The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Anyway, that’s quite enough about me,’ Celia said. ‘I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing in Norway. You already mentioned in the car that you’d been following up the clues your father left you. If you feel up to it, I’d love you to tell me the whole story.’

  Over the following hour, I recounted the details of my strange quest to discover my roots. As in my conversation with Ma, the only detail I omitted was the possible genetic link to Edvard Grieg. Like Thom, I felt it was a revelation best kept to myself. Without solid evidence, it meant nothing and was therefore irrelevant.

  ‘Well, I’m astounded, I must say!’ Celia exclaimed when I’d finished and we’d both set aside our supper trays. ‘You’ve found yourself a new twin brother, and a father as well. It’s quite an extraordinary turn of events. How do you feel about it?’

  ‘I’m thrilled actually. Thom is so . . . like me,’ I said with a smile. ‘And I hope I’m not being insensitive when I say that, although I lost my mentor in Pa Salt and my soulmate in Theo, I seem to have found another man who I connect with, but in a completely different way.’

  ‘Ally, dear, I think it’s just marvellous! What a journey you’ve been on these past few weeks.’

  ‘Actually, Celia, the journey isn’t quite over yet. There’s something else I have to tell you.’ I looked into her eyes, noting the quizzical expression in them, and took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to be a grandmother.’

  The look of puzzlement turned to one of momentary incomprehension as my words sank in. Then her mouth broke into an ecstatic smile and she reached across the sofa to clasp me in the tightest of hugs.

  ‘Ally, I can barely dare to believe it. Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. The pregnancy was confirmed by a doctor in Bergen. And a week ago, I went for my first scan.’ I rose from the sofa to retrieve my handbag, fumbling around in it until I found what I was looking for. I drew out the grainy black-and-white image and handed it to her. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, but Celia, this is your grandchild.’

  She took the scan and studied it, her fingers tracing the blurred outline of the tiny life growing inside me.

  ‘Ally . . .’ Her voice was choked with emotion as she finally spoke. ‘It’s . . . the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

  After we’d laughed and cried and hugged each other a dozen times more, we settled back on the sofa, both of us slightly dazed.

  ‘At least now I can contemplate our . . . task tomorrow with some hope in my heart,’ said Celia. ‘Talking of that, because we must, I’ve a sailing dinghy that I keep at the marina. It seems to me that the obvious thing to do is for both of us to sail out at dawn and . . . lay him to rest on the sea.’

  ‘I’m s-so sorry,’ I stammered, ‘but I just can’t. After Theo died, I swore I would never take to the water again. I hope you understand.’

  ‘I do, dear, but please, think about it. As you said yourself, one can’t simply block out the past. I think you already know that Theo would have hated to think that he’d separated you from your passion.’

  And in that moment I knew that however difficult it might be, I owed it to Theo, and to our child, to get back onto a boat.

  ‘Celia,’ I said eventually, ‘you’re right. It’s exactly what we should do.’

  I woke to my mobile alarm before sunrise the next morning, feeling momentarily disoriented before I felt the texture of something bristly against my cheek. Switching on the bedside light, I saw Theo’s old teddy lying on the pillow beside me. I reached out to grasp it and buried my nose in its rough fur, as if I could somehow breathe in his very spirit. I got out of bed and dressed quickly in leggings and a thick jersey before making my way downstairs, where Celia was already waiting. No words were needed as I glanced at the innocuous blue urn she was holding.

  The streets of Lymington were deserted as the two of us left the cottage and walked down to the marina in the milky half-light that preceded the dawn. As we stopped on the wooden jetty where Celia’s dinghy was berthed, the only other sign of activity nearby was a neighbouring fishing boat. The two crew members nodded to us briefly, before continuing their task of mending their nets in preparation for the day’s catch.

  ‘You know, Theo would have loved this. The eternal rhythm of the tides and the sea, continuing as it has since the beginning of time.’

