In the end, Anna’s route out of her self-imposed musical exile came from an unexpected direction. Among her many travelling companions on the way to Santiago de Compostela was Luisa, a New Yorker who was celebrating her retirement by walking the Camino. The two had kept each other company for three days and struck up quite a friendship. Luisa had practised as a psychotherapist for many years before moving into music therapy. She told Anna all about her work with drug addicts and prisoners, explaining how transformational music therapy could be even in the most intractable cases.
‘She was absolutely inspirational, Dad!’ said Anna. ‘But the great thing is, it’s not just for adults. We talked about . . . well, everything, really. Me. What happened. And she told me that there’s a real need for people to work with babies and toddlers. Little children. That’s what I want to do.’
‘Are you . . . quite sure about this?’ asked William. Even as he spoke, he knew that Anna was set on the idea. More importantly, this new scheme appeared to be part of a recovered, no, transformed, Anna. Frankly, if she’d told him she was planning to retrain as a forklift truck driver, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. The fact that she was fired up about the future was all that mattered.
Somehow, in spite of the fact that the deadline for applications had long since passed, with a little help from her former tutor she talked her way onto an MA course at the Guildhall. And she had taken to it like a duck to water. Loved it. Found work, first through the County Hospital and then a day centre in Farmleigh. She worked with profoundly disabled babies and children. Got quite a reputation for her work with mothers who’d suffered post-natal depression and struggled to bond. And eventually, started playing her cello again.
When Anna died, William had his doubts about whether he would ever be able to return to the piano. He had played throughout her illness, it was true; having something to concentrate on (he was working his way through Beethoven’s sonatas at the time) was the only way he seemed able to loosen the cold knot of fear that otherwise clenched his insides. The sheer effort of concentration required provided distraction, and the music itself brought some comfort.
‘How . . . can you?’ Ruth asked, hearing him play a couple of days after Anna’s funeral. She stood leaning against the doorjamb of the music room, nursing a mug of tea in both hands. He was afraid she thought him unfeeling.
‘I don’t know how. Wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to,’ he said. ‘But I think I know why. It reminds me . . . connects me . . . to her. Speaks the unspeakable. When no words will do. Does that make any sense?’
Ruth nodded slowly, and came properly into the room. She squeezed his shoulder as she walked past the piano and lowered herself onto the faded red velvet sofa. ‘Don’t stop. What is it?’
‘Beethoven,’ he said. ‘Allegedly. Tricky chord progression. Want to get it right if I can.’
It had become a treasured part of their routine. Practice in the morning, as before. Scales, arpeggios, note-bashing. The heavy lifting. Then, after supper, when they’d cleared the table and he’d washed the dishes, Ruth would pour them both a glass of wine or a cup of tea, and he would play for a second time. He chose his evening repertoire quite deliberately with Anna in mind. Her presence hovered in the room. Pieces she’d played, composers she’d loved. He was quite clear in his own mind that he wasn’t playing to her, exactly, but for her. In her memory, on her behalf. And above all, for Ruth’s pleasure and his own comfort.
Tamsin was talking excitedly on her mobile phone. ‘Sure, leave it with me, Ian. I’ll get right back to you. No worries. Ciao for now, mate!’
‘Good news?’ asked William. He liked Tamsin. Decorative, of course. But also one of life’s can-do people. A godsend with the children when Anna went off to Spain. And at the end. A good friend to the whole family.
‘Too right!’ she said. ‘The Beeb are interested in sending a camera along on Saturday. I was hoping we might get a radio OB but I reckon this is better. Viewing figures for early evening TV news are top banana. It’s a great way to boost donations. What d’you reckon?’
‘Um . . . OB?’
‘Sorry! Outside broadcast. Where we take the programme out of the studio. We might still get something on the radio for Sunday. But some TV coverage would be great. D’you think Father Steve’ll go for it?’
‘Better ask him,’ said William. ‘But actually the person you really ought to consult is Theo. What does it involve?’
