey.
Chapter 10
Emily’s cello teacher, Lotte, had two black cats, Bella and Mitsy, who curled around her ankles as she entered the house and purred as she waited in the adjoining room for her first cello lesson to start. Much like Nana Rose’s home, Lotte had other pupils who came to the house and Emily waited patiently next door listening to the music until it was time for her lesson. A young girl about Lizzie’s age was in the middle of her lesson playing Elgar’s Cello Concerto, stopping in places followed by unrecognisable chatting in between. The velvet curtains and dense smell from the wooden furniture made for a relaxing mood and the perfect place to curl up with a book, Emily thought.
Lotte was Dutch but had lived in Norwich for many years. She was medium height with long black hair, a beaming smile and kind eyes. Lotte greeted Emily warmly when they met and she led her through to the music room that was to become Emily’s weekly retreat for learning.
During that first cello lesson Lotte said, ‘What a beautiful cello,’ inspecting the cello closely and looking through to the sound board inside.
‘This belonged to my Nana when she was a little girl,’ Emily announced.
Lotte tried it out herself and played a beautiful tune on the instrument showing all her skill and making the cello come alive with the resonating sound that was produced. ‘Do show me what you have been playing,’ Lotte said, and so began Emily taking her bow and playing the little hornpipe she had been practising at home.
‘Your lessons will comprise of these technique books to develop your hand positions and intonation and we will use this G1-5 scale book, picking out pieces that you will be able to work through each week.’ Lotte played through Emily’s three chosen examination pieces from the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music (ABRSM) music books, all of differing genres and styles played on her own old cello. The small room echoed with sound. ‘Every December I hold a music evening where all my pupils play music together sharing the pieces by performing them in an evening concert. Please come and perform with us!’ Emily was so excited with the prospect of performing at a concert, especially the chance to be able to play alongside others. Emily so enjoyed her weekly lessons. Lotte’s Dutch accent pronounced words very interestingly with soft lilting sounds, she thought. Emily, was so inspired by her teacher and could hardly wait to show her Nana her progress during her next visit to Cumbria.
Emily’s routine was to practise for twenty-five minutes twice per day and when her father got home from work, he enjoyed listening to he
r playing most evenings. One day he popped his head into her bedroom and he asked if he could sit in the room to be able to watch her playing and she played all of her pieces to him.
‘Wow, I can see you are a natural at this! You are really improving! Your determination to play and develop your skills is very impressive, your mother and I are very proud of you!’
Bruce was a kind and hard-working man who often arrived home late from his work as an engineer. No matter how tiring his day had been, he always seemed to find enough time to listen to Emily practice or sit with Lizzie if she ever needed help with her homework before the girls went off to bed.
Chapter 11
The next morning Bertrand awoke very early with his mind still racing. He sat down after breakfast in his armchair with his music manuscript papers in his hands and closed his eyes to recount and place the flood of memories that were coming back to him.
‘My name is Leonard Peters,’ he declared out loud.
Leni started to speak whole sentences in English. He remembered learning the cello and teaching his little sister when she was old enough and tall enough to be able to play the smaller cello. The emotions of joy and amazement were mixed with anticipation and he needed to take his time to process the memories that were so rapidly coming back to him. He looked at the framed photo of his wife as he lifted it from the small table beside his desk. For all those years he had lived not knowing who he truly was and he so wished that his late wife was there to share the good news. He looked around at the dusty room and out towards the French doors. There was no time to waste.
He booked a train ticket to Cumbria via London and pulled out his suitcase ready to pack from the wardrobe. He carefully placed, between his clothes, framed photographs of his wife, his two children and grandchildren. He neatly lay the music manuscript papers upon his packed clothes and closed up the suitcase. By ten o’clock he was already sitting on the train. He kept muttering to himself under his breath as he pronounced words in varying dialects to himself. He smiled as he recalled even his old Cumbrian accent which was returning back to him very strongly.
The Cellist's Notebook Page 4