by Sue Lawrence
‘Is that the blind piano tuner?’ Christine asked.
‘Yes, we’ve had him for years.’
‘Well, it’s kind of like doctors,’ said Lottie. ‘Sometimes you need a second opinion.’ She smiled as she followed the sound of low notes coming from the dining room.
Mags turned back to Christine. ‘Where were we? Yeah, so I think we should go to Tannadice, maybe check out the churchyard, see what we can find up there?’
‘Alright, how about next weekend?’
‘Okay, I’m free either day. Shall we take Mum and Uncle Charlie?’
‘No way.’ Christine shook her head. ‘A quick trip up there’d become an enormous production, walking sticks and toilet stops every ten minutes.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
‘We can just take photos then go and see them when we get home, tell them all about it.’
‘Cool. I love a road trip.’
Christine looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be going, Gerry’ll be home soon.’
‘Okay,’ said Mags. ‘And by the way, I meant to ask you, you’re not still pursuing this Colin person are you?’
Christine stood up and reached for her coat. ‘No. I’m not. Definitely not.’
Half an hour later Peter was finishing up in the dining room.
‘Yeah,’ he said to Lottie, ‘it is a problem with the bass strings. The tone sounds flat, dead, but the piano’s really old, not sure I can do much apart from replace the string. Any idea what age it is?’
‘No, but it’s been in Dad’s family for a long time. Mum’s family’s got one too – it’s at my Granny’s, even more ancient I think!’
Peter lifted an envelope from the top of his case.
‘I found this tucked away inside the back.’
‘It looks pretty old.’
‘It was covered in dust.’
‘And of course Dennis wouldn’t have seen it if it was tucked away. Well, thanks for all your help. See you at the concert later.’
After seeing Peter out of the house, Lottie went back into the dining room and opened the envelope. The handwriting looked just like her dad’s.
I just wanted to say how sorry I am this all happened. It shouldn’t have, we both know that. There are consequences which can’t be ignored. But no one can find out. Ever.
Lottie scrutinised the letter again; there was no date, no signature, no name on the envelope.
‘Lottie, are you staying for dinner?’ She could hear Mags coming along the corridor so she shoved the letter into her bag.
‘No, Mum,’ she shouted. ‘Got to head off, seeing Peter later.’
Lottie switched off the lights and rushed towards the front door, handbag clasped to her chest.
Chapter Eighteen
2014
The next morning, Lottie walked into Doug’s dental practice on Ferry Road.
‘Hello Lottie,’ Frances the receptionist looked up from her screen, her smile highlighted by perfectly applied lipstick.
‘Hi Frances. Is Dad free?’
‘He’s with a patient at the moment then his next appointment’s a crown so that’s a double. Sorry, poppet.’
Lottie bristled. Frances had called her poppet since she was little and she hated it. ‘Could I just nip in after this patient for a minute, I only need…’
‘Bye, Mrs Mackay, enjoy your holiday!’ She heard her father’s voice booming down the corridor and saw an elderly lady with a stick heading for the door.
‘I’ll just nab him now, Frances, if you can delay the next patient,’ Lottie said, running into Doug’s surgery.
He was chatting with the dental nurse, who was arranging instruments on the tray. In fact, he was flirting with her, even though she only looked about twelve, with her ponytail high on her head.
‘Dad, have you got a minute?’
Doug swivelled round and the grin on his face disappeared.
‘Is everything okay? Jack all right?’
‘I need to speak to you, won’t be long. Couple of minutes, tops.’
Doug looked up at the large clock on the wall. ‘I’ve got two minutes before the next patient, so fire away.’
Lottie nodded at the dental nurse’s back.
‘Sorry, Amy,’ said Doug. ‘Would you mind?’
As she closed the door behind her, Lottie removed the letter from her bag and handed it to him. He opened it, glanced up at her then read the note.
‘Where did you find this?’ His voice was croaky.
‘In the piano.’
Doug stretched his head from side to side.
‘Dad, stop doing your bloody neck exercises and tell me what this is about.’
‘I have absolutely no idea. Who wrote this?’