‘Ah. Sure thing,’ she said. ‘Guess you’re right. Well, they’ll want to walk for a bit. See the landscape. Get some general footage. Do some one-to-ones. You know, what are we doing, how’s it going, tell us about Anna, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Don’t you think . . .’ William paused for a second, wondering how best to express himself. ‘Your world, not mine. No clue about this sort of thing. But is there a danger it could be . . . a tad intrusive?’
‘What could be intrusive?’ Theo appeared at his side.
‘Got the TV on our case,’ said Tamsin excitedly. ‘Local TV that is. I’m stoked!’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Ah, c’mon, Theo. It’d be great for our profile! We’ve got a really solid following on Twitter now. Loads of retweets. #walkforanna’s really taken off. Almost five grand raised. People love us!’
‘Us?’
‘The story. The concept. The fundraising.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be a story. Or a concept,’ said Theo.
‘Nor me,’ said William. ‘On the other hand . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I assume you know these people, Tamsin?’
‘Too right. They’re going to send Nicky. She’s great. Nice as pie. Really knows her stuff.’
‘So, would you be able to, I don’t know. Control things?’
‘Reckon so. Pretty much.’
‘What’s your point, William?’ asked Theo.
‘Not up to me. But it strikes me that the children might be tickled by it. Good to up the fundraising, too. Remind people about two fine causes. Presumably Tamsin can set some ground rules. Stage manage things.’
‘When do you need an answer?’ asked Theo.
‘End of play today?’
‘Let me think about it, then. And talk to Father Stephen.’
9½ miles
Theo
Theo woke up conscious that he had enjoyed a good eight hours’ sleep. Since Anna’s death his nights had all too often been fitful, interrupted by vivid dreams and night sweats. He was used to starting his days angrily wrenched into consciousness by the insistence of the alarm clock, apparently only moments after he had finally fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember when he had last slept through a night. As a result, his head felt clearer this morning than it had for months. The familiar dull ache behind his eyes was pleasantly absent. So too was the sick dread that always set in the moment he realized – all over again – that he was alone in bed.
Stretching out, he found himself even more surprised that he’d achieved a good night’s sleep: at six foot four, he was uncomfortably too tall for the single bed. Other than that, the Priory guesthouse was more than adequate. When Stephen had first proposed it, Theo had had his doubts about staying there, both because it was some distance from the route and also, if he was honest, because he rather dreaded the thought of staying in a religious community. He was afraid there would be hidden rules that he wouldn’t know how to obey, that they’d all have to be on their best behaviour. That it would be austere and uncomfortable.
But it hadn’t been like that at all. The complex was beautiful – medieval, at a guess – and the welcome unobtrusive yet warm. He’d been admiring the stunning wisteria that entirely covered one side of the pilgrim barn when one of the brothers approached and struck up conversation.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Our pride and joy at this time of year,’ he said. ‘If you’re interested in the glories of nature, you might like to have a wander round the Peace Garden.’
A
nd the garden had been wonderful. A real oasis. It had been established a few years ago thanks to Lottery funding and a great deal of dedication by volunteers. It was made up of a series of smaller, themed gardens, all designed to foster tranquillity through a soothing colour palette combined with delicate floral scents and the gentle sound of running water.
‘Life seems to be so pressured these days that people often arrive here exhausted,’ said the brother, without judgement. ‘This place is designed to be restful. Somewhere we can allow ourselves to be human beings, instead of human doings for a change. Make yourself at home. Take as long as you like.’
And Theo had done just that, risking the ire of Mary Anne by deliberately losing track of time. Luckily she’d been distracted by the arrival of David with a large Tupperware of cupcakes, beautifully iced in an array of pastel shades. (‘A bit last year, I know, but such fun, don’t you think?’)
Meanwhile, Theo had simply enjoyed the sensory feast before him, taking time out from the burden of sadness to live for a few moments in the present. He sat on a pretty wrought-iron bench and closed his eyes. His limbs felt pleasantly tired after the day’s walk. He could feel the early evening sunshine on his face. He thought of Anna, his dear darling Anna. He felt the familiar tug of agony and longing. He had the sudden image of his grief as a rucksack full of rocks that he was heaving about everywhere he went. Heavy, uncomfortable. Digging awkwardly into his back. Exhausting. If only he could take it off, just for an hour or two!
