Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  Ahead he could see Father Stephen and Theo in animated conversation. Behind him, he could hear the voices of Mary Anne, Catherine and Tamsin. He was glad to observe Sam walking more evenly with the aid of the walking poles. Ruth would miss his company today, but she would be delighted by his recovery. ‘How are you getting on, young fellow?’ he asked.

  ‘Great, thanks, Grandpa. These poles are cool.’

  ‘Helps having something to lean on, doesn’t it? Rely on my stick. Always have.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘My father – your great-grandfather – gave it to me. Round the time I was at Cambridge. Carved it for himself, but in the end he had to give up walking. Gammy knee. Awful bore.’

  ‘Like Granny?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said William.

  ‘But you’re OK, Grandpa?’ Sam looked anxious.

  ‘Right as rain, old boy. No need to worry about me. Tell you what, though. When – if – I slow down, perhaps you’d take charge of my stick? Nice piece of ash. Like to keep it in the family.’

  ‘Yeah. Wicked!’ said Sam eagerly. William left him chatting cheerfully with Milo and George, who were taking it in turns to throw a ball for Smith. It looked as if Sam’s wet bed had escaped their notice. One less worry.

  Beth, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten her indignation and made up with Chloe. ‘Honestly, Grandpa, she’s such a retard . . .’ she’d told him earlier that morning. ‘Why did she have to bring her stupid GHDs, anyway? It’s not exactly a fashion moment, is it? Like . . . duh . . . who cares?’

  ‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ said William, getting the gist, if not the detail, of Beth’s complaint. ‘Annoying, yes. But surely not a hanging offence?’

  Seeing the ghost of a smile cross her face, he pushed on. ‘Do I take it you don’t make use of this . . . GBH malarkey . . . yourself?’

  ‘GHDs, Grandpa.’ Beth raised her eyes heavenwards in amusement. ‘Course I don’t. Can you picture me with ironed hair? I’d look totally gross.’

  Now the two girls were walking side by side, perfectly companionably. How exhausting all that adolescent emotion was! Along with Lucy and Ella, they were singing one of those repetitive songs you might chant round a campfire at guide camp. One girl – no, unmistakably Beth – sang a line, and the others came back with a response. At this distance he couldn’t pick out the words, but whatever they were, the song was punctuated by regular bursts of laughter. He could hear Beth’s musical ear carrying the tune to perfection.

  Really, that girl could sing like an angel. A rich, throaty, jazz tone. Not a traditional choral sound, but a shame nonetheless she’d dropped out of the church choir. She had perfect pitch, like her mother, if he wasn’t mistaken. At least she was still playing her saxophone. Rather well, if that last school concert had been anything to go by. He’d been enormously proud of her solo performance in Big Band just before Christmas. How wonderful that Anna had been in the audience, even if the effort of getting there had knocked her for six. William hoped passionately that Beth would persevere with her music. She might not be destined to become a classical performer like Anna. He wasn’t entirely sure that she had the ability or the temperament for the professional circuit. But there was a very real sense in which Beth came alive when she played. Just as her mother had done.

  He was aware, though, that Anna’s legacy was a complicated one. It could so easily be a pressure on children, feeling they had to match up to their parents. Of course Anna wanted them to discover her delight in music, just as William had wanted to pass on the baton a generation earlier. But she’d been very clear that they shouldn’t be forced into it, that they must find their own way.

  ‘It’s got to be fun,’ she said, when Beth came back from a piano lesson in tears. ‘I’m not at all sure it’s her instrument. If she wants to give up, I’m not going to force her.’

  Privately William had wondered if this was such a good idea. Like anything in life, learning an instrument required nothing less than sheer grind at times. Practice, practice, practice. Self-discipline and commitment. Not that they’d ever had to push Anna into it. Far from it. Interrupting her playing to insist that she turned her attention to homework had been the battle. Or to run about in the fresh air. But Anna had been quite right. Beth gave up the piano with relief. Not many months later she picked up the clarinet, and a couple of years afterwards the saxophone. And hadn’t looked back. He must ask her round, soon, so that they could play some duets. Someone needed to keep encouraging her, and in this instance he wasn’t sure Theo was quite up to the mark. He’d sell it to her as doing him a favour, indulging him. Helping him to keep his fingers from stiffening up any more.

