“Bundle up tight, we’ve got a long way to go!” said Joseph.
Soon they were off in a southward direction, the horse prancing along smartly, hot puffs of air streaming from his nostrils.
The farm fields of Essex County were laid out in a blanket of crisp white snow that extended as far as the eye could see. As they passed by the old family farm, Alexandra looked at the house, at the fallen shutters, missing shingles on the roof, the weathered paint. She craned her neck until the house passed from view.
“I do miss that place,” her father sighed. “It’s a pity the new owners have let it slide into such disrepair. I have such fond memories there.”
After another mile or so, the trio arrived at Marcie and Denis’ home several miles to the south of Windsor. It had a long, tree-lined laneway which reached deep into the property. Several pieces of rusting farm machinery sat partly covered with snow near the barn and the little blacksmith’s shop Denis had set up. Footpaths over the trampled snow connected everything to the house.
Marcie’s husband, Denis, was there to greet them. A tall, thin man with a regal nose, he kept his black hair rather long, most of the time gathered up in a low, neat ponytail.
“Welcome, everyone. I’ll put your horse in the stable. Marcie is in the kitchen cooking. Please walk in.”
“Thank you Denis,” said Joseph. The professor tipped his hat and Alexandra offered her usual smile.
The aroma of roasted turkey and stuffing greeted the guests as they entered the house through the side door. No one except Robbie ever used the front door in Essex County farmhouses, and Alexandra wondered why they had them at all. Perhaps they were only ornamental, or used for special occasions such as the unlikely event in which the king or queen might drop in for a visit.
“It seems you never get a break from cooking, Marcie!” said a happy Joseph upon entering.
When the smallest three of Marcie’s children saw Alexandra, they clamoured to get near her. They wrapped their arms around her legs and squealed with delight so that the girl could hardly walk.
Meanwhile the professor, having just stepped inside the door, appeared agitated by the noise and horseplay of the small children. Regardless, he seemed to tolerate the little creatures. Alexandra wondered if he missed the family he never had.
“Thank you, Marcie,” said the professor. “Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home. It is truly charming; you have such a lively family, too. Never a dull moment, I’m sure!”
“I’ve already warned them to be on their best behaviour!” she said as she peeled the vegetables.
The older children greeted their visitors as they helped with the myriad tasks involved in putting on such a large feast. Marcie’s oldest child – and biggest help – was fifteen year old Bernice. She set the table.
“These dishes were brought from Germany by my great-grandmother,” she explained. “We only use them at Christmastime or when there’s a very special occasion. It’s too risky to use them more often.”
The professor scanned the room. “That’s quite a large table, Denis.”
“I made the frame in my blacksmith shop,” he said. “The top came from some wood I gathered up here and there. A good clean up, sanding and polish and now it’s a table.”
“That’s not the only thing he does!” said Marcie. “He also has a glass furnace in the shop! He likes making ornaments too! He can also make bottles, cups and even drinking glasses – anything and everything you could make by melting and forming glass. He’s pretty good at it.”
When everyone took their places, Denis said the blessing and dinner was served. The conversation was filled with lively banter and wound its way around to the happy memories people had in their lives. Alexandra loved hearing people talk about their memories. She relished the stories and could listen to them for hours. She was especially pleased to hear people volunteer their stories because she didn’t feel like she was trespassing into their thoughts. The memories flowed free as water and all she had to do was to sit back and listen.
“Do you remember the time Henry ate the butterfly Bernice caught? Eww! You could see its legs sticking out of his mouth! Or the time Helen wanted to run away? Ha! She was only three! How about when mum found a dead lizard in John’s pocket? Or Father, ‘I’ll give you a nickel if you tell me where Mum hid the fruitcake!’ Oh wait, wait! Remember when John was walking the dog and Mum saw him fall into a hole in the ground?”
It seemed each person round the table had some interesting tidbit to share, some small story to tell. Even the professor regaled the group with his childhood story of how he survived a camping expedition with his friends in the dead of winter.
“After that dreaded encounter with nature, I decided an outdoor career was not for me, so I became a musician,” he said, chuckling.
When dinner was finished, the professor and Alexandra took out their violins and prepared to play. They stood side by side with their backs to the Christmas tree, which the family had decorated with tinsel, strings of popcorn, and Denis’s glass ornaments. The candles and gas lanterns in the room completed the effect, their light glinting and twinkling off the ornaments and other shiny objects in the room.
“Don’t you two make an odd pair!” Denis said to Alexandra.
The professor turned to Alexandra. “Let’s play ‘The Skaters’ Waltz.’”
She smiled and nodded.
Even the squirmiest of the children listened as the duo began. Alexandra started by playing the lead, with the professor playing harmony, and after a while they seamlessly switched. She played the waltz with a crisp, wintery freshness, smiling radiantly at the professor before turning to face the little audience, which sat enraptured. The entire house was filled from top to bottom with music.
