The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  I thought of Pa’s letter to me then, and wondered whether he had simply wanted me to read the story of how Peer Gynt came to be in order to encourage a rebirth of my love for music. As if he’d known I might need it . . .

  And yes, playing at Theo’s memorial service had comforted me. Even the time it had taken practising the piece had been a few welcome hours of release from thinking about him. And since then, I’d taken my flute out and played for pleasure. Or, more accurately, to salve the pain.

  The question was whether this connection went deeper and a blood tie existed between Anna and Jens, and me. Stretching like a fragile silk thread across one hundred and thirty years . . .

  Could Pa Salt have known either Jens or Anna when he was much younger? I pondered. As Pa had been in his eighties when he’d died, I supposed there was a possibility, depending on when Jens and Anna had died themselves. Which, irritatingly, were facts I did not currently have at my disposal.

  My ruminations were interrupted by the piercing trill of the house telephone. Knowing that Celia’s ancient answering machine was broken and that the phone would therefore ring incessantly, I left the bedroom and ran downstairs to the hall to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Uh, hi, is Celia at home?’

  ‘Not at present, no,’ I answered, recognising the male voice with its American accent. ‘This is Ally. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Well, hello there, Ally. It’s Peter here, Theo’s dad. How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I answered automatically. ‘Celia should be back around supper time tonight.’

  ‘Too late for me, unfortunately. I was just calling to let her know I’m leaving this evening to fly back to the States. Felt I should speak to her before I did.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell her you called, Peter.’

  ‘Thanks.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘Ally, are you busy right now?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then can we meet before I leave for the airport? I’m staying at the Dorchester; I could buy you afternoon tea. It’s only a fifteen-minute cab ride from Celia’s house.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed reluctantly.

  ‘Shall we say three in the Promenade? I have to leave for Heathrow at four.’

  ‘See you then, Peter,’ I said as I put the receiver down and wondered what on earth I had with me to wear to take tea at the Dorchester hotel.

  When I walked into the hotel an hour later, I felt strangely guilty, as if I was betraying Celia. But Pa Salt had always brought me up never to judge anyone on hearsay. And Peter was Theo’s father, so I had to give him a chance.

  ‘Hi there, young lady,’ he called, waving to me from a table in the opulent marble-pillared room that led off the lobby. He rose to greet me as I walked over and he shook my hand with a warm, firm grip. ‘Please, sit down. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so as we’re tight for time, I took the liberty of ordering the full works.’

  He gestured to the low table, which held china platters of precision-cut finger sandwiches and a tiered cake stand filled with delicate French pastries and scones, accompanied by little bowls of jam and clotted cream. ‘There’s gallons of tea too, of course. Wow, the English love their tea!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, not feeling remotely hungry as I took a seat on the banquette opposite him. An immaculate white-gloved waiter immediately stepped forward to pour me a cup of tea, and as he did so, I studied Theo’s father properly. He had dark eyes, pale skin that was hardly lined with age – given that he was probably in his early sixties – and a muscular frame beneath his casual but expensively tailored navy-blue blazer. I could see that he dyed his hair from the unnaturally matt-brown colour and I’d just decided Theo didn’t resemble his father at all when Peter smiled at me. The lopsided set of his mouth was so like his son’s, it made me catch my breath.

  ‘So, Ally, how’s it all going?’ he asked me as the waiter glided away. ‘Are you coping?’

  ‘I have good moments and bad, I suppose. How about you?’

  ‘If you want the truth, Ally, I’m not coping well at all. This has really knocked me sideways. I keep remembering Theo as a baby and what a cute little kid he was. It’s just not the right order of things to have a child die before you, you know?’

  ‘I do,’ I sympathised, curious about this man who had been so negatively described by Celia and Theo. I could see he was trying to hold it together, but I felt his pain. It shone out of him, like a palpable presence.

  ‘How’s Celia dealing with it?’ he asked.

  ‘The same as all of us – with terrible difficulty. She’s been wonderfully kind to me.’

  ‘Maybe it’s been therapeutic to have someone else to care for. I wish I did.’

  ‘I should tell you,’ I said as I took a smoked salmon sandwich and nibbled at it, ‘that Celia told me she would have invited you to come and sit with her at the front of the church if she’d known you were there.’

  ‘Really?’ Peter’s expression brightened a little. ‘That’s real good to know, Ally. Maybe I should have let her know I was coming, but I knew how grief-stricken she’d be and I didn’t want to upset her further. You might already have guessed that I’m not exactly top of her Christmas card list.’

  ‘Perhaps she finds it hard to forgive you for . . . you know . . . what you did to her.’

  ‘Well now, young lady, as I said to you that day after the memorial service, there’s always another side to a story, but we won’t go there just now. And yes, I take an extra-large share of the blame, by the way. Between you and me, I still love Celia,’ Peter sighed. ‘I love her so goddam much, it’s a physical pain. I know I let her down and did bad stuff, but we were married young, and in retrospect, I should have sowed my wild oats before and not during the marriage. Celia . . . well,’ Peter said with a shrug, ‘she was a real “lady” in that way, if you get my drift. We were simply opposites in that department. Anyway, I’ve sure learnt my lesson.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, not wanting to pursue that line of explanation any further. ‘Actually, I think she still loves you too.’

