by Meg Carter
In her struggle to cope alone, Patsy was grateful for the small kindnesses dealt her by the kindly stranger who stopped at the cafe on his way to and from work each day. Cigarettes and stockings. A magazine he thought she’d like the look of. Some fresh fruit or maybe a few sausages for her and her small son’s tea. Then gradually, as the months passed, her budding friendship with Phil Hamilton grew into something else. Casual talk turned more serious as he set about persuading Patsy how much better for her and her child it would be if she left the squalid flat she rented just north of Kings Cross. They could move north, together, Phil told her, into a small terraced town house he had his eye on in Newington Green.
By the time Pete turned ten, the string of pubs and rental properties Phil had assembled was generating enough cash for him and his adoptive family to move again – into a four bedroomed semi, complete with front and back gardens, close to his childhood home in Colindale. And it was there that Patsy became known for the convivial lunchtime gatherings she hosted on the first Sunday of each month – until the breakdown she suffered after discovering her second husband’s affair with a waitress ten years her junior. Phil’s lover, Cynthia, was a young girl who worked at a French restaurant on Greek Street where he regularly dined with associates from work.
‘How long ago did your mum move out of London?’ Alma wonders out loud, intrigued why anyone would swap the bright lights and excitement of city living for a landscape so featureless and dull.
‘Four years ago – about a year after she and Phil split, around the time I left school,’ Pete answers. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead.
‘So she came here alone, then?’
He nods.
‘Goodness,’ Alma continues. ‘That must have been tough.’
‘More so than you can imagine. She’d been in hospital, you see…’
‘The breakdown.’
‘Kind of…’ Pete tightens his hold of the steering wheel. ‘She took an overdose, Alma. After that she was in a private clinic for months to recuperate. Then, as a reward for getting straight and not making more of a fuss Phil set her up in the country house she’d always dreamed of.’
‘Oh Pete, I’m sorry, I didn’t—’
‘Though they would separate, he’d not formally move out, Phil decided – shocked by her attempted suicide, I guess,’ Pete presses on. ‘He stays in London most weeks, free to do what the hell he wants, while Mum curates her small but growing menagerie. It began with one kitten but then became three, a pair of pedigree spaniels and the horse Phil bought her soon after discovering he’d be a father for the third time. To soften the blow, he said. Despite the fact Patsy can’t ride.’
Alma stares at Pete open-mouthed.
Why has he said nothing of any of this before?
‘I’m sorry,’ he concludes. ‘I probably should have said something sooner, but having avoided it I realised I needed to tell you now, before we arrive, so you’ll be prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’
’The unexpected. Usually she’s fine but sometimes she’s… less so.’ Pete shrugs. ‘You just don’t know.’
Alma mulls over what’s just been said before she continues. ‘It’s good Phil set her up, though, isn’t it? I mean, in her own place.’
‘Oh yes,’ Pete replies, snappily. ‘That’s Phil, all right. He’s all heart.’
* * *
At last, they turn off the country road onto an unmade track at the end of which is a large, tile-hung house. At the main entrance, Pete pulls to a halt then climbs out to open the white five-bar gate. Once inside, they park by an old stable block. Alma stares up at the building’s black-framed windows and high-pitched roof. Though only an artful recreation of a period country pile, the house is far grander than she expected.
A dark-eyed figure with thick, waist-length hair appears at the front door before they can ring the bell. Alma guesses she is in her late twenties, with pink lips and a freckled face. The woman smiles, but not at Alma. As her plump mouth curves, it is clear that her attention is set on just one person. She tilts her head coquettishly towards Pete.
‘Hey little cousin,’ the stranger murmurs, silkily. As she speaks her chest heaves beneath the close-fitting cashmere cardigan she wears buttoned-up over high-waisted jeans. ‘Patsy’s in the kitchen. Come on in.’
Alma holds back, waiting to be introduced, but before Pete can oblige, the woman has disappeared into a side room and he is striding in, towards the back of the house.
Alma gently closes the front door.
