The cab stopped in front of what had obviously once been a warehouse. Sitting on the riverside, it and its neighbours would have provided easy access for the barges to bring in their loads of tea, silks and spices in days gone by. I paid the driver and rang the bell beside the number Star had given me. The door opened with an electronic buzz and her voice told me to take the lift to the third floor. I did so, and found Star waiting for me at the front door.
‘Hello, darling, how are you?’ she asked as we embraced each other.
‘Oh, coping,’ I lied as she led me into a cavernous white living space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames.
‘Wow!’ I said as I walked over to admire the view. ‘This place is fantastic!’
‘CeCe chose it,’ said Star with a shrug. ‘It’s got room for her to work, and the light is good too.’
I looked around, noting the open-plan layout, the minimalist furniture dotted around on the blond-wood floorboards and the sleek spiral staircase that presumably led up to the bedrooms. It wasn’t what I would have personally chosen as it was anything but cosy, but it was certainly impressive.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Star asked. ‘We have wine of all colours, and, of course, beer.’
‘Whatever you’re having, Star,’ I said, following her over to the kitchen area, which was kitted out in ultra-modern stainless steel and frosted glass. She opened one door of the huge double refrigerator and seemed to hesitate.
‘White wine?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, good idea.’
I observed my younger sister as she took down two glasses from a cabinet and opened the wine, thinking again how Star never seemed to express an opinion of her own or make a decision. Maia and I had discussed endlessly whether it was Star’s natural personality to defer to others, or the result of CeCe’s dominant role in their relationship.
‘That smells good,’ I said, pointing to a pot bubbling away on the industrial-sized hob. I could also see something cooking in the glass-fronted oven.
‘I’m using you as a guinea pig, Ally. I’m trying out a new recipe and it’s almost ready.’
‘Great. Cheers, as they say here in England.’
‘Yes, cheers.’
We both took a sip of our wine, but I put mine down on the countertop, as for some reason it had immediately turned acidic in my stomach. As I watched her stirring the contents of the pot, I reflected how very young Star looked, with her mist of white-blonde hair falling to her shoulders, and her long fringe that often fell into her enormous pale blue eyes, shielding them and their expressions like a protective curtain. I found it difficult to remember that Star was a grown woman of twenty-seven.
‘So, how are you settling down in London Town?’ I asked her.
‘Well, I think. I like it here.’
‘And how’s the cookery course going?’
‘I’ve finished that. It was fine.’
‘So do you think you might pursue a career in cooking?’ I ploughed on, hoping to elicit a more elaborate response.
‘I don’t think it’s for me.’
‘I see. Any idea what you might do next?’
‘I don’t know.’
Silence reigned then, as it often did in conversations with Star. Eventually she continued. ‘So how are you really, Ally? It’s all so awful for you, coming so soon after Pa’s death.’
‘I’m not sure how I am, to be honest. It’s changed everything. My future was all mapped out and now suddenly it’s gone. I’ve told the manager of the Swiss national squad I won’t be taking part in the Olympic trials. I really couldn’t face that just now. People have told me I’m wrong, and I feel guilty for not having the strength to continue, but it just doesn’t seem right. What do you think?’
Star brushed back her fringe from her eyes and regarded me warily. ‘I think that you must do exactly as you feel, Ally. But sometimes that’s very difficult, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. I don’t want to let anyone down.’
‘Exactly.’ Star gave a small sigh as she turned her gaze towards the floor-length windows, then back to the hob as she began to serve the contents of the pot onto two plates. ‘Shall we eat outside?’
‘Why not?’
I turned my attention towards the river and to the terrace that ran the length of the windows and wondered rather meanly what on earth this place had cost to rent. It was hardly the typical apartment of a penniless art student and her apparently directionless sister. CeCe had obviously managed to cajole Georg Hoffman into releasing some funds the morning she and Star had visited him in Geneva.