  ‘Really?’ Peter raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘Now that sure wasn’t what I was expecting to hear from you.’

  ‘No, probably not, but it’s just in her eyes when she talks about you, even when she’s saying something negative. Your son said to me once that there was a very thin line between love and hate.’

  ‘Trust him to point it out – that’s the kind of sussed, emotionally intelligent young man he was. I wish I had half of his understanding of human nature,’ Peter sighed. ‘He certainly didn’t get it from me.’

  I realised that I’d probably waded in far too deep, but as I was already up to my neck, I decided I might as well go with it. ‘You know, I think Theo would have loved the thought of his parents meeting and maybe reconciling the past. If that was the only good thing to come out of this tragedy, at least it would be something.’

  Peter stared at me as I sipped my tea. ‘I think I can totally understand why my boy loved you so much. You’re special, Ally. Although, however good your intentions are, I don’t believe in miracles any more.’

  ‘I do. Yes, I do,’ I repeated. ‘Even if Theo and I only had a few weeks together, he changed my life. It is a miracle that we met and fitted together so perfectly, and I know that even with all the pain, he’s made me a better person.’ It was my turn to tear up, and Peter reached across the table and patted my hand.

  ‘Well, Ally, I sure do admire you. Trying to find the positive out of a negative. A long time ago, that’s how I used to be.’

  ‘Surely you can be like that again?’

  ‘I think it all got knocked out of me during the divorce. Anyway, tell me about your plans for the future. Did my son leave you provided for?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He actually changed his will before the race. I have his Sunseeker and an old barn on Anafi, near your lovely house. To be h
onest, even though I loved Theo to bits, I’m not sure I can see myself going to “Somewhere”, as we called Anafi, and fighting the Greek authorities to build the house of his dreams.’

  ‘He left you that crazy goat barn?’ Peter threw back his head and laughed. ‘Just for the record, I offered to buy Theo his own place on numerous occasions, but he always flat out refused.’

  ‘Pride,’ I said with a shrug.

  ‘Or stupidity,’ Peter countered. ‘My boy was a sportsman pursuing his passion. I understood he needed help financially, but he’d never take it. I’ll bet you haven’t bought your own home either, Ally. How can any young person earning even an average wage do that these days?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, although I do have the goat barn now,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Well now, firstly I want to tell you that any time you want to go to my house on the island, you’re more than welcome. Celia knows she can use it anytime too, but she refuses to go. Apparently it’s to do with something I said to her when we were there together way back when. Don’t ask what, because I can’t remember. And let me tell you, Ally, if you ever need help with the local planning authorities, I’m your man. I’ve invested so much money in that island, I should be made mayor! Do you have the deeds of ownership yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but apparently, once the estate’s gone through probate, they’ll be sent to me.’

  ‘Well, anything you need, young lady, you just consider me there for you. It’s the least I can do: to take care of the girl my boy loved.’

  ‘Thanks.’ We both sat in silence for a while, missing him.

  ‘So,’ Peter said eventually, ‘you still haven’t told me what your future plans are.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not sure of them.’

  ‘Theo said you were a damn fine sailor, about to train in the Swiss Olympic squad.’

  ‘I’ve pulled out. Don’t ask me to explain, please Peter, but I simply can’t do it.’

  ‘No explanations necessary. And if you’ll excuse me for the obvious metaphor, it seems you have another string to your bow. You’re a fine musician, Ally. I was very moved by your flute playing at the memorial service.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say, Peter. But really, I was so rusty. I haven’t played properly for years.’

  ‘Well, it sure didn’t sound like it to me. If I had a skill like yours, I’d treasure it. Does it run in the family?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. My father died only a few weeks ago—’

  ‘Ally!’ Peter looked aghast. ‘My God! How have you coped, losing both men in your life?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know.’ I gulped, feeling a rush of emotion. I was okay as long as no one offered me sympathy. ‘Anyway, the point is that I was adopted, along with my five sisters. And my father’s parting gift to me was to give me clues to my past. And from what little I know so far, it may turn out that music is in my genes.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked at me, his dark eyes full of empathy. ‘Are you going to find out more?’

  ‘I’m not sure just yet. I certainly wasn’t intending to when Theo was around. I was looking forward to the future.’

  ‘Of course you were. You got anything at all planned for the next few weeks?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Well then, there’s your answer: go follow the clues you’ve been given. I sure would. And I think Theo would want you to. Now’ – he looked at his watch – ‘I’m sad I have to leave you, but I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t. The bill’s paid, so please stay here and finish up if you want. And I’ll say it again: if you ever need anything, Ally, you just let me know.’

  He rose and so did I. And then spontaneously, he enveloped me in his arms and gave me a tight hug. ‘Ally, I wish we had more time to talk, but I’m glad to know you all the same. Today has been the only positive thing to take out of what’s happened, and I thank you for that. And remember, someone once told me that life only throws at you what it feels you can deal with. And you are one seriously amazing young woman.’ He handed me a card. ‘Keep in touch.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised.