  ‘Yes, he would have loved it, wouldn’t he?’

  We both turned at the familiar voice and saw Peter walking towards us. I watched Celia’s stunned expression and then the way her face lit up as Peter opened his arms to her and she walked into them. I stood where I was, letting them have their moment together, but then they walked towards me and Peter hugged me too.

  ‘Okay,’ said Peter, his voice cracking, ‘we’d better get on with it.’

  As Celia clambered aboard, Peter whispered in my ear, ‘I just hope I don’t disgrace myself in front of you both by throwing up my breakfast at this very solemn moment. I’m not good on the water, Ally.’

  ‘And at the moment,’ I breathed, ‘nor am I. Come on,’ I said, holding out my hand to him, ‘we’ll do this together.’

  We climbed aboard and I steadied Peter and sat him down as I nervously found my own sea legs.

  ‘Ready to go, Ally?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reassured Celia as I raised the sails and cast off the lines.

  The first golden-pink rays of sunlight were reaching out to touch the coastline, sparkling on the crests of the lazy waves as we sailed out into the Solent. Celia took the helm while I moved about the deck, adjusting the sails. The crisp breeze propelled the dinghy through the water and gently lifted my hair off my face, and although I’d been dreading being back on the sea, I felt oddly at peace. Images of Theo flashed through my mind, but for the first time since he’d left me, my thoughts of him filled me with joy as much as with sadness.

  As we reached a spot a few hundred metres offshore with a magnificent view of Lymington harbour, we reefed the sails and Celia ducked below, emerging a few seconds later with the blue urn cradled in her hands. We walked towards Peter, looking green in the stern of the boat, and helped him to standing between us.

  ‘You take it, Peter,’ said Celia, as the morning sun in all its glory finally broke free over the horizon.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  I nodded, and we all clasped our hands around the urn, so outwardly insignificant but imbued with so many dreams, hopes and memories. As Peter lifted the lid and threw the contents into the breeze, we watched the fine mist of ash drift down to join the foaming sea beneath us. I squeezed my eyes shut and a single tear trickled down my cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling,’ I whispered, as my hand moved instinctively to caress the curve of my stomach. ‘Just know that our love lives on.’

  46

  7th December 2007

  As usual, I was awake early, nudged by a gentle fluttering from inside me. I checked the time and saw it was just past five, and only hoped that this was not the shape of things to come, that the baby had not already established its sleep pattern in my womb. It was still dark outside as I peeked blearily through the curtains, to see a thick layer of frost covering the window. After using the bathroom, I climbed back into bed to try and drift back into sleep. Today would be a long day, I knew. The Grieg Hall would be full to its capacity of 1,500 people for the Centenary Concert tonight. And amongst the audience would be my friends and family. Star and Ma were flying over to Bergen this afternoon to attend the concert and I was tingling in anticipation of seeing them.

  In an odd sort of way, I felt my pregnancy and the baby inside me were communal: even though I was the mother and guardian, its arrival on earth in three months’ time would provide a link between a group of previously disparate human beings.

  There was the link with my newfound past – Felix, my blood father, and Thom, my twin – then the five aunts, all of whom would no doubt dote on him or her. Electra, who had finally sent me a congratulatory email in response t
o mine, had already FedExed a box of hideously expensive designer baby clothes. I’d had moving emails from most of my sisters, and of course Ma, who I knew in her quiet, understated way would be desperate to take a newborn in her arms and relive the precious memories of when we had all arrived into her care. Then there was Theo’s side of the family: Celia and Peter, who were part of my most recent present, and who were also coming tonight. And who I knew were going to be a very welcome part of my and my baby’s future.

  ‘The circle of life . . .’ I muttered to myself, thinking how, certainly for me, in the midst of dreadful loss, there had been new life, new hope. And just as Tiggy had said about the beautiful rose blooming for its time, then other buds on the same plant beginning to flower as the petals dropped from the old one, I too had learnt the miracle of nature. And even though I had lost the two most important people in my life in the space of a few months, I had been replenished with love that I knew could only grow stronger, and I felt blessed by it.