As Alexandra played, she again felt herself become one with the music. The sweeping rhythm of the bow, the articulation of the sound, everything combined together to create that wonderful, perfect magic everyone so loved to hear, but only she was privileged to see.
Then, the myriad sparkles that glittered and twinkled here and there in the room began growing impatient. They soon majestically lifted themselves off wherever they were, floating freely through midair, one by one. They gravitated toward Alexandra, gaining momentum as they whirled around her in a lively circle, each sparkle playful and alive. They were soon followed by more and more sparkles which lifted off various glass ornaments, polished surfaces, tinsel, everything, until there was a grand exodus of sparks caught up in a magnificent, whirling and swirling cyclone around the wide-eyed, awestruck musician. It seemed every impossible star in the entire cosmos had wrapped itself around her in one vast, glorious, spinning orbit of space and time.
In the midst of all this, a well-dressed man carrying a violin entered the room. He was much older than the Maestro. He had a thick, well-groomed moustache which spanned his face to both ears. He smiled pleasantly at Alexandra. The professor, upon seeing this man, graciously stopped playing and stepped aside.
Amid the swirling frenzy of silent stars which encircled them both, the older man raised his beloved, and well-worn, violin up and began playing in harmony with Alexandra. It was obvious that he loved this music and this violin. It was also clear that he loved Christmastime and that he loved her. It pained them both to be separated, yet somehow the music, the sweet music was uniting and connecting them over impossible distances of time, space and circumstances. He spoke no audible words. Yet she could see in his face and hear from his music what he had so long ago wanted to say:
“Remember, my little protégé, that these lives of ours are much more than a collection of memories. Love is our greatest Gift. It stretches clear across all eternity. My life here is finished while yours is just beginning. Remember, you’re free to choose the memories you want to make. You are free to love and to make these memories, and they will be your very own. Though time may fade some, it is the love you have which will last forever.”
Alexandra looked pleasan
tly at the man, at his kind face, his deep blue eyes. She listened carefully to his silent words. The two continued playing their duet, engulfed together by the magnificent, swirling cyclone of shimmering stars flying around them; the glorious Christmas music continuing to fill the house and environs with sweet, pleasant sounds.
When they stopped playing, Alexandra curtsied politely to the man and smiled. In return, he bowed to her, taking her hand and thanking her for such a fine performance.
At that moment she was stricken with panic. Without saying a word, she pleaded with him to stay, but he smiled and told her a secret – a secret meant only for her. She smiled in return. Alexandra Delmott whispered in the man’s ear. “I love you, Pépé.”
Chapter 27
When the sun rose on the first day of January, the calendar showed a new year – 1888. Alexandra liked that number because there were three eights in a row. That’s got to be lucky! she thought. She was also amused because the next three in a row wouldn’t occur until 1999. After that it would be a new millennium. She wondered what life would be like then – especially music.
The turning of the New Year also brought her return to school, and after about a week, the fulfillment of the promise the Maestro had made about teaching Emma and Robbie to play the violin. “Make few promises, but always keep them,” Alexandra remembered him saying.
The brass bell on the café door clanged loudly on that crisp, first Saturday morning in January. “I can’t wait to have my first lesson with the Maestro!” exclaimed Emma. She stomped the snow off her boots just inside the door while Alexandra sat at the table eating breakfast with her father.
“I’m sure everything will be all right,” said Joseph.
“Robbie is going to meet us there. How long is our lesson?” asked Emma.
“I suppose about an hour or so, but with you two it’ll probably take all day!” Alexandra said with laughter in her voice.
“I’ll clean things up here, Angel. You’d best run along now.”
Alexandra didn’t need to be told twice. She washed her hands, donned her woolen coat and new boots, kissed her father goodbye, and left.
When they arrived at the professor’s house, Robbie was standing near the road, waiting. His arms were wrapped around his body and he was shivering.
“Where were you? What took so long?” he asked.
“You needn’t be afraid of the Maestro,” said Alexandra, her cheeks stinging from the cold. “He looks tough on the outside, but he’s really kind-hearted. You could’ve waited for us inside where it’s warm! Come now, let’s go in.”
* * *
George Delmott’s condition continued to improve as he lay in hospital. The weekend visits by Clara and Owen had continued, and occasionally George would even get a visit from one of his law partners. With help, he could take short, shuffling steps and be taken in his wheelchair to the hospital atrium for a change of scenery. The doctors had been unable to discover the root cause of whatever had stricken the man, but were nonetheless pleased that he seemed to have overcome the worst of it and that his progress could now be measured on a daily basis.
Clara continued to feel that her decision to quit all her groups had been the right one. Owen, having spent so much more time with his mother, also seemed to have become less angry, yet problems remained: the boy was still a habitual liar and bully.