While he couldn’t set aside his grief, could he at least set it down for a moment? Could he – what was Father Stephen’s expression? – lay it at the foot of the altar? Tentatively at first, as if he was probing a bruise to see how much it hurt, he pictured himself taking off the rucksack and putting it on the bench next to him. He consciously tried to move away from his instinctive thoughts of the loss of Anna to thoughts of love for her. He summoned her memory – oh, where to start! – and simply enjoyed it, without regret. Her laughter. Her freckled skin. Her perfect smell. Words of affection, daily small acts of love. That fundraising concert at All Saints last year, where she’d played with such passion. A wordless conversation at that awful Christmas party. Please rescue me. On my way. He’d been so fortunate to have her in his life. Yes, there had been ups and downs. But so much happiness, so many blessings. Of course he yearned for her. He felt he’d lost a limb. He missed her with every fibre of his being. But as he sat on the garden bench, he felt some of the bubbling anger that for the last few months had boiled within him leak away.
Was that why he had slept? His moment in the garden? Or was it the work of the week’s walk? Whatever the cause, he felt lighter this morning, if that was the right word. Marginally more human. As if . . . well, as if there just might be better days ahead. Even the tedious tinnitus of his father’s voice seemed to have receded. He began to think that perhaps there was room for optimism. That one day this searing pain would fade and be replaced by something more bearable. Oh, heck – the time! Time he was up. He needed to check on Sam; he did hope there’d been no repeat of the previous night’s accident. He must find Beth. Put on his public face. Face the day.
Father Stephen allowed them a slower than usual start. There were only nine and a half miles to walk today, so even allowing for the time needed to shuttle the walkers back to the starting point on the Pilgrims’ Way, they could afford to dawdle for a change.
Theo was relieved to find Sam’s bed empty, but dry. The boys had taken themselves off to the dining room and were happily filling their plates with breakfast. Theo scanned the room for Beth, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Probably still in the shower. Mary Anne (as ever) appeared to be in charge. She and David were engaged in an impassioned argument.
‘Honestly, David! How can you possibly loathe Nigella?’
‘Because she’s not Mary Berry, that’s why! And with Bake Off you get the divine Paul Hollywood, so it’s two for the price of one. I wouldn’t mind being his star baker!’
What a relief it was, not always having to be the grown-up! That was one of the things he realized he found hardest to adapt to, as a single parent. There was no one to share even the most trivial of decisions, let alone the big stuff. Theo loaded his plate with breakfast and went to sit down. Afterwards, once he’d helped clear the table and chivvied the boys, he went in search of Ruth. If she and William were here with time to spare, he wanted to make sure she didn’t miss out on the garden. They spent a happy twenty minutes wandering around, until she steered him towards the same bench he’d sat on the evening before.
‘Theo, we need to talk,’ she said, seriously. ‘It’s Beth. I’m worried about her.’
‘Beth?’ said Theo, surprised. ‘I thought she was doing rather well. Where are we? Day seven and seventy-two miles behind us and she’s still with us. I thought she might have bailed out by now. I’d even say she was having a certain amount of fun. Don’t you think?’
‘Well, yes. All true. But have you noticed what happens at mealtimes?’
‘No, what?’
‘She disappears. Makes herself scarce. She’s as thin as a rake. Wraps herself in layers so you can’t really see, but I think we’ve got a problem.’
Theo thought for a moment. ‘It’s not that I haven’t noticed, exactly. But I thought it was . . . well, teenage faddiness about food, I suppose. Shedding a bit of puppy fat.’
‘I fear,’ said Ruth, ‘that it’s altogether more serious than that. She worries too much. About Sam. Her exams. About everything. I’m rather afraid this has been building for years. Right back to when she was little. We were all so absorbed with the business of getting through each day. Looking after Sam. And she was always so good and eager to please, it was easy to overlook her. And now she’s lost her mother . . .’