  And tonight, after the performance, the different strands of my story would meet for the first time over a dinner.

  Which brought my thoughts back to Felix . . .

  The programme tonight was very straightforward: it would open with the Peer Gynt Suite, and, in fact, with me on the flute, Jens Halvorsen’s great-great-granddaughter playing those iconic first bars, just as he had over a hundred and thirty-one years ago at the premiere. Or, as Thom and I had mulled over in private, perhaps even the composer’s great-great-granddaughter. Whichever way it was, neither of us would be playing fraudulently. Thom would be close by, playing first violin – Jens’ second instrument – and Halvorsen history would complete a full circle.

  Much had been made of our family link in the Norwegian media, the interest heightened by the fact that the second half of the programme would be the premiere of Jens Halvorsen Junior’s recently unearthed piano concerto, orchestrated by the composer’s son, Felix, who would be leading the orchestra on the piano.

  Andrew Litton, the hallowed conductor of the Bergen Philharmonic, had been ecstatic to discover the lost work and amazed by Felix’s inspired orchestrations – let alone the length of time it had taken to complete them. Yet when Thom had asked David Stewart whether his father might be permitted to actually play the concerto himself on the night, the leader of the orchestra had refused point-blank.

  Thom had returned home after the conversation and shaken his head at me. ‘He said he knows Felix of old, and the premiere of this work and the night itself are just too important to put at risk. And I have to say, I agree, Ally. However wonderful your idea was to reunite what is’ – he pointed to my bump – ‘in essence five generations of Halvorsens musically, Felix is the weakest link. What if he goes on a bender the night before and simply doesn’t turn up? You know as well as I do that the success of this concerto depends on the pianist. If he was just clashing the cymbals at the back, that would be different, but Felix would be taking centre stage. And the powers that be at the Philharmonic don’t want to risk the ignominy of our dear papa not turning up. As I told you, he was sacked all those years ago because he’d proven himself so unreliable.’

  I’d understood. But I was not prepared to give up on Felix.

  So I’d been to see him in what Thom and I had named his ‘pit’ and asked him whether, if I went into battle for him, he could give me his firm promise – on his soon-to-be-born grandchild’s life – that he would attend all the rehearsals and show up on the night.

  Felix had stared at me that morning through his bleary, alcohol-infused eyes and shrugged. ‘Of course I will. Not that I need any rehearsal. I could play it in my sleep with a couple of bottles inside me, Ally, my darling.’

  ‘You know that isn’t how it works,’ I’d remonstrated with him. ‘And if that’s going to be your attitude, then . . .’ At that point, I’d turned away and headed towards the front door.

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘Okay what?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘I promise I’ll behave.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because I’ve told you to?’

  ‘No. I’m pledging myself to this because it is my father’s concerto and I want to do him proud. And also, because I know that no one can play it better than I can.’

  I’d then gone to see David Stewart myself, and when he’d yet again refused to countenance Felix playing, I’d resorted – I was ashamed to admit – to a dose of blackmail. ‘Felix is, after all, Pip’s son and therefore arguably the legal owner of the rights to the concerto,’ I’d said, eyes lowered to stop me from blushing. ‘My father’s having serious doubts about it being performed. He’s concerned that if he can’t play the music the way his father would have wanted it, then perhaps it’s best not to include it in the concert at all.’

  I was banking on the fact that the orchestra desperately wanted to give the first performance of the most exciting home-grown composition since Grieg’s own to the world. And thank God, my instincts had been right. David had finally buckled and agreed.

  ‘However, we’ll have Willem rehearse with the orchestra too. Then at least if your father lets us down, the entire evening won’t be a disaster. And I won’t even announce he’s playing to the press beforehand. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ I’d said as we’d shaken on it and I’d walked out, head held high, mentally celebrating my coup de grâce.