* * *
On that first Saturday morning in January, Owen and his mother were in London, as usual. “Your father could use a new robe,” said Clara. “There are some shops nearby. Let’s go.”
Owen readily agreed. It was a good way to break the monotony of the hospital visit. They went to several shops in downtown London, yet Owen felt his mother was being overly picky in her selection of a robe. Bored with being dragged from shop to shop, he spoke up. “I’ll just go outside for a walk, Mum. I’ll be back directly. I think I need some fresh air.”
Owen departed the clothing shop. As he walked past the exquisite shops and boutiques of London, he got to thinking of a long list of people who had done him wrong – about Alexandra’s superior attitude and how she robbed him of first place at the Premier’s Competition, how Prof. Hergicksen had expelled him, how Robbie hadn’t even tried to fight him that summer day on the street, thus depriving him of another chance to beat the boy up. When that didn’t happen, he had to endure the mockery of his friends. He even thought about how Sister Rose had embarrassed and belittled him in front of all his fellow pupils. These individuals, he reckoned, bore responsibility for the problems he had, and now here he was – stuck with his mama and bedridden, helpless father. He felt the whole world was against him and that the world was therefore responsible for all the problems he faced in his life.
He continued walking down the sidewalk in London’s shopping district, those old familiar feelings of aggression and resentment rising up through his chest, making his blood hot and filling his face with heat. He thought that to be tough, he needed to show that toughness to that world which ridiculed him. He felt strong people should never compromise their positions or opinions – even if they’re wrong – for to do so would surely be a sign of weakness. He walked tall and proud, his back straight and chin high. If someone happened to be walking the other way, he refused to turn his shoulder to allow them to pass. He often banged shoulders with people, the hard, blunt thuds making them turn their heads back, cussing and cursing. He felt this physical expression of supremacy and power to be most satisfying because people had to give way, to surrender to him. It made him feel powerful and in control.
Then he banged into the wrong person.
While Owen was strutting down the sidewalk, a finely dressed young couple approached from the opposite direction, strolling arm-in-arm. As always, Owen refused to give way, and banged his shoulder into the girl’s with a deadening, unforgiving thud. The impact almost sent the girl and her bags crashing to the icy ground.
“Hey! What the hell was that about?” said her angry companion, turning back.
Owen stopped in his tracks. “What? Oh! She was in my way. Does she own the sidewalk? It serves her right.”
“You apologize to her, now!” stormed the man, face red with anger.
“Go to hell,” said Owen. That was the last thing Owen Delmott remembered until he awoke sometime later, with his nose bloodied and eye swollen, in a snow bank. He had no idea how long he had been there, but was surprised to find his mother tending to him. Her shopping packages sat in the snow. A small circle of strangers stood by, some offering help. Tasting his own blood, he was indignant that someone should strike him without warning.
“Come on, let’s get him on his feet,” said one of the bystanders, and two men helped a dazed Owen to stand up. He stood a moment, dabbing at his nose with a blood-soaked handkerchief.
“Thank you very much for your kind assistance, gentlemen,” said Clara, but Owen said nothing.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” said one of the men. “We hope he’ll be all right. Don’t forget your parcels.”
Clara and Owen walked the ten minutes or so back to the hotel, where he spent the rest of that night nursing his eye and stuffing his nose with cotton batten. Clara said she didn’t think it was broken, but it did have a nasty bruise which turned a bluish-black colour under his left eye which was, itself, bloodshot. When he looked in the mirror, he saw what a sorry sight he was.
The following morning found Owen eating breakfast with his mother in their hotel room, as usual, but with Owen nibbling gingerly on a piece of bread with jam.
“How are you feeling today, son?”
“I’m feeling a little better today, Mum. I can’t understand why that horrible man hit me. I can only think he didn’t like the way I looked at his girl. He seemed to be the jealous sort.”
“Perhaps you can tell me what happened?” said Clara, a look of maternal concern on her face. “I’d really like to know.”
Owen’s excuse was ready. “I went outside for a walk. I was enjoying t
he fresh air and sunshine when a couple walked towards me on the sidewalk. I happened to take a glance at his girlfriend, and he punched me in the face!” he said, crocodile tears forming in his eyes.
Owen remembered when he’d fall and hurt himself when he was little; he’d come crying to his mother, and she always soothed and healed his wounds. “Come now, my son,” she said as they stood up. She embraced him in her warm, motherly arms.
He sobbed on her shoulder, careful not to get any blood on her clean Sunday dress. He felt the corners of his mouth rising into a smirk behind her back.
Clara took a deep, ragged breath and, breaking the embrace, looked Owen straight in the eyes. “You are a liar, Owen Delmott.”
Owen froze. His mother had never called him a liar in her life, so he thought his story was not believable enough.
“But Mum, it’s true! He punched me in the face! Do you see this? Did I do this to myself?” he exclaimed, pointing to his injuries.
Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief Page 22