by Jane Lambert
I’m sorely tempted to tell her about Francesco, to fill the sudden cheerless silence, to offer her a morsel of hope that her middle-aged daughter is not going to end up an old maid with whiskers and a cat. But I stop myself in time because I know from experience that I’ll be bombarded with questions like, ‘Could he be THE ONE?’
She’ll get her hopes up, only to have them dashed – again.
Since Nigel left and I set out on this crazy journey, a part of me has felt selfish and guilty for the anguish I cause my ageing parents. Like Chelsea, I long to prove something to them, and now here’s my big chance to demonstrate that their life-long investment has matured at last: the private school, the extra maths tuition to get me through my GCSE (failed), the piano lessons (abandoned), the summer course at etiquette academy to turn me from twenty-something ladette with attitude to lady (expelled) weren’t all a complete waste of time and money.
I may not have turned out to be the high-flying United Nations interpreter, Supermum, or Kirstie-Allsop homemaker they wanted me to be, but surely success is not necessarily a financial thing? I’m doing what makes me happy and getting paid for it. As a parent, surely you can’t wish more for your child?
With Norman about to turn eighty and showing early signs of memory loss, the play is a reminder of my real parents’ mortality and the significance of each passing day.
* * *
‘They’ll be here now, Mags. In their seats,’ I say, glancing at my watch and continuing to pace up and down. ‘Row C. I’m scared if I look down and catch their eye, I might forget my lines. In fact, a part of me wishes they weren’t coming …’
‘You’re going to wear out what’s left of this tatty carpet,’ says Mags in an unusually firm tone. ‘If you carry on like this, you will mess it up. Forget they’re there. The auditorium is the fourth wall, remember? If you’re thinking about your parents sitting a few feet away from you, then you’re not playing it for real. Chelsea will become a caricature – a phoney. I’ve watched you grow into her these last few weeks, and I will not allow you to lose sight of her. If your parents don’t like the life you’ve chosen, then that’s up to them. My son wasn’t happy about me coming here, leaving his father behind in the care home. I visit my guilt every day, not only off stage, but on stage too.’
(There’s a particular scene before I come on, where Ethel sends Norman strawberry picking, but he returns early because he gets disoriented. The emotional undercurrent of fear, frustration, and helplessness between them rips your heart.)
‘We can use our real emotions to bring a character to life, but whatever happens, we mustn’t let those emotions get out of control and overwhelm us. We get one shot at this, Emily,’ she says, clasping my shoulders. ‘As the old saying goes, “life is not a dress rehearsal”.’
I channel all my pent-up emotion into that afternoon’s performance, and am aware of a subtle shift, in that Chelsea and I connect on an even deeper level than before. Through her I am forced to confront those negative feelings of inadequacy and guilt that I still haven’t gotten my life together. The scene where Ethel tells me to grow up, forget the past, and move on has an added frisson of realism today, the like of which I haven’t experienced before. Chelsea is teaching me about myself. All that stuff at drama school – about Stanislavski and ‘being a role’ – suddenly makes real sense.
* * *
‘Visitors at stage door for Fraulein Forsyth,’ Olaf’s voice announces over the intercom. I bound down the stairs, leaping off the last three steps into Dad’s arms, just as I did when I was a child.
‘What can I say, love?’ he says, squeezing me tight. ‘We couldn’t believe that was our wee girl up there, could we, Brenda?’
I turn to face Mum. Is that approval I see in her eyes – pride even?
‘I don’t know what to say … I …’ she says, quickly dabbing her eyes.
‘Now, that’s a first,’ says Dad.
‘That’s enough, Brian!’ she says, blowing her nose then checking her appearance in the full-length mirror.
* * *
Mags and Oliver join us for a traditional supper of Wienerschnitzel, Erdapfelsalat (boiled potatoes and red onion marinated in oil, salt, and pepper), and a local wine, from the proprietor’s own vineyard in Grinzing, on the outskirts of Vienna.
This being a special occasion, I break my pre-show, zero-alcohol rule. (This regulation came into force following the Rep Season from hell. I still have nightmares about Margo’s gin-fuelled, unpredictable performances and probably will for many years to come.)