We ferried the food out to the table, which stood against the backdrop of a myriad of sweet-smelling plants overflowing from giant pots along the edge of the terrace. ‘These are beautiful. What is that?’ I pointed to one, containing a riotous mass of orange, white and pink flowers.
‘It’s Sparaxis tricolor. More commonly called “wand-flower”, but I don’t think it really likes the breeze from the river. It really belongs in a sheltered corner of an English country garden.’
‘Did you plant them?’ I asked as I took a mouthful of the noodle seafood dish Star had prepared for the main course.
‘Yes. I like plants. I always have. I used to help Pa Salt in his garden at Atlantis.’
‘Did you? I had no idea. My goodness, this is delicious, Star,’ I complimented her, even though I really wasn’t hungry. ‘I’m discovering all sorts of hidden talents you have today. My cooking is basic at best and I can’t even grow cress in a pot, let alone all this.’ I gesticulated to the abundance surrounding us on the terrace.
Again, there was a pregnant pause, but I refrained from filling the silence.
‘Recently, I’ve been thinking about what talent actually is. I mean, are things that come easily to you a gift?’ Star said tentatively. ‘For example, did you really have to try to play the flute so beautifully?’
‘No, I suppose I didn’t. Not initially, anyway. But then, to get better, I had to practise endlessly. I don’t think simply having a talent for something can compensate for sheer hard work. I mean, look at the great composers: it’s not enough to hear the tunes in your head; you have to learn how to put them down in writing and how to orchestrate a piece. That takes years of practice and learning your craft. I’m sure there are millions of us who have a natural ability at something, but unless we harness that ability and dedicate ourselves to it, we can never reach our full potential.’
Star nodded slowly. ‘Have you finished, Ally?’ she asked, looking across the table at my barely touched plate.
‘I have. Sorry, Star. It was gorgeous, really, but I’m afraid I haven’t had much of an appetite recently.’
After that, we chatted about our sisters and what they’d been up to. Star told me about CeCe and how her ‘installations’ were keeping her busy. I commented on Maia’s surprise move to Rio, and how wonderful it was for her that at last she’d found happiness.
‘This has really cheered me up. And it’s so great to see you, Star,’ I said with a smile.
‘And you. Where will you go now, do you think?’
‘As a matter of fact, I might go to Norway and investigate what Pa Salt’s coordinates indicate is my original place of birth.’
I’m sure I looked far more surprised at what I’d just said than Star did, as the thought entered my brain for the first time and began to take hold.
‘Good,’ Star said. ‘I think you should.’
‘Do you?’
‘Why not? Pa’s clues might change your life. They changed Maia’s. And’ – Star paused – ‘perhaps mine too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Another silence took hold and I knew it wasn’t worth pursuing Star for further details of her revelation. ‘Now, I really think I should be going. Thank you so much for lunch.’ I stood up, suddenly feeling weary and needing to return to my sanctuary. ‘Is it easy to get a taxi from here?’ I said as she accompanied me to the front
door.
‘Yes, turn left and you’re on the main road. Goodbye, Ally,’ she said as she reached to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Let me know if you go to Norway.’
Back at Celia’s silent house, I went up to my bedroom and opened the case that contained my flute. I stared at it intently, as if it could answer all the questions burning in my mind. The most pressing being where I would go from here. I knew I could almost certainly go and bury myself on ‘Somewhere’. One telephone call to Peter and his beautiful house on Anafi would be mine for as long as I needed it. I could spend the next year concentrating on renovating Theo’s precious goat barn – thoughts of Mamma Mia, the Abba musical, sprang to mind, and I chuckled and shook my head. However appealing the cocoon of ‘Somewhere’ appeared, I knew it would not move me forward. It would simply let me live in the world of Theo and I, which had been but wasn’t any more.