Looking around her, she registers the carpet with its meticulously vacuumed deep pile. The wide wooden staircase dominating the hall with its vaulted ceiling above. The sound of men’s voices from behind the half-closed doorway of what must be a sitting room to her left. Guided by the distant sound of Pete’s laughter, she heads down a short stone-flagged passageway past the dining room with its large oak table set for six then turns right into a large kitchen.
A slim woman with ivory, back-brushed hair scooped back from her face by a navy hair band, is standing at the cooker basting a large shoulder of beef. Unable to see Pete, Alma is uncertain if or how best to introduce herself until he suddenly appears from behind a large cabinet at the far end of the room holding the bunch of flowers he has brought behind his back.
‘Mum?’ he calls. ‘Meet Alma. Alma, Patsy.’
Pete’s mother quickly slides the roasting tray back into the oven then turns towards Alma. An uncomfortable silence dominates the room as the older woman, her face heavily made up and glistening in the heat from the stove, carefully appraises her guest, while Alma juggles with the awkwardness of calling mothers by their Christian names.
Then instinct kicks in.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hamilton.’
‘Oh call me Patsy, for God’s sake, everybody does,’ the older woman chuckles, tossing her oven gloves onto the kitchen counter. Her voice, is loud with a breathless edge from too much smoking. She rubs the palms of her hands on a tea towel, then grabs a half-drunk whisky and soda. ‘Come in. Have a drink. What can I get you – sherry? You look the type.’ She turns towards her son. ‘Get her a glass will you, luv.’
As Patsy turns back to the hob, lifting a lid to inspect the contents of a boiling saucepan, Pete gets Alma a drink then fills a vase with water for the flowers.
‘You didn’t tell me Chrissie would be joining us,’ he says.
‘Didn’t I?’ his mother answers. ‘She came with Brian. Now come on, don’t look at me like that, Pete. What else could I do? They’ve been going out a while.’
‘Brian from Number Nineteen?’ Alma asks, remembering the helpful barman.
Patsy nods. ‘And my niece. Pete doesn’t approve but as I keep telling him—’ She drops her voice. ‘It’s OK, they’re not really cousins because Brian’s a bastard.’
‘Mum!’ Pete objects, trying not to laugh.
‘Oh you know what I mean,’ Patsy exclaims. ‘Just like you know I think he’s a total dear. And a miracle, too.’ She leans towards Alma. ‘For years, you know, everyone thought Phil was a Jaffa,’ she confides in an indiscreet whisper. ‘Fired blanks? But Brian, well, he’s living proof that Phil’s all man!’
As Alma chokes on her drink, a figure appears in the kitchen doorway.
’What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, Chrissie,’ Pete soothes, turning towards his cousin who is watching with folded arms and a petulant frown. ‘Come and meet Alma.’
‘Hi,’ says Alma, taking a step forward.
Chrissie’s face twitches. ‘Good to meet you,’ she says without enthusiasm, then turns away.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Patsy sighs, taking another large sip from her glass. ‘She’s just jealous, that’s all. Your cousin’s always had a soft spot for you, hasn’t she,’ she adds, turning towards her son.
‘For goodness’ sake, Mum,’ Pete begs. ‘Please don’t start.’
A short while later, Patsy loads up Alma with cutlery
and side plates to finish the laying of the dining room table while Pete helps make some gravy. The room is large, with French windows that open into the back garden and a large fireplace on the wall directly opposite. Along the mantelpiece, framed photos are arranged beneath a striking painting of an Asian woman with a blue-green face, scarlet lips and jet-black hair staring down from the wall.
Alma lays the table. When she is done, she turns towards the family portraits, the largest of which is in the centre in a silver frame. It is of Pete’s mother and Phil on their wedding day, which strikes Alma as strange given how distraught Patsy was left by their split. To its left is an assortment of elderly relatives with some of the men dressed in military uniform. To its right is a photo of two young boys in school uniform one of whom, though only eleven or twelve, is surely Pete. The features of the other, perhaps a little older, seem familiar though she can’t place why.
‘Haven’t changed much, have we?’