  He gave me a sad wave and walked briskly from the table.

  I sat back down, looking at the sumptuous spread in front of me and half-heartedly reached for a scone, unable to bear the thought of the food going to waste. I too wished we’d had longer to talk. Whatever Celia had said to me about her ex-husband, and whatever he might have done to her, I liked him. For all his reputed wealth and bad behaviour, there was something intrinsically vulnerable about him.

  When I arrived home, I found Celia in her bedroom, packing a suitcase.

  ‘Did you have a nice afternoon?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I met Peter for afternoon tea. He rang here to speak to you after you left this morning and got me instead.’

  ‘Well, I am surprised he called. Normally when he’s in the UK, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Normally, he hasn’t lost a son. He sends his love, anyway.’

  ‘Good. Now then, Ally,’ she said over-brightly, ‘as you know, I’m off at the crack of dawn tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want to; you’ll just need to put the burglar alarm on and post the keys through the front door when you decide to leave. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come with me? It’s beautiful in Tuscany at this time of the year. And Cora is not only my oldest friend, but also Theo’s godmother.’

  ‘Thank you so much for asking, but I think it’s time to go out and find myself a life.’

  ‘Well, just remember it’s early days. I divorced Peter twenty years ago, and I still don’t seem to have found myself one.’ She shrugged sadly. ‘Anyway, stay here for as long as you want.’

  ‘Thank you. By the way, I went shopping on the way home and I’d like to cook tonight to say thank you. It’s nothing fancy, just pasta, but it’ll hopefully put you in the mood for Italy.’

  ‘How sweet of you, Ally dear. That will be lovely.’

  We sat out on the terrace for our last supper together. I had little appetite, and as I did my best to eat a few forkfuls, I noted that the drooping heads of Celia’s roses were draining of colour, the edges of the petals brown and crisp. Even the air smelt different: heavier, with an earthy hint of the autumn to come. While we ate, we both slipped into our own thoughts, as we realised we were losing our bubble of mutual comfort and had to face the world again.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you for being here, Ally. I really don’t know what I’d have done without you,’ Celia said as we carried our empty plates into the kitchen.

  ‘Or me without you,’ I said, as Celia started to wash up and I picked up a tea towel to dry.

  ‘I also want you to know that any time you’re in London, you’re to think of this house as your home, Ally.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hate to mention it, but I’ll be collecting Theo’s ashes when I get back from Italy. We’ll need to make a date to go to Lymington and scatter them together.’

  ‘Yes,’ I gulped, ‘of course.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Ally. I really feel you’re the daughter I never had. Now,’ she added gruffly, ‘I’d better get to bed. My taxi’s arriving at four thirty and I’m certainly not expecting you to be up to see me off. So I’ll say goodbye. But keep in touch, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  I slept restlessly that night, the blank pages of my imminent future haunting my dreams. Up until now, I’d always known exactly where I was going and what I was doing. The sense of emptiness and lethargy I currently felt was new to me.

  ‘Maybe this is what depression feels like,’ I muttered as I hauled myself out of bed the next morning and, feeling slightly nauseous, forced myself to take a shower. As I towelled my hair dry, I typed ‘Jens Halvorsen’ into a search engine. Irritatingly, the few mentions of him were written in Norwegian, so I went to the site of an online book retailer, idly browsing for any books in English or French t
hat might contain a mention of him.

  And then I found it.

  Grieg’s Apprentice

  Author: Thom Halvorsen

  Release date (US edition) 30th August 2007

  I scrolled down to find the brief synopsis.

  ‘Thom Halvorsen, renowned violinist with the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra, has written a biography of his great-great-grandfather, Jens Halvorsen. It charts the life of a talented composer and musician who worked closely with Edvard Grieg. With the aid of fascinating family memoirs, we see Grieg afresh through the eyes of one who knew him intimately.’

  I ordered the book immediately, although I saw that they were quoting a minimum of two weeks for delivery from the States. Then I had a brainwave, and, pulling Peter’s card from my wallet, I wrote him an email, thanking him for afternoon tea. Then explained I needed to get hold of a book that was only available in America and could he possibly hunt it down for me? I didn’t feel too guilty asking him; I was sure he had endless minions at his beck and call who could go in search of it.

  Then I typed in Peer Gynt, and scrolling down through the various references, I came across the Ibsen Museum in Oslo – or Christiania, as Anna and Jens had known it – and its curator, Erik Edvardsen. He was apparently a world-renowned expert on Henrik Ibsen and perhaps he’d be willing to help me if I emailed him.

  I was itching to continue my research and also to read what I had left of the book translation, but I reluctantly closed my laptop when I realised I was due in Battersea to see Star for lunch in half an hour.

  I hailed a cab outside the house, and as we crossed the River Thames over an ornate and pretty pink bridge, I decided I was falling a little in love with London. There was something intrinsically elegant about it – stately almost – with none of the frenetic energy of New York or the blandness of Geneva. Like everything in England, it seemed to have full confidence in its own history and uniqueness.