Equally, would Atlantis be good for me? Was there anything left for me there now? But anything I might subsequently discover in Norway was firmly in my past too and I was someone who looked to the future. Yet perhaps with the ‘now’ being on hold, I had to reverse in order to move forward. I decided that my choice was stark: return to Atlantis or fly to Norway. Perhaps a few days of private contemplation in a new country – away from everything and everybody – would be a good thing. No one there would know my story and investigating the past would at least give me something to focus on. Even if it came to nothing.
I began to look up flights to Oslo, finding one that left that evening and had availability. I realised I’d have to leave almost immediately to get to Heathrow on time. I stared into space trying to make a decision.
‘Come on, Ally.’ I spoke to myself harshly, as my finger hovered over the button to confirm the seat. ‘What have you got to lose?’
Nothing.
And besides, I was ready to know.
23
As the plane soared northward that late August evening, I skimmed through the information I had about the Ibsen Museum and the National Theatre in Oslo. Tomorrow morning, I decided, I’d visit both and see if anyone there could shed further light on the information I’d gleaned from Jens Halvorsen’s book.
As I left the plane at Oslo airport, I felt an unexpected lightness in my step and something that almost resembled excitement. After clearing customs, I went straight to the information desk and asked the young woman behind the counter if she could suggest a hotel that was located close to the Ibsen Museum. She mentioned the Grand Hotel, called them and told me they only had availability at the more expensive end of the rooms.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll take what they have.’ The woman handed me a slip of paper that confirmed my booking, then ordered me a taxi and directed me outside to wait for it.
As we drove into the centre of Oslo, the darkness made it difficult to get my bearings or gain much of an impression of the city. On arrival at the imposing lamp-lit stone entrance to the Grand Hotel, I was immediately ushered inside and, with the formalities completed, shown to my room, which turned out to be named ‘The Ibsen Suite’.
‘Will this be sufficient for you, madam?’ the bellboy asked me in English as he handed me the key.
I looked around the beautiful sitting room, with a chandelier dangling elegantly from the ceiling and various photographs of Henrik Ibsen adorning the striped silk walls, and smiled at the coincidence.
‘It’s wonderful, thank you very much.’
Once I’d tipped the bellboy and he’d left, I wandered around the suite in awe, thinking I could very easily move into it full-time. After taking a shower, I emerged from the bathroom to the sound of church bells ushering in the arrival of midnight and felt glad I was here. Sliding between the crisp linen sheets, I fell into a deep sleep.
I rose early the next morning, and went out onto the tiny balcony to view the city in the light of a fresh new day. Below me was a tree-lined square, flanked by a mixture of gorgeous old stone buildings and a few more modern ones. Casting my gaze upwards in the distance, I could see a pink castle perched on a hill.
I wandered back inside and realised I hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime. I ordered breakfast to be delivered to the room, then sat on the bed in my robe, feeling like a princess in my newfound palace. I studied the map the receptionist had given me last night and saw that the Ibsen Museum was only a short walk away.
After breakfast, I dressed and took the lift downstairs, armed with my map. As I crossed the square in front of the hotel, I suddenly smelt the all too familiar aroma of the sea, and I remembered that Oslo was built on a fjord. I also noticed the large number of fair-skinned redheads who passed me. In Switzerland, I’d been teased during my schooldays about my pale complexion, freckles and red-gold curls. At the time, it had hurt, as those things always did, and I remembered asking Ma if I could dye my hair.
‘No, chérie, your hair is your crowning glory. One day all those nasty girls will be jealous of it,’ had been her reply.
Well, I thought as I continued to walk, I certainly won’t stick out here.
I came to a halt outside an impressive pale-brick building, the entrance to which was colonnaded with grey stone pillars.
‘NATIONALTHEATER’
I read the engraved inscription above the elegant façade and noticed that just below it, the names of Ibsen and two other men I’d never heard of were engraved on stone plaques. Had this been the very building where Peer Gynt had been premiered, I wondered? To my disappointment, the theatre was shut at present, so I continued walking along the busy wide street until I arrived at the front door of the Ibsen Museum. Stepping inside, I found myself in a small bookshop, and on the wall to my left was a display board printed with the dates of the major events in Ibsen’s gilded career. My heart beat a little faster as I read the date: ‘24th February 1876 – premiere of Peer Gynt at the Christiania Theatre.’