Flustered, Alma spins around to see Brian casually leaning against the door. Dressed in dark trousers and a white pressed shirt, he looks just as he did when she last saw him behind the bar of the club only this time he is cradling his own drink – a tumbler of whisky. Her eyes dart back towards the picture. ‘Is that you?’
Brian nods. ‘With Pete.’
‘You were at school together.’
‘Yes. We lived a few streets apart – me with my mum, Pete with his… and my dad.’ Alma nods, unsure how best to respond without sounding rude. ‘Don’t worry. You’re right. It was odd. But it worked, kind of, because Pete and I have always got on. Even though the two of us have always been very different. I lived and dreamed football while he was always reading and drawing.’ He smiles. ‘Do you need a hand?’
Alma shakes her head. ‘Thanks, but I’m done.’
With a single gulp, Brian finishes his drink then gestures towards the French windows. In the shadows, a piece of furniture draped a decorative cloth. ‘You should check out the piano – it’s meant to be a good one.’ His gaze drops to his glass. ‘Time for a refill, I think. What’s your poison?’
‘Another sherry would be nice.’
As Brian’s footsteps recede along the stone-flagged corridor that leads back to the kitchen, Alma monitors the jovial conversation from the room next door where Chrissie is speaking to a man dressed in chequered trousers and a yellow roll-neck jumper. This must be Derek, the final guest Pete told her about – a neighbour who has become Patsy’s close friend and confidant since being widowed a few months ago. The man is trying to explain the rules of cricket but Pete’s cousin is either too disinterested to care or pretending to be so to wind him up.
Making her way towards the French windows, Alma stares out into the garden onto an unkempt lawn pitted with holes half dug by Patsy’s dogs. Turning towards the piano, she lifts the cover.
It is an upright Blüthner, the same make as the baby grand her parents have at home, and when she raises the lid and lightly presses a key the instrument doesn’t sound too badly out of tune. She pulls out the stool and takes a seat. Carefully spreading her fingers, she lets the tip of her pads gently rest against the polished ivory.
Closing her eyes, she thinks back to the distant Christmas when her father had their piano delivered. How solemnly the three of them stood in silence, watching, as two delivery men in white overalls gently eased the instrument into place. How her father had opened the instrument’s lid – reverentially, almost – as soon as they were alone. Then, beckoned forward, she’d been placed upon the stool.
When you play just play, they told her. Never mind who listens to you.
Years later she found out this was something Schumann said.
‘You!’ a sudden voice exclaims, chilling the room like a blast of icy air. Caught off guard, Alma’s hands shake and as she spins around on her seat, the piano lid slams shut with an electric crack. ‘Yes, you!’ the voice repeats. Gravelly and low, it comes from the squat man now occupying the space between where she sits and the French windows, which now stand ajar. ‘It’s not a toy, you know.’
‘Of course not,’ Alma objects. The stranger takes a step towards her and as he does she finds herself overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of him. But at the same time she feels anger. ‘It’s the same as the one I learned to play on many years ago,’ she continues. ‘I study music.’
‘You study music, do you?’ the man echoes with a smile that reveals a chipped front tooth. He is bald and thick of neck, with grey, close-set eyes and the saddle nose of a one-time boxer. But as he bends close, the warmth of his breath makes Alma’s head spin and for a heartbeat all she can think of is being in that hotel room with Leonard in Vienna.
No, a voice inside her cries as she ducks out of the stranger’s reach and springs onto her feet. Do not let him intimidate you.
‘Know any Ella Fitzgerald?’ the man demands. ‘Or Sinatra? You know, classy stuff.’
Sensing the threat has now passed, Alma tries not to smile her relief. Instead, she nods. She had taught herself the piano accompaniments from Strangers In The Night, one of her mother’s favourite LPs, the Christmas before Vienna and had played a number of the songs at the New Year’s Eve party her parents had hosted that year.
Christ, the voice inside her shudders, adjusting its aim. How biddable you used to be. Little better than a performing seal.
‘Of course,’ Alma retorts, tartly.
