She hardly drank after that. But tonight was different. She rested her forehead against the cold wet glass of the back door. The blackness of the night was creeping away. A soft grey had edged in. The hedge bordering the garden stood hunched against the darkness of the sports field beyond. A shape streaked across the lawn: Samson. Isabel opened the door and he shot in, arching his back and rubbing against her legs.
She picked him up, burying her face in his warm fur. His weight made her arms ache and she slumped on to the rocking chair. Her father had given it to her when she moved into the flat. 'Very comforting, rocking chairs,' he'd said.
Samson initially tolerated her embrace, but began to struggle. He stood over her, paws kneading her chest. She smelt the sardines Rose had given him for supper. His purr vibrated against her ear and her breathing slowed in response. She pushed her toes against the floor and rocked back. Forwards. Back. Forwards. Back.
Two
Isabel spotted Grace as soon as she came through arrivals. With her silver jacket, her long legs in tight jeans, and her sunglasses, her sister might have been a celebrity arriving at the airport. The other passengers streaming through the barrier looked insignificant in comparison.
Isabel waved and Grace turned and strode towards her. The knot lodged in Isabel's stomach eased its grip—she'd always been close to Grace, wedged as they were between two warring brothers.
Close up the celebrity persona was frayed. When Grace pushed her dark glasses up on her head, Isabel noticed her eyes were puffy and shadowed. She hugged her. Despite the jacket, Grace felt thin and fragile.
'Let's go somewhere we can talk,' Grace said.
'Don't you want to get out of here?'
Grace shook her head. 'I want to know what happened.'
'Okay.' Isabel steered her towards a café area away from the crowds.
Grace sipped her cappuccino. She made a face: 'Dreadful stuff.'
'I forgot you've become more Italian than Mum.' Isabel slid the plate of pastries across the table. 'What about something to eat?'
Grace took a croissant and began to cut it into slices. 'Tell me. Was it terrible?' Her dark eyes were glassy with tears.
'More unreal. It hasn't sunk in.'
'What was it like?'
'Mum phoned about four o'clock in the afternoon—'
'I mean at the end. What was it like at the actual moment… you know… when he died?'
Isabel stirred her coffee. 'It's hard to describe.'
'Try—I need to know.'
'It was…' She shook her head: that hospital room… sickly mustard walls… the smell, something bad, something rotten, disinfectant failing to mask it… the machines… their incessant bleeping… the next beat of her father's heart, the only thing that mattered –
'Isabel.'
Isabel forced herself to talk: 'At first we expected him to come round. Then his breathing changed: it was shallower and there were gaps between each breath…' Those gaps… longer and longer… waiting… wondering… the next breath… when would it—'
'Isabel!'
'Can we talk about it later? I can't now.'
'He's my dad too—I've got a right to know.' Grace pushed crumbs around the plate. 'It's horrible being the only one who wasn't there.'
'George hasn't arrived yet.'
'Really?' The sharp lines of Grace's face relaxed. 'I'm glad I wasn't the only one.' She tried another sip of the cappuccino.
Isabel stared at the line of froth on her lip. She had longed for Grace to get here. She'd imagined them comforting each other. But this? She didn't recognise this less-than-perfect sister.
Grace rubbed her hand across her mouth. 'It's always me that's left out.'
'How?'
'Middle child and all that.'
'Grace, there are four of us—you can't be the middle one.'
'Rick's the eldest, you're the first girl, and George is the baby… Mamma's darling.'
'But you're the beautiful one. You're so much like Mum when she was younger—Dad adored you.'
'Because I look like her?'
'Dad was proud of you, all that you've achieved.'
'Achieved!' Grace shoved her cup to one side. Liquid slopped over the edge and made a brown pool on the table. 'But he loved you for you.'
Isabel closed her eyes. The blackness inside her lids was like a balm. If only she could shut out the past forty-eight hours as easily. She forced her eyes open again and found Grace watching her. 'Let's not argue. At the moment I don't care who loved who more and why.'
Grace caught hold of Isabel's hand. 'Sorry.'
Isabel looked down at her sister's long pale fingers entwined with her plump ones, already bulging at the knuckle. 'I seem to be everyone's whipping boy at the moment. I've had Mum telling me all sorts of stuff—'
'What stuff?' Grace's hand tightened on Isabel's.
'You know what she's like.' Isabel felt her cheeks growing hot. 'Always rambling on about the past and her beloved Italy.'
'At least you had the chance to say goodbye to Dad.'
Isabel's hand itched to fly up in the direction of Grace's cheek. She imagined the sting in her palm as she slapped her sister's smooth skin. The red weal erupting over its serene beauty. What was this harping on about not being there when he died? He was dead. Gone forever. Never again would she feel his hug; never again hear his voice: Don't upset yourself, love; never again sit beside him on the piano stool and—she tried to pull her hand from Grace's, but Grace clung on.
'If I'd been there, I'd have known one way or the other.'