‘It’s your writing, Dad!’ Lottie jabbed at the paper in Doug’s hand.
‘It does look a bit like my writing, but I never wrote this, it doesn’t make sense.’ He stared at it again. ‘Maybe it was my dad, his writing was like mine. You wont remember, you were only little when Grandpa died.’
‘Dad, you’re lying, I can tell,’ said Lottie. ‘Were you having an affair?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘So what was it then? Drugs? Murder?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, I didn’t write this.’
‘You’re a fucking liar.’
‘Lottie, let’s not discuss this now. I’m at work. There’s nothing else to say. I know nothing about this note. God knows how it got inside the piano.
‘I don’t believe you. I’m going to tell Mum about this.’
There was a knock at the door then a loud whisper.
‘Sorry, Doug, will you be long? Mrs Davidson’s anxious about her crown.’
‘One minute!’ shouted Doug. ‘Look, Lotts, please don’t tell Mum. Let me think about it for a bit.’ He pocketed the note. ‘Something might come back to me.’
Lottie glared at her father. ‘Fine. But I want an answer, Dad.’ She opened the door and marched out.
Mags sat on the sofa between two of her friends, closed books on their laps. It was their monthly book group and, having fully discussed their latest read, they had moved on to gossip and wine.
‘So is that us done with discussing Big Brother?’ asked Jeanette.
‘God, yes, such a depressing read, it’d put you off eating for life!’ said Suzanne, sipping from her glass.
Fiona leaned forward for the bottle and passed it round. ‘Anyone want tea or coffee or shall I just get more wine?’
‘Wine, please. After that book, we need something to dull the memory!’ Mags laughed as she downed her glass.
An hour or so later, the book club stalwarts were still there, more sprawled than before. Jeanette took a fistful of salted nuts, chomped noisily then sat up straight and announced, ‘So, last night, Ben got home at midnight. Again. And there was a definite smell of perfume this time.’ She swigged from her glass as the others stared at her, waiting. This was not the first time they had heard her suspicions.
‘I know you all said last time I told you that it must be my imagination, but, well, he can’t be in the office every night that late, can he?’
He’s chief exec of some huge company and earning millions, Mags mused. Maybe he’s actually got to work late so his wife can buy yet another bloody Mulberry handbag.
‘Have you confronted him yet?’ Suzanne asked.
‘What could I say that doesn’t make me sound like a deranged, obsessive wife?’
‘Just ask him why he’s suddenly working so late and why the hell he smells of perfume.’
The others all chipped in with suggestions but Mags remained silent.
‘Don’t you agree, Mags?’ said Fiona. ‘Confrontation is the best policy, isn’t it?’
Mags was beginning to feel quite drunk, which normally made her even more garrulous. But though she felt sympathy for Jeanette, she didn’t want to get involved. Gossiping about celebs was one thing, but this was someone she knew and it was
no one else’s business.
‘Not sure any of us are in a position to advise,’ she said, gulping some wine.
‘Just because gorgeous Doug only has eyes for you,’ said Suzanne.
Mags didn’t say anything. She was so sure that Doug would never stray, she didn’t know how to react without sounding smug.
‘None of us should take our husbands for granted,’ said Jeanette. ‘Not even you, Mags.’
‘Doug won’t even indulge in a bit of playful flirting. Believe me, honey, I’ve tried!’ Fiona cackled. ‘Still, I do reckon no marriage is rock solid. Can’t trust any of them, all men are bastards. I mean, look what Mike did to me.’
Here she goes, back to her own problems, thought Mags. And if we hear one more time about how the bloody divorce lawyer screwed her over…
‘God, is that the time? I’m on the first shuttle to Heathrow tomorrow,’ said Suzanne. ‘Sorry ladies, got to go.’
At the door, they hugged then headed off up the road.
‘Oh, it’s my house next time, I’ll email you which book to read!’ shouted Mags as she staggered off in the opposite direction.
Mags clumsily inserted her key in the lock and stepped into her dark house, tripping over the doormat as she did so. She switched on the hall light and looked at her watch. Shit, it was already half past twelve. How had that happened? The next day she had to be up first thing to prepare an outside catering buffet she’d agreed to at the last minute. She’d meant to be home by eleven at the latest.