  It crossed William’s mind that this week was the first time for nearly eight years that his days hadn’t begun with an hour at the piano. It had been a present to himself, on retirement: a commitment to bring his playing up to the best possible standard he could manage. While he still had all his marbles. Actually, a way of trying to hang on to his marbles, too. Essential to keep the brain active. He’d seen too many chaps slide into oblivion as soon as they gave up work. He’d always played, of course – and he’d been a church organist for donkey’s years – but never to the standard he had achieved as a young man. He’d steeled himself for disappointment and frustration, knowing perfectly well that his brain didn’t work as fast as it used to, let alone his fingers. There was something melancholy in the realization that he’d never return to the peak of his powers.

  He started cautiously, with a series of daily scales and arpeggios in an attempt to force his synapses into cooperation. Then he moved on to some old favourites: Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, a collection of rather lovely Bach Preludes and Fugues, some more manageable Mozart. Somewhat to his surprise, it came flooding back. Bolder, he braved Beethoven and Chopin. He knew that he would never be more than a merely competent pianist – and the showy acrobatics of Liszt and Rachmaninov would doubtless always be beyond him – but he definitely improved with practice. More to the point, playing every day brought him incalculable satisfaction and joy.

  He wondered all over again how his life might have turned out if he’d studied Music at university. At the age of seventeen he’d wanted to, so passionately. His music had been the one bright light of his school days, largely thanks to Mr Miller, an inspirational master, whom the boys naturally called Glenn. Although to be truthful, he was considerably more interested in classical than band music. School – a minor public school that made up the numbers by offering generous scholarships to the sons of the clergy – had been otherwise pretty bleak. Britain was creaking under the strains of post-war austerity and William’s main memories were of being wretchedly cold and permanently hungry.

  During his endless first term – a period clouded by misery, homesickness and an acute sense of betrayal that his brother Richard hadn’t warned him quite how grim it would all be – he had somehow found his way to the music school and sought solace in the piano. The little practice room with the tired upright piano became his refuge. A few days later Mr Miller had found him there and put his head round the door.

  ‘Not at all bad,’ he said. ‘Been learning long?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said William, flustered. ‘I mean, yes, sir.’

  ‘Which do you mean? And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Meadows Minor, sir. I mean that I’ve never had proper lessons. Mother taught me. The basics.’

  ‘And are you having lessons here?’

  William blushed. His father had made it clear that his scholarship didn’t stretch to extras. Piano lessons were out of the question. Mr Miller, sensing his discomfort, nodded sagely and said, ‘Leave it with me, Meadows. I’ll see what I can do.’

  After that, school became marginally better. Every Monday he missed morning break and half of Geography (no great loss) and instead Miss Evans taught him the piano. Although not exactly motherly, she was at least a woman, a rarity in the otherwise ruthlessly all-male environment.
Somehow that was a comfort and reminded him of home, his mother and four sisters. More to the point, she was an excellent teacher. She took him back to basics and totally overhauled his technique, and while that had its frustrations to begin with, even at thirteen he could see the benefits of laying sound foundations if he was ever going to make any real progress. And the practice she set him provided a cast-iron excuse to escape the worst horrors of the common room and the rugger pitch.

  By the time he was in his penultimate year and considering his future, he was fairly set on studying Music. His father, though, had other ideas. Although he was now a bishop and money was correspondingly a little less tight in the Meadows household, he indicated that if William expected any financial support he would need to study something useful. Preferably a sensible subject such as law or medicine that would lead to a career and a reliable income. William fought as hard as he dared but his father – of whom he’d always been slightly afraid – proved implacable. Eventually he capitulated and agreed to apply to Cambridge to read Mathematics. The decision granted him the smallest whiff of victory, because his father – for all his mastery of Hebrew and New Testament Greek – was pretty well innumerate and went to great pains to ensure that this embarrassing weakness never came to public notice.