‘Oh God!’ Theo exclaimed. ‘Why does everything have to be so difficult? What the hell I am I going to do?’
‘Talk to her,’ said Ruth. ‘Or better still, listen to her. Really listen. Then maybe make an appointment with your GP when we get home next week?’
Theo groaned. One step forward, and two steps back. A good night’s sleep and now a horrible new fear on the worry list. How could he have missed what was right under his nose? Was he a neglectful father as well as a worthless husband? Was he really so self-absorbed that he’d ignored his daughter’s pain? Or was Ruth wrong? Exaggerating a minor concern into a serious problem?
‘But dear Theo . . .’ she continued, taking his hand in his. Both were rough, weather-beaten. Gardeners’ hands. ‘You’re not on your own, here. Never forget that. We’re all struggling without our darling Anna. But William and I will do anything we possibly can to help.’
It was late morning before Theo managed to catch up with Beth. They’d ended up in different vehicles going to the start of the walk, and anyway he needed to talk to her on her own. The day’s walk started in a country park with a steep clamber up a hill to a ruined Norman castle. Beth tore up the slope, easily outpacing the other teenagers, and then proceeded to play tag with Milo, George and Tamsin, sending Smith into paroxysms of delighted barking. She looks OK to me, thought Theo. But she wasn’t at breakfast today, answered another, more worrying voice. And what about yesterday? The day before?
There then followed a series of steep steps – up, down, up and down again – which required concentration and care. He finally managed to get her to himself when they were walking along a ridge, alongside a large area of woodland.
‘Beth! I’ve hardly seen you this last week,’ he said. ‘Walk with your old dad for a bit?’
Beth was fiddling with her phone. He could hear a snatch of ‘The Long and Winding Road’ played on the saxophone. Since when had Beth discovered the Beatles? He willed her to look up. ‘’Kay,’ she answered finally, shrugging. A couple more taps, and she shoved her phone deep into her pocket.
‘So . . . how’s it going?’ he asked, relieved to have her attention.
‘Yeah. All right, I guess.’
/> ‘Legs surviving? Managing OK in those boots?’
‘Yeah. All good.’
She wasn’t making it easy for him. ‘I’m sorry you missed that party. Has Natasha been in touch?’
‘It’s, like, fine. Sounded majorly tragic, if you really want to know. Loser city.’
‘Well, that’s a relief, then.’ Beth shot him a look. ‘I mean . . . I thought you were really disappointed about missing it.’
‘That was . . . then,’ she said. Theo detected – what? a secretive smile? – cross her face. Don’t ask, don’t blow it.
‘Er, good. So, what else is anyone up to this half-term?’
‘God, Dad. Isn’t it obvious? Revision, of course. Like, GCSEs?’
‘Ah! Of course. GCSEs.’ How could he have forgotten? That awful parents’ evening. ‘I always dreaded exams when I was your age. Got horribly nervous. Mind went blank. Not my strong point. Suspect your mother flew through them.’
‘Well, she had, like, a system?’
‘A system? How on earth do you know that? And what sort of system, anyway?’
‘So, Granny told me. Lots of index cards. All alphabetical. Highlighter pens. You know.’
‘Sounds like Mum and her lists.’
‘Yeah, except one awful time she’d used, like, washable ink for her notes. Like, one of those fountain pens you used in the old days? And the highlighter pen dissolved the writing underneath. Appaz Mum went ballistic.’
‘Oh, heck! Poor old Mum. I never knew that. Still, she did all right. In her exams, I mean. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Have you got a system? Like Mum’s? Maybe not index cards, but something more twenty-first century?’
‘God, Dad, what do you think?’
‘Um . . . do I take it that’s a “No”?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Dad!’ Beth was shouting now. Her face was white with rage. ‘How do you expect me to revise when I’m on this stupid bloody walk? I can’t exactly carry my files with me, can I? I don’t know why you’ve got to cross-examine me about my exams anyway! Who bloody cares? What does it matter how I do? Who gives a shit?’ And with that, she marched off.
Knowing Anna Page 17