As she locked the door behind her, she remembered Jeanette’s comment, directed at her, about not taking husbands for granted. Though she tried to laugh it off, she knew Doug wouldn’t stray. God, Doug had even told her, all embarrassed, about Fiona flirting outrageously with him at that dinner; Mags had found it hilarious. But Jeanette’s comment lingered; had she heard something from that awful friend of hers, the one who was a dental nurse?
Mags tiptoed into the dining room to put the book back on the shelf. A slice of moonlight cut through the open curtains; the polished rosewood of the piano gleamed. Mags stopped and frowned. Something looked different.
There was red on the keys, a long brushstroke, leaving a narrow trail down the middle of the white notes. Mags touched a key then lifted her finger to her nose. It was blood.
Chapter Nineteen
1868
‘Can I really stay a’ day, Ma?’ Elizabeth skipped along the road towards the manse beside Margaret Barrie.
‘Mind how you’re cawin’, Elizabeth, you just skelped me wi’ yer rope.’
‘Sorry, Ma. So, can I stay? Can I?’ Her eager, smiling face would melt even the hardest heart.
‘Aye, if you behave. You’ll gie me a hand in the morning then Miss Charlotte wants you to help her wi’ something in the afternoon. Something tae dae wi’ the piano.’
Elizabeth beamed, her dark eyes shining. ‘So will we tak’ oor dinner there an a’?’
‘We’ll see. Agnes is mindin’ Jane at home so we might be able tae.’
They arrived at the tall, wrought-iron gate. As it creaked open, Margaret turned to Elizabeth. ‘Put the rope awa’ now. Here, put it in my basket. The minister’s no’ wantin’ tae hear bairns playin’ when he’s writing his sermon.’
Elizabeth gazed at the imposing stone house as she looped her rope into a coil. ‘Ma, what’s that bird up on the chimney? See how black it is?’
Margaret looked up, squinting against the bright morning sun. ‘It’s a corbie. There’s a poem aboot it.’
‘How does it go, Ma?’
Margaret frowned then recited,
‘A corbie sat at the top o’ yon tree
An he’s looking at me wi’ his black, black ee
An he’s crying oot wi his caw caw caw…’
Elizabeth looked up, expectantly.
‘Cannae mind the rest. Yer Pa kenned it a’.’ Margaret looked up at the bird.
‘I’ll ask the dominie to write it doon for me, Ma, when I gang tae school on Monday. I’ll learn it for ye.’
Margaret laughed. ‘You’ve got the look o’ a corbie yourself, wi your black, black ee.’ She headed round the back of the manse towards the kitchen door. ‘Come away now, lass and mind good manners if ye want to stay a’ day.’
Charlotte Whyte sat down on the piano stool and pulled the skirt of her beige dress up a little so her feet were clear of the heavy silk, resting her heels on the floor in front of the pedals. She pinned a strand of blonde hair into her bun then smoothed down the cream tatted collar around her high neckline.
‘Elizabeth, there’s something I need you to do when my father has left for the church, please.’ She stretched her neck and sat up tall.
The girl sat on a little piano stool alongside and gazed up at her. Miss Charlotte’s neck was long, like that swan’s the dominie had showed them in the picture book.
‘Aye, anything, Miss Charlotte.’
‘Try to say yes, not aye, Elizabeth, please. I’ve told you before how my father is about language.’ She sighed and began to leaf through the pages of her music book. ‘Which tune would you like now?’
‘While Humble Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.’
‘That’s a Christmas one,’ Charlotte said, smiling, ‘but I can play it for you. Why do you like it?’
‘It’s got the angel and the shepherds and the sheep and the dominie telt us there was a big star too.’
‘There certainly was.’ Charlotte stroked Elizabeth’s curls. ‘I shall play this one for you then it will be my choice next. Is that agreed?’
‘Aye, er, yes, thank you, Miss Charlotte.’
Elizabeth stared at Charlotte’s long elegant fingers as she started to play. She lifted her hands in front of her and stretched out her stubby fingers, calloused from work.