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ says Mum later, as their taxi pulls up outside the stage door. ‘Oliver and Mags – still treading the boards at their age. And they have no intention of retiring.’
‘Precisely,’ I say. ‘And neither do I. To find what you love to do and be paid for doing it – well, you can’t get luckier than that, can you?’
‘It’s all very well doing what you love, but it doesn’t always pay the bills,’ says Mum pointedly.
I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s put it this way – if someone had told you when you were young, we know how much you love nursing, but sorry, we can’t possibly allow you to do it. How would that have made you feel?’
‘That’s … that’s different,’ says Mum.
‘How different?’
‘Well, for starters, I was in my twenties. You’re …’
‘… middle-aged, I know. But I don’t have any responsibilities, so why not? Why shouldn’t I have a shot at this before it’s too late?’
‘I just want you to be like other women your age …’
‘Well, I don’t, so haud your wheesht, mither,’ I say in my best Scots, covering her mouth with my hand, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Away you go, or you’ll be late for the concert.’
‘Bye, smiler,’ says Dad, pressing his icy cold lips to my forehead. ‘I’m so proud of my wee girl.’ Lowering his voice he continues, ‘And though she may not say as much, your mother is too.’
‘Really?’ I ask, that longing for approval never far away. ‘You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?’
‘You should have heard her during the interval, telling anyone who’d listen that that was her daughter up there. Couldn’t bloody well shut her up.’
* * *
Wien Westbahnhof (Vienna West Station) – the following week
‘Do not turn around,’ a stern, heavily accented Eastern European warns me. ‘And listen carefully to your instructions. You will be met by Smollensky under the clock at Passau station. The code word is “loon”.’
‘Oliver, you Schwein! You almost had me going then,’ I say, spinning on my heels and batting him playfully with my bag.
‘The Salzburg train leaves from platform six, I believe,’ he says, removing his shades and consulting Gerhard’s list of directions. ‘We change at somewhere called … Attnang Puchheim for Bad Aussee.’
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Mags, appearing at my side with three delicious-smelling coffees. ‘So sweet of Gerhard to invite us.’
Austria has more saints than you can shake a ski pole at, and thanks to one of them, whose name I can’t now remember, Monday is a public holiday, so Gerhard has invited us to his country house in Styria. (Alan is joining a group of his celeb friends in Kitzbühel for a couple of days on the piste and Jason is meeting his future in-laws.)
We climb aboard (and I mean climb. Tight jeans are a definite no-no when getting on and off Austrian trains). The whistle blows and we are on our way.
As we gather speed, the cityscape soon gives way to country hamlets, snow-laden pine trees, onion-domed churches, Babybel cows and frozen lakes. We thunder through inky-black, craggy tunnels and on, up into the mountains.
* * *
It’s early evening and dark by the time the train pulls into Bad Aussee station. The squeal of brakes, the slamming of doors, footsteps crunching on tightly packed snow, the dimly lit, deserted station, the guard in peaked cap and greatco
at, all evoke a mood of winter romance. I am transported back to Zhivagoville once more.
After a long absence, Yuri and I are to be reunited at last … Lara, my love! HE CALLS, HIS VOICE FULL OF LONGING. Yuri! I TUMBLE INTO HIS ARMS, MY WARM TEARS MELTING THE ICICLES IN HIS MOUSTACHE AS THE HAUNTING NOTES OF ‘LARA’S THEME’ ARE PLUCKED OUT ON THE BALALAIKA …
‘Fritz! Nein! Komm’ her!’
I am rudely awoken from my dreamy Russian fantasy by a crazed terrier in a tartan coat, which has launched itself at me from the darkness and is becoming a tad too friendly with my leg.
‘Aaw, he’s so cute,’ I say, politely patting Fritz’s head, but secretly wishing I could shake him off and send him spinning into the stratosphere.
‘He must like you,’ says Gerhard, sliding down the hood of his enormous parka and grabbing the terrier firmly by the collar. ‘Willkommen to Bad Aussee!’