  Looking back from the vantage point of his eighth decade, William couldn’t really complain. He’d genuinely enjoyed the study of maths (like music, it was full of patterns and puzzles), and his degree had opened the door to a tolerably fulfilling career in the City. He’d been able to provide for his family a level of material comfort that his parents could only have dreamt of. Far more important, of course, Cambridge had brought him Ruth, his beloved life companion, the bedrock on which he had built his adult life. More precious than rubies, as the Book of Proverbs had it. And all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.

  Thinking of Ruth drew his attention to the fact that they were almost certainly heading into another nature reserve now. They had left the noisy road behind and were wending their way up a slow-climbing chalky track. Ruth had warned him to look out for orchids. He ought to check in with Sam, involve him a bit in the search. Though he looked happy enough at this distance. It was a shame that Ruth couldn’t walk with them, but it was far too demanding. His own knees were beginning to feel the strain after five days on the trot. But he could, he would, keep going. No doubt about that.

  ‘Glorious voice, your granddaughter’s blessed with.’ Father Stephen fell into stride with William. ‘Even singing nonsense songs. We miss her at All Saints.’

  William grunted, concealing the pride that flooded his chest. He was immeasurably pleased that Stephen had noticed.

  ‘I don’t imagine you muster a choir at St Mary’s?’ continued the priest.

  ‘Hah! Not a hope. We’re too few and too old, by and large.’

  ‘Well, Aston’s a small village. Bound to be . . . challenging. Are you still the organist?’

  ‘Not often needed any more,’ said William. He wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or saddened to stand down. ‘Most services are said, nowadays, not sung. May all change, though.’

  ‘Ah, your new vicar!’ said Father Stephen. ‘I haven’t met Janet but I’ve heard great things about her.’

  So had William. Janet was young – well, under forty anyway – and said to be very lively. Before ordination she’d been a primary school teacher, and his single encounter with her suggested that she brought a schoolmistressy jollity to her second calling. She would certainly be a breath of fresh air after dear old Andrew, who’d been in the post for thirty-seven years. And ran out of steam a very long time ago. William understood that Janet had been appointed on the basis that the powers that be thought that the parishes of Upper and Lower Aston with Netherford needed a bit of a shake-up. The trouble was, William wasn’t altogether sure he wanted shaking up. Too long in the tooth. He loved the old Book of Common Prayer and the comfort it had brought him since he was a small boy. The ancient liturgy and traditions of the Church of England ran through his very veins. With his head, he knew that the Church was in danger of ossification, particularly in a little village like Aston. Common sense said change or die. But for all that, his heart rebelled. Of course he believed in equality of opportunity – look at Ruth, and all she’d achieved. Look at Anna. Let alone Kelly, his somewhat alarming daughter-in-law, who held a very senior post in a US bank. And of course he thought women should be ordained, if that was their calling. But perhaps they could exercise their ministry . . . well, somewhere else. Listen to yourself, old chap. Anna would tell you, you’re an old fart. Pull yourself together.

  ‘When does she move in?’ asked Father Stephen.

  ‘Not sure,’ said William. ‘But thanks for the reminder. Need to make her welcome in the village. Ask her round to supper and so forth. I’ll get right onto it as soon as we’re back home.’

  Lunch was arranged for the Bluebell Hill picnic area. Looking at the map that morning, William was relieved: it would be ideal for Ruth, because there was a car park right by it.

  ‘Marvellous place,’ she told William, greeting him with a kiss. ‘Last few bluebells hiding in the shade. And lots to show Sam, too. Salad burnet, bulbous buttercup, hairy violet. All confirming my reputation as a witch. How’s he bearing up today?’

  ‘All seems tickety-boo,’ said William, smiling. ‘Don’t worry. Been keeping a close eye.’ It truly was a wonderful place for a picnic. There were panoramic views over the Medway valley. Could there be any more beautiful sight than the English landscape in early summer? If only beauty wasn’t so . . . painful to witness at the moment. How dare the birds sing, the grass grow, the flowers bloom when his best beloved daughter no longer walked the earth?