‘God morgen! Kan eg hjelpe deg?’ the girl behind the counter asked.
‘Do you speak English?’ was my first question.
‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Well, yes, or at least I hope so.’ Taking the photocopy of the book cover out of my bag, I placed it on the desk in front of her. ‘My name’s Ally D’Aplièse and I’m doing some research on a composer called Jens Halvorsen and a singer called Anna Landvik. They were both in the original premiere of Peer Gynt at the Christiania Theatre. I wondered if anyone here could tell me a little more about them.’
‘I can’t, as I’m just a student on the till,’ she confessed, ‘but I’ll go upstairs and see if Erik, the director of the museum, is in.’
‘Thank you.’
As she disappeared through a door at the back of the desk, I wandered around the shop and picked up an English translation of Peer Gynt. At the very least, I thought, I should read it.
‘Yes, Erik’s here, and he will come down to see you shortly,’ confirmed the girl as she reappeared. I thanked her and paid for the book.
A few minutes later, an elegant white-haired man appeared.
‘Hello, Miss D’Aplièse. I’m Erik Edvardsen,’ he said, offering his hand in greeting. ‘Ingrid says you’re interested in Jens Halvorsen and Anna Landvik?’
‘Yes,’ I said, shaking his hand before showing him the photocopy of the book cover.
He took it and gazed at it with a nod. ‘I believe we have a copy upstairs in the library. Would you like to follow me?’
He showed me through a door that led to an austere entrance hall. Compared to the modern decor of the bookshop, it was like taking a step back in time. He opened the old-fashioned gate to the lift, closed it behind us and pressed a button. As we rattled upwards, he indicated a particular floor as we passed it. ‘That is the apartment in which Ibsen himself lived for the last eleven years of his life. We consider ourselves privileged to have custody of it. So,’ he said as we emerged from the lift into an airy room, the walls of which were lined floor to ceiling with books, ‘are you an historian?
’
‘Goodness, no,’ I replied. ‘The book was a legacy to me from my father, who died a few weeks ago. In fact, maybe I should say it’s more of a clue, because I’m still not sure what it has to do with me. I’m currently having the whole text translated from Norwegian to English, and I’ve only read the first instalment. All I really know so far is that Jens was a musician who played the opening bars of “Morning Mood” at the premiere of Peer Gynt. And that Anna was the ghost voice for Solveig’s songs.’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure how much I can help you, because my subject is obviously Ibsen, rather than Grieg. You really need to see an expert on Grieg himself and the ideal person to help you is the curator of the Grieg Museum up in Bergen. However,’ he said, as he scanned the bookshelves, ‘there is one thing I can show you. Ah, there it is.’ He pulled a large old book from the shelves. ‘This was written by Rudolf Rasmussen – known as “Rude” – who was one of the children in the original production of Peer Gynt.’
‘Yes! I’ve read about him in the book. He was a go-between delivering messages to Jens and Anna when they first fell in love at the theatre.’
‘Really?’ Erik said as he leafed through the pages. ‘Here, these are pictures from that very first night, with all the cast members in costume.’
He handed the book to me, and I stared incredulously into the faces of the very people I’d just been reading about. There was Henrik Klausen as Peer Gynt and Thora Hansson as Solveig. I tried to imagine her looking like a glamorous star out of Solveig’s peasant clothes. Other photographs showed the entire cast, although I knew Anna would not be in any of them.
‘I can photocopy the pictures if you wish,’ Erik suggested, ‘and then you can study them at your leisure.’
‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’
As Erik walked over to the photocopier that stood in a corner, my eyes fell on a print of an old theatre. ‘I walked past the National Theatre today, and could just imagine how it was when Peer Gynt opened,’ I commented to break the silence.
The Storm Sister Page 28