Charlotte’s back was rigid and her head did not move as she concentrated on reading the music. She had just started the last verse when the door was flung open. Charlotte looked round and Elizabeth jumped down off the stool.
‘Is it Christmas already?’ boomed a sonorous voice.
‘No, Father, but it was Elizabeth’s request.’ Charlotte pushed her skirt down so that her ankles were covered.
‘Oh, was it now.’ Charlotte’s father – tall, gaunt and dressed all in black – glowered at her. ‘Perhaps you could play something more appropriate,’ he said, sneering at Elizabeth’s tattered dun dress and scuffed boots. ‘Charlotte, do you have the music for Dear Lord and Father of Mankind? The new hymn I told you about. You are forever trying to persuade me to introduce new hymns.’ He stood in the doorway, his balding head almost touching the lintel.
Charlotte reached for the pile of music on top of the piano and lifted out a sheet. ‘I have it here, Father. Would you like to stay while I play?’
‘No, I would not. I did not come here with the luxury of time to spare. As ever, there are many parish matters to which I must attend. It was but the sound of the piano that drew me here. It would be fitting if both of you listen not only to the music but to the words of this hymn.’ He strode over to Charlotte, snatched the music from her and read aloud, ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind, forgive our foolish ways, re-clothe us in our rightful minds, in purer lives our service find.’ He looked up from the page and continued, each sibilant S a hissing sound as he bared his long teeth. ‘And in the last verse there is such judicious choice of language in these exhortations for our daily lives.’ He peered at Charlotte and Elizabeth, his haughty gaze never leaving them as he recited the rest from memory. ‘Breathe through the heat of our desire, thy coolness and thy balm.’
Charlotte stared down at the ivory keys. Elizabeth’s dark eyes, too, were downcast. She stared at the black chenille tablecloth. The grandfather clock struck two.
‘I must be on my way. It pleases me that you are teaching the child hymns and psalms.’ He turned towards the door then addressed the room, reaching for the handle. ‘Tell Cookie I shall be back for tea. Farewell.’
The f
ront door slammed and Elizabeth sidled back onto her stool. The sheet of music was trembling in Charlotte’s hand.
‘Are you going to play that one, Miss?’
Charlotte looked down at the yellowed keys then took a deep breath. She threw the sheet of paper on top of the piano. ‘No, I am not,’ said Charlotte. ‘Now that Father has gone, I can indulge in another piece. But first I need you to stretch your arm along the back of the piano to retrieve the music I hid down there last week when Father came in here unexpectedly.’
Elizabeth leapt up and went to the back of the piano. She stretched her arm along the wall behind the piano. She strained and shut her eyes, forcing her arm further. ‘Got it!’ she cried triumphantly, withdrawing her arm and presenting Charlotte with her sheet music.
‘Thank you, Elizabeth. I have attempted several times to extract this but could not succeed.’ She shuffled upright on her stool, yanked her skirt up over her ankles then turned her head towards Elizabeth. ‘You are in for a treat, dear child. Chopin’s Etude, opus 10, number 5.’ She turned the page to open it. ‘I do hope I am not very much out of practice.’
Elizabeth stared at Charlotte’s long neck and at her profile, the neat snub nose and the dimple in her cheek. She ran her finger along her own nose, wishing it were as pretty as Charlotte’s. She poked a forefinger into her cheek, then smiled and her eyes lit up as she found a tiny dimple in the plump flesh.
‘I shall nod when I need the page turned, Elizabeth. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ she said, beaming.
Charlotte leant forward and began to play. As the music progressed from playful to fiery, her expression changed from one of deep concentration to one of pleasure. The crescendo increased towards the climax and she closed her eyes and stretched back her head.
The final bars rang out, the tumbling sound of the octave scale passage loud and passionate. Charlotte kept her eyes shut for what seemed like forever. Then she turned to Elizabeth and whispered, ‘Is that not the most beautiful piece of music?’ She was breathless.
The room had changed. It had been cold before, but Elizabeth felt a fire had just been lit and she was sitting directly beside the flames.