  Heartbreak was such an apposite word. Sometimes it felt as if his heart truly was shattering, crumbling, falling apart. Literally disintegrating under the weight of the colossal grief pressing down upon it. William closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Oh God, oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? In an almighty act of will, he determined not to give into despair. Didn’t do, to dwell. He would lay his pain at the foot of the cross and give thanks for the blessings of her life. I have called upon thee, for thou wilt hear me, O God: incline thine ear unto me, and hear my speech. There were so many things to be thankful for. So many. Memories to sustain them all. Her laughter. Her gifts and talents, musical and other. Countless blessings. Smaller things. The day itself: sunshine, bluebells. Butterflies. The pain . . . ah! The pain would simply have to be accommodated. Prayed through. And lived with.

  ‘I think,’ said Father Stephen, ‘that we should have our reflection out of doors again. The view’s simply too glorious to ignore. So if you’ve all finished your picnics, could we gather over here, up on the ridge around these benches?’

  The area where Stephen was directing them was next to a memorial stone to an air ambulance crew who’d died in a crash, William realized. Later in the day they would use a footbridge over the A249, named after the eight-year-old child who was killed with her grandmother on the self-same spot. Then there had been that poignant Children’s Chapel in the Cathedral. As if any of them needed reminding about the fragility of life.

  Media vita in morte sumus, as the old funeral antiphon had it. In the midst of life we are in death. There was no getting away from it. He was old enough to know that. Had faced enough losses of loved ones, family and friends, to be unsurprised by death. Not that familiarity spared one pain. It was easier when one could think in terms of a life completed, rather than a life cut short, of course. He wondered, as he often did, how the clergy kept on taking funeral after funeral, preaching hope in the face of despair and grief. But that was where faith came in. The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, as the unknown writer to the Hebrews had it.

  He felt the tug of the invisible thread that bound him to Ruth, and looked round for her. Ah. She’d seen the memorial and been pained, too. He could read her like a bo
ok. How he wished she shared the consolation of his faith! It didn’t take the grief away, of course it didn’t. But it gave you somewhere to take it. A framework to live by. Ruth had skirted around the edges of belief for many years, dipping a toe in here and there to test the temperature. Seeing if an adult Christian would emerge from the pupa of her post-war upbringing, when churchgoing was rather assumed to be a form of good manners. Every now and again, she moved a little closer, then drew back when the water became too deep. Then. Well. The killer blow, nine years ago. Understandable. Perfectly understandable. All too often he himself was only hanging on by his fingernails.

  William took Ruth’s hand and led her up to the gathering spot. He unfolded her camping stool, and took a perch for himself on a corner of the picnic bench. Let others sit cross-legged on picnic rugs. Not as flexible as he used to be, not by a long chalk. On this occasion at least he was prepared to pull the age card. It was either that or risk getting humiliatingly stuck at ground level.

  Prayers for the middle of the day. The words came from the modern Common Worship, of course. But still. He enjoyed the pause in the day. He’d noticed that it had become second nature now, part of the natural flow of the day. Like cleaning your teeth or eating lunch. He wasn’t sure that many of the party were familiar with the liturgy but there was no protest, no gainsaying. Not even the teenagers demurred. Sweet girls, especially those pretty blonde sisters. Respect for Father Stephen? For Anna? Or – and he hesitated even to voice the thought – the work of the Holy Spirit over the days of pilgrimage?

  Stephen was doing a good job, he reflected. Not easy. Shame about that cock-up on the route the other day! Got everyone’s backs up. But they were probably a rum old bunch, if you stopped to think about it. As for that chap Adam . . . curious fellow. Never knew when he was going to pop up. Look at him now, hovering a short distance away, over by the hedge. Head nodding in agitation. Stephen was having a quiet word, and now Adam was settling himself on a grassy hummock, on the very furthest fringes of the gathering. Well done, Stephen.