Tamsin took out a small fabric bag from her backpack. ‘I’ve got something for each of you,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly as she unzipped it. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, it was in a firmer tone. ‘A present from Anna. She asked me to give these to you at the end of the walk.’
Starting with Theo, she went from person to person, putting in each hand a tiny MP3 player. Green for Theo, pink for Beth, blue for Sam, silver for William and orange for Ruth; the bright shades of a bag of boiled sweets. ‘Anna chose a special piece of music for each of you. Something she loved and wanted to pass on to you. She also said a few words about why she picked it. And how sorry she was to be leaving you. I recorded the messages with her the day before she died. It’s a way of sending you her love, now she’s not here any more.’
The tears were welling up again. Milo gave her hand a little squeeze. Bloody hell, she hoped they all worked. But she’d spent hours in the studio, getting hold of Anna’s specified recordings, adjusting the sound levels on her voice, charging the batteries, and checking them all a hundred times over to make sure everything worked like clockwork.
‘Thank you, Tamsin. I thought perhaps you might like to stay up here for a while afterwards, to listen. Theo, shall I begin?’
Tamsin closed her eyes, and felt the tears spill down her cheeks from under her eyelids. She tuned in and out of the words as Father Stephen spoke them. ‘Though we are dust and ashes, God has prepared for those who love him a heavenly dwelling place. At her funeral we commended Anna into the hands of almighty God. As we prepare to commit her remains to the earth, we entrust ourselves and all who love God to his loving care.’
And now Theo was speaking. ‘Goodbye, Anna. I’ll always love you.’ She opened her eyes to see him shaking the urn to scatter a cloud of ashes to the breeze.
‘Bye, Mum,’ whispered Beth.
‘Bye, bye, Mum,’ said Sam.
‘Rest in peace, darling girl,’ said William. Ruth’s words, if she spoke any as she shook the urn, were lost to the wind.
Then Father Stephen caught Tamsin’s eye, and raised his eyebrows. She glanced at Theo, who nodded his permission. She let go of Milo’s hand to take the urn.
‘Goodbye, Anna,’ she said softly, as she cast out the last few particles of ash. She fixed her eyes on the horizon, and breathed in the sharp tang of sea air, determined to fix the moment in her memory for ever. ‘I miss you, doll. You were one in a million.’
And now Father Stephen was speaking again.
‘May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand. Amen.’
Tamsin summoned up every atom of her being to send thoughts of joy and gratitude and apology, but most of all her love, to Anna, wherever she was. Then she took Milo’s hand, and started back down the slope.
Epilogue
Anna hovers in the vestry, adding rosin to her bow. In just under ten minutes, she will walk out into the chancel and take her place centre stage. Her chair awaits, the black hole endpin holder precisely placed to prevent her cello spike from slipping on the shiny tiled floor. Her music stand is just where she wants it, although she hopes to play from memory. But after such a gap since her last public performance, having the notes in front of her feels only wise.
She’s wearing her favourite green dress, with its swishy skirt, sufficiently wide to encompass the instrument. The fabric has just enough sheen that it will catch the light and sparkle slightly while she plays. All set, ready to go. A lollipop programme of well-known pieces that might not challenge the audience but seems appropriate for a fundraising event. Nothing to frighten the horses, in Father Stephen’s words. Classic FM, not Radio Three. And they are beautiful pieces, hackneyed only by their overuse in film scores and TV programmes. Bach’s First and Third Cello Suites are two of the most immediately recognizable pieces for the cello, and she knows they’ll show off the natural resonance of her instrument to full advantage. Even she has to admit that it sounded rather wonderful resounding round the church when she rehearsed this afternoon, although the frightening number of people in the audience will undoubtedly dampen the acoustic a little.
Oh, horrors! The nave is almost full. She hopes they’ve all brought cushions, because she knows from experience that those pews are horribly uncomfortable, prone to catch you in just the wrong place halfway up your back. No wonder Stephen wants rid of them. An ongoing battle with the Victorian Society. There are the great and good of Farmleigh, the chain gang, dressed in their best, sitting in the front row. Special seats to encourage generosity, hopes Stephen. A few rows back, the seats reserved for the family are as yet empty. And there on the far end sits Dominic, nearly ninety but commanding even in his wheelchair. Blind as a bat these days, and pretty immobile, but his ears (oh, help!) still in perfect working order.