The stranger narrows his eyes. ‘Summer Wind?’
She purses her lips. ‘You’re Driving Me Crazy.’
As he stares at her she wonders if she might have gone too far and offended Patsy’s rude friend. But then with a single, staccato laugh his mood abruptly lightens.
‘Please, play,’ he urges.
Taking a deferential step back, the man motions towards a second figure Alma didn’t see enter the room, who now sits perched on the edge of a spare dining chair by the old oak bureau the far side of the French windows. The woman, who looks barely old enough to be out of school, is wearing a knee-length fur coat. Her face is drawn, partially hidden beneath wet, dyed-blonde hair. And in her lap, she is cradling what looks like a sheepskin car coat in gloved hands.
Alma guesses this must be her inquisitor’s daughter.
‘Go on,’ the man presses. ‘Show us you’re as light on the ivories as you are on the eye.’
Once more seated at the piano, Alma starts with the opening bars of ‘Strangers In The Night’ and is swiftly transported by the melody and Sinatra’s familiar voice serenading her inside her head. Though she has played many times before in public, rarely if ever has it been like this – interpreting the music as she goes along; with no one standing on the sidelines grading her performance. No pursuit of perfection. Just music as it should be: a living, breathing thing.
Looking up every now and then, Alma sees her tiny audience watching, rapt.
Perhaps I can do it – make a career of this, she thinks. Not as a classical performer but playing other kinds of music, entertaining people live like this; recording, even. The thought has never even crossed her mind, though it has long been a dream of Viola’s. For her roommate is determined to become a singer and is already regularly contributing vocals for Geoff’s band – a prog rock group which is starting to gain some serious attention.
This must be how Viola feels, Alma realises. Special.
‘Oh Alma, that’s really lovely,’ Patsy declares, suddenly appearing in the doorway. But as she steps into the room, the dish of roast potatoes she’s holding out slips from her hand and falls to the floor. ‘Oh now look what you made me do,’ she exclaims, dropping to her knees. ‘What are you doing here?’ she mumbles without looking up as she stifles a sob. For a moment Alma fears Pete’s mother is addressing her. ‘Why have you come?’
Derek appears in the open doorway with oven gloves on. He is closely followed by Pete and Brian, who is carrying a carving plate on which sits a large shoulder of beef. ’Patsy, is everything—’ Derek begins but then as he s
tares at the unexpected guests, the colour draining from his face, his head drops and his voice falters. ‘Ah.’
‘Here, let me,’ says Alma, slipping to Patsy’s side to help gather up the roast potatoes into the tea towel that, until seconds earlier, Pete’s mother had held wrapped around the side of the dish to keep her hands from burning. ‘They’ll be fine, I’m sure. Let’s put them in another serving dish.’
‘What do you want?’ Pete demands, stepping into the room. Only as he squares up to his stepfather a short distance away does Alma see the meat carving knife clutched in his right hand. Phil takes a step forwards and as his stepson’s right arm tenses, Alma’s insides lurch. ‘I said,’ Pete begins, determined to stand his ground, ‘why are you here?’
‘We came to see Patsy, didn’t we, Cyn?’ But the blonde woman still perching on the edge of the wooden chair is now searching for something in the car coat’s inside pocket. Without looking up, she nods. ‘To pay our respects.’ As the woman finds what she is looking for and pulls free a packet of cigarettes, she nods again. ‘And because we have something we wanted to tell her, isn’t that right?’
‘We do?’ asks Cynthia. Her eyes jump between her audience’s expectant faces as she puts a cigarette in her mouth.
‘Go on, then,’ Phil urges, proudly. As he offers his lighter, Chrissie slips into the room and takes up position by Brian’s side.
Cyn inhales.
‘Tell them,’ Phil prompts, pointing to her hand.
For a moment Cyn looks baffled until something dawns on her. Pulling off her glove, she waggles her left hand. On the third finger is a silver ring with an emerald setting beside a thin gold band. ‘Well,’ the girl begins, self-consciously. ‘We only just got married, that’s all!’
‘Married?’ Patsy cries.