Fritz and bags safely loaded behind the luggage grille, we set off in Gerhard’s Jeep Cherokee for Pension Dachstein, named after the Dachstein Glacier, which towers over the little village, like an ever watchful bodyguard.
Gerhard’s house is charmingly rustic: logs piled up outside, hand-painted, alpine furniture, huge, exposed beams, and a green-glazed tiled stove. The fire crackles and the air is filled with the smell of damp oak, mixed with cinnamon.
We squash around the beautifully laid table. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling and beeswax candles flicker on the windowsill.
Dinner is traditional and home-cooked. We discover during the evening that Gerhard’s skills are not only confined to directing and cooking: as well as drama, he tells us he studied botany at university and is in the process of patenting his herbal spa products made from alpine plant extracts. He gives each of us samples of his latest creation: bath salts made from locally mined salt and crushed pine needles. ‘You are … how does one say? My guinea pigs, ja?’
‘If I turn up tomorrow looking like Johnny Depp, you’ll know you’re onto a winner,’ says Oliver with a broad smile. But that’s not all. This is the best bit: Gerhard is also one of Austria’s leading Elvis impersonators. (I’d always thought there was something of the Fifties rock ’n’ roll about him.) After a few Schnapps, we persuade him to fetch his guitar (disappointingly, he refuses to don the white suit and the black, high quiff wig).
We sing along to The King’s hits in a mixture of German and English, and Fritz demonstrates that as well as a strong sex drive, he possesses a musical ear and a sense of rhythm as he howls and prances on his back legs. But when we start singing and dancing to ‘Hound Dog,’ he gets overexcited again and is banished to his basket in the utility room.
* * *
The sun is coming up over the Dachstein by the time our party is over and, arm in arm, we steer one another across the road to our Pension.
My room is pleasantly warm, the embroidered sheets pristine, the mattress firm but not hard, comfortable but not squishy, and the traditional loden wool blanket as warm as a sheep (not that I’ve ever cuddled a sheep). I close my eyes and wait for sleep to arrive …
Now, one of the annoying things about being the wrong side of forty is the digestion issue. I used to be able to eat/drink like a Stone Age woman without a second thought. Back then I believed Gaviscon was for windy grannies. Now it’s as essential a part of my travel kit as deodorant. Only it was discovered in my hand luggage and confiscated by airport security.
Pulling on my slipper socks and Arran sweater, I stagger out onto the balcony, hand clutching my stomach. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with freezing alpine air.
I close my eyes and imagine Francesco is beside me. I can almost smell his subtly sensuous aftershave, feel his breath in my ear, his stubble on my cheek. Without warning, a builder’s burp is expelled into the sylvan silence, ricocheting across the glassy lake. I slap my hand over my mouth, looking around in shame. In that moment I am aware of muffled voices below. Eek. Did they hear?
Realising with a start that it’s Oliver and Mags, I retreat into the shadows. I lie down in the half-light, like a starfish, and gaze up at the painted ceiling, the dying flames from the bedroom fire throwing a pale, intermittent light onto the cows and alpine flowers, making them look as if they’re dancing … or is that the Schnapps?
I’ve always envied those who find their soul mate. But I’m realising that even for those lucky ones, love can be complicated, because there’s no guarantee of a Happy Ever After, is there? Forty-six years ago, Mags and Easton vowed to stay together in sickness and in health. But what if the unimaginable happens? It’s one thing falling out of love and separating; you can shout and scream at an unfaithful partner, tell yourself that it’s all for the best, that they weren’t worthy of you anyway, but what if they get sick and can’t remember who you are? You still love them, for sure, but they’re no longer the same person, and the relationship you once had has gone, never to return.
You can grieve for someone who’s dead, but for someone who’s still alive? Do you put your own life on hold, waiting for the inevitable to happen, comforted only by memories, too riven with guilt to move forward? Is it better to have loved and pay for the happiness further down the line, or is it better never to have loved at all and be spared a heart-crushing situation like theirs?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Il Postino
THE WINTER SUN is slanting low through the pine trees, throwing orange light across the glassy Altaussee lake and onto the pale grey mountains. Gerhard signals for us to follow him up a twisty path to his brother’s Lokal (bar) for some Glühwein to warm ourselves up.
‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ I cry. ‘I just want to stay here a bit longer before the light goes.’ Gazing out across to the Totes Gebirge mountain range, I lift my face to the sky, drawing in the crystal clear air.
I feel an overwhelming Maria-von-Trapp moment coming on. Jamming my hands deep into my pockets I spin on the spot and am reminded of the last time I felt like this: atop Crinkle Crags.
I feel the rough, sharp edges of a small stone and remember placing it there all those months ago, as a reminder of that magical time. I toy with it, make a wish, then send it skipping across the lake.
I collect more stones and send them skimming in a kind of cleansing ritual:
This one’s for you, Nigel. I truly believe what you did to me was sent as a major lesson in life, and I have you to thank for putting me on this path.
Greg, it’s okay that you dumped me for a man, and I don’t want you to feel guilty about that any longer. I would have dumped you first but you got there before me. I hope you are happy now.
Mum, I know you are quick to remind me of my rapidly disappearing prime and have, on occasion, urged me to seek medical help to cure me of my ‘delusional thoughts’, but I understand you only want the best for me.
And finally, Emily, you too are acquitted of the crimes of which you have been guilty:
Allowing your heart to make major decisions instead of your head.
Failure to provide your parents with grandchildren and peace of mind.
Displaying wilful behaviour, not befitting a normal, respectable, middle-aged woman.
* * *
I arrive back in Vienna to find a postcard from Francesco, suggesting some possible dates to visit.
As Wendy is pencilled in for some of them, I call her from the theatre that evening to check they don’t clash with her schedule.
‘I don’t think I’ll make it now, hon. Liam is short of volunteers at the riding school and I’ve kind of promised I’ll support him on hacks whenever I’m free,’ she says.
‘Liam’s name has been cropping up a lot recently,’ I say, ribbing her.
‘I told you – he’s the new stables manager,’ she says evasively.
‘And there’s a smile in your voice whenever you mention him.’
Ignoring this last comment, she continues, ‘Those kids so look forward …’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’
Joking apart,
there’s no doubt in my mind that Wendy’s voluntary work at the riding school is a godsend. The reason? Because those horses and those disadvantaged children are helping her to heal. Catching a frisky pony in an open field or keeping a disabled child safe and happy requires the utmost concentration and doesn’t allow your mind to stray elsewhere. Equine therapy, I believe it’s called. All I’m suggesting is, where’s the harm in her enjoying a little sexual therapy too?
‘Don’t change the subject,’ continues Wendy after a pause. ‘What’s the matter with you, darling? It’s high time you started putting Francesco first. I understand why you’re being cautious, but he’s a good ’un, that one, so you fix that up right away, d’you hear me? Francesco first.’
‘But …’
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the On Golden Pond Company, this is your Act One beginners’ call. Act One beginners to the stage, please.’
‘Wendy, you still there?’ The phone clicks. ‘Wendy?’
* * *
BA 0696 LONDON HEATHROW GELANDET
As I wait for Francesco to appear through the sliding doors of the arrivals hall, I realise even more how much I’ve missed him these last few weeks, and what a wrench it will be when he returns to Naples.
I’m practising mindfulness like mad, but still these anxious thoughts prod my brain, threatening to cloud our precious time here.
Hotels and guest houses are all fully booked, though I managed to get us one night at a little Pension just off the Kärtnerstrasse.
Call me old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Anna if he could sleep at hers, so her sister, Cristina, has offered to put him up for one night. She speaks no Italian and very little English, but loves company and to cook, so I have no doubt they’ll get along just fine.
‘Ciao, bella!’ And suddenly he’s standing there before me, looking effortlessly stylish in faded leather aviator jacket, white shirt, and cords, an expensive holdall bag swaying from his shoulder.
He wraps his arms tightly around me and kisses me for a long time, his familiar scent making me giddy.