After the Bach, her former flatmate Neil will accompany her in Beethoven’s glorious Third Cello Sonata. William, bless him, has had the piano tuned specially. They’ll end with a soupy bit of Rachmaninov, his Vocalise, a final tug on the audience’s heartstrings. She’s so glad that Neil is here. By some serendipitous miracle she’s caught him in a rare gap between professional engagements and he’s agreed to accompany her. She started the rehearsal full of stumbling apologies: she’s horribly out of practice, she’ll probably mess up, she’s terribly afraid of letting everyone down.
‘Anna, shut up, will you? Just get on and play,’ he said, with just enough briskness that she pulled herself together. And actually, it was OK. Fine. That tingle of excitement at the prospect of a live performance. That moment when you find your way into the place where it’s simply you and the instrument, working as one, wholly inhabiting the music, where nothing else matters. Not perfect, not brilliant. But good enough. Probably.
She’s always been nervous before performing, but never cripplingly so, thank goodness. There’s always that lurking terror that you’ll go on stage and find yourself dumbstruck, unable to play a note, or even hold the bow. Like those anxiety dreams when you’re about to take an exam for a subject you’ve never studied. Some performers suffer so badly from stage fright that they vomit before playing in public, or turn to drink or drugs to get through the ordeal. Or give up live performance altogether. The worst thing for her has always been the long walk from the wings to the stage. But she recognizes that she needs a sliver of fear, a kick of adrenalin to give of her best.
And this time . . . Can she do it? It used to be her bread-and-butter, but it’s years, aeons, since she’s performed in front of an audience. Part of her old life. The last time she played in public was at Josh’s funeral. Here, in this very building. A tide of sadness threatens to engulf her. But you knew that, she reminds herself as she submits to the emotion. You knew that when you agreed to this. Of course she did. It’s partly to thank Stephen for his loving support over the years since their loss that she’s accepted his invitation, so tentatively made, to give a recital in aid of his project to remodel the church. Partly that, and partly to put down a marker. A quiet comeback from the wilderness years, when she thought she’d renounced the cello for ever. She will play for him, her darling lost boy. For her family. For herself.
She sees that they have just arrived. Her father’s brow is furrowed. He so hates being late. Her mother (so often the cause of his lateness) is soothing him, steering him towards the reserved pew. Theo brushes his hair out of his eyes in a harassed gesture and shepherds Beth and Sam into their seats. Good; he’s remembered the cushions. Blue and white ones from the kitchen. A hasty dash back into the house? Beth looks around for her, and gives an exaggerated thumbs up with both hands. Anna smiles and raises her own hand in reply.
She hopes that Sam will last. Ten is still quite little to sit through a grown-up concert on uncomfortable seats. He looks
wriggly already. Ah, but that’s because he’s casting his eyes around for Milo. Tamsin has said she’ll try and come, and has promised to creep out if Milo’s patience wears thin. Anna watches Sam scan the church. When he spots Milo, he grins and waves, whispers something to Theo, and slips out of his pew, cushion in hand, to join them on the other side of the building.
There was no single moment when Anna worked it out. With the benefit of hindsight, she thinks she’s probably always known. Tamsin’s sudden flight, Theo’s inexplicable remorse on her return from Spain, the casual care the two of them took to avoid each other’s company when Tamsin reappeared in their lives. Meeting the six-year-old Milo for the first time in the flesh provided the final piece of the jigsaw, bringing the picture fully into focus. He has Theo’s jaw, Sam’s frame. Seeing the two boys together now, she wonders how long it will take other people to put two and two together. Theo clearly has no idea, bless him. At first the sense of betrayal cut her to the quick. These days, distress has given way to something approaching forgiveness. Compassion, even. Whatever it had been, it’s long since over, she’s sure of that. Part of an unbearably harrowing chapter in their lives that should be consigned to the past, where it belongs.
‘You ready, Anna?’ asks Neil behind her. ‘I think it’s time.’
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment to focus her attention. Then she steps forward with her cello, and the audience begins to clap.
Acknowledgements
Knowing Anna is set on the real Pilgrims’ Way from Guildford to Canterbury, although I have taken one or two small liberties with details for the sake of the plot. For further information on the route, see:
Lots of kind people have provided encouragement and support as I wrote this book. I’m hugely grateful to Alison Barr, Lorna Fergusson, Tabitha Gilchrist, Paul Handley, John Pritchard and Wendy Robins for comments on the text while it was still in draft. Heartfelt thanks, too, to Nick Gethin, Shauni McGregor, Phoebe Mead, Melanie Patton and Sally Welch for helpful conversations during my research. Any mistakes are of course my own. Thank you, too, to K. T. Bruce and Lucy Gordon for the cover photo.
Finally, my thanks above all to my companions on the journey, Imogen, Jack and Ben Phillips.
Knowing Anna Page 25