  Even though Felix had been true to his word, and had arrived on time to rehearsals over the past week, we all knew there’d be no guarantee he’d turn up when it mattered. After all, he’d done it before.

  Felix hadn’t officially been announced as the pianist, and Thom told me he’d discovered that there had been two different sets of programmes printed – one with Felix’s name on it, the other with Willem’s.

  I felt rather guilty about this, as it couldn’t be very satisfactory for Willem’s ego to know he was – to coin a musical phrase – playing second fiddle to an ageing, unreliable drunk. Simply because his surname was Halvorsen. However, he was playing Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor during the first half, which was at least some consolation.

  One evening last week, I’d gone to watch Thom playing in the orchestra, and Willem had featured on the piano, performing Listz’s Piano Concerto No. 1. As I’d watched his slim, talented fingers fly across the keyboard, nostrils flaring, shiny dark hair flopping over his brow, I’d felt a familiar lurch in my stomach that had nothing to do with the baby tucked away inside me. And I’d told myself that at least my instinctive physical reaction to him meant that I might in time recover from the loss of Theo, even if it was not for now. And that I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. I was thirty years of age and had a lifetime to live. And I was sure Theo would not want me to walk through it like a nun.

  Ironically, Thom and Willem had become close, initially bonded by working together, but with a personal friendship developing alongside the professional. Thom had asked Willem over to the house next week and I hadn’t decided yet whether I’d prefer to be in or out.

  Finally surrendering to the fact that I was not going to get any more sleep this morning, I switched on my laptop to check my emails. I saw there was one from Maia and I opened it.

  Darling Ally, I just wanted to say that my thoughts are with you today. I wish I could be there too, but it’s a very long way from Brazil to Norway. We have taken to the hills as even for me, the weather in Rio is too scorching. We are staying at the fazenda and I can’t tell you how beautiful it is here. It needs a lot of renovation, but we’re discussing plans to turn it into a centre for kids from the favelas, so they can come up here and have freedom and space to run about in the glorious nature. Anyway, enough of me. I hope you and the baby are doing well and I can’t wait to meet my new niece or nephew. I’m so proud of you, little sis. Maia xx

  I smiled at the email, glad to hear that she sounded happy, then went to take a shower before donning my tracksuit bottoms, one of the few remaining pieces of c
lothing I had that would fit around my expanding middle. I refused to waste money on maternity clothes, and spent most of my days in one of Thom’s roomy jumpers. I’d bought a stretchy black dress to wear for my appearance on the stage tonight, and Thom had sweetly commented how lovely I looked in it, but I suspected he was just being kind.

  After making my way down the stairs, I went into the makeshift kitchen, which had been temporarily relocated to the sitting room as the house renovations continued, and comprised a sideboard with a kettle and a microwave on top of it. The kitchen was currently stripped back to its bare bones, but at least, I thought, most of the hard work was now done. We had a new boiler and the contractors were about to install the underfloor heating, but the work was taking twice the time I’d expected and I was panicking that the house wouldn’t be finished before the baby made its appearance. The nesting instinct drove me on and, quite understandably, drove the builders mad.

  ‘Morning,’ said Thom, appearing behind me, his hair standing upright from sleep as it always did. ‘Well, today’s the day,’ he sighed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Nervous, excited, and wondering—’

  ‘Whether Felix will turn up,’ we chorused together.

  ‘Coffee?’ I offered as the kettle boiled.

  ‘Thanks. What time does your gang arrive?’ he asked as he wandered distractedly over to the new floor-length glass windows that opened onto the terrace and allowed a full, glorious view of the fir trees and fjord below.

  ‘Oh, all at different times today. I’ve told Ma and Star to pop round to the artist’s entrance before the show to say hello.’ Butterflies roamed around my already bilious stomach at the thought. ‘It’s so ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m far more worried about a handful of my friends and family there watching than I am about what any critic might say.’