Grace's voice, usually so light and musical, grated on Isabel like chalk on a blackboard. Known one way or the other. What was she talking about? Known what? Did she want to hold the mirror up to see if he was still breathing? Wait while the nurse made him comfortable? Words screamed up through Isabel's chest into her mouth, like exploding fireworks: It's okay for you on your beautiful island, with your beautiful husband and your beautiful life.
Oh God. What was happening to her? This was Grace she was about to heap abuse on. Grace, the baby sister she'd adored from the moment she'd first seen the black curls, the dark eyes peeping out of the crocheted shawl. She'd helped change her nappy, pushed her pram, rattled her toys, lifted her out of the cot each morning. Until that day. The day when the big black taxi arrived and Mamma climbed into it carrying little Grace in her arms. 'Italia,' Mamma had said in response to Isabel's anguished cry. 'We're going to Italia.' And she waved as the taxi pulled away. The shops. Playschool. The park. Even Yorkshire, where her granny and granddad lived. Isabel knew where they all where. But where was Italia?
She clutched her waist with her arms and clenched her hands into fists.
'Don't go all silent on me.' Grace's accusation sliced across her thoughts. Going silent. It was what people said she did. When things were difficult, when she was angry or unhappy and wanted to explain her feelings, she formulated, rehearsed, reorganised the words she would say, but before she could open her mouth, the gibe always came: You've gone all silent again. Moody, Brian called it.
Okay, she wouldn't be silent. 'Why haven't you been over for so long?'
'You know it's difficult to get away. The restaurant…' Grace sounded different, her voice smaller, more diffident.
'It's not easy looking out for Mum and Dad either.' Tears pressed at the back of Isabel's eyes 'And all the stuff with Brian as well.'
She felt Grace's fingers stroking her wrist. 'I'm sorry.'
She wanted to answer, say she understood, to mend the breach in her love for her sister, but the sides of her throat felt glued together.
'I am sorry about Brian, Bel.'
Bel: her family's pet name for her. Only her father and Brian had used it recently.
'Are you okay?' Grace asked.
'Josh has gone with him.'
Grace's eyes opened wider. 'What? You mean Josh is living with Brian?'
'And her.'
'Oh, Bel. Talk to me.'
So Grace wan
ted her to talk: she'd tell her all right. Tell her what it felt like when your husband fucked someone else, gave away what was precious between you to someone else, had a baby with someone else, and worse, took away your child and gave him to someone else to look after. Isabel searched in her handbag for the photo. At first she'd looked at it constantly and it was dog-eared. Now she rationed herself. She held it out to Grace. 'That was in Majorca. Our last holiday,' she said. 'We'd been fooling about in the pool and Brian asked the man from the next-door sun lounger to take a photo. Look how happy Rose and Josh are. You can't believe Brian was sleeping with that bitch even back then, can you?'
Grace frowned. 'Perhaps it would help if you let go of the anger, Bel.'
Isabel shoved the photo back in her bag. Josh was Grace's godson and she'd always had a soft spot for him, but she didn't have any children. How could she know what it felt like? Only her father understood. 'It's tough, lass,' he used to say. 'When you put the pieces of a broken heart together, it never goes back quite as it should. But these things happen, and we get through them. Somehow.'
'Play the piano for me, Dad,' she'd pleaded, when she couldn't cry any more.
His fingers were poised over the keys. 'What would you like?'
'Do you need to ask?'
'Debussy's Nocturne, it is then.'
The Nocturne had been her favourite since she was a little girl and she used to sit at his feet and watch his big shiny shoes as they pressed the pedals. She'd thought his feet had magic in them.
'Boys like to be with their dads, don't they?' she said now and made an effort to sound reasonable. It wasn't fair to take it out on Grace. 'And since they've had…' When Brian's girlfriend had produced a son three months earlier, Isabel thought she would die with the pain. 'They're a family now. How can I compete?'
'It's not a competition,' Grace said. 'You'll always be Josh's mum.'
'That doesn't count for much at the moment.'
'It will. You'll see.'
'You bet it will.' Isabel stood up. 'I'm going to get my husband and son back, Grace. Whatever it takes. I'm going to get them back.'
When they arrived at the house, grief bit into Isabel. For minutes at a time, she'd been able to forget he was dead, but here, his mark was everywhere. The mosaic floor tiles in the hall that he thought would remind Mum of Italy. The old 78 records that he refused to throw away stacked in the corner of the dining room. His slippers by the front door drew her eyes towards them. He always wore the backs down and she used to buy him new ones every Christmas. He'd almost been due a pair.
Their mother was having a rest when they arrived and Grace went up to see her. Isabel pushed open the door to the dining room.
'Hi, Sis.'
'George! You made me jump.' Her brother was sitting at the table, their father's sheet music spread out in front of him. 'When did you get here?' Isabel stood in the doorway, unsure what to do. She felt she should put her arms round George. But it was years since she'd had that sort of relationship with him, and, anyway, his mouth had its usual smile and his dark eyes studied her with their familiar quizzical gleam. If he was distressed by their father's death, he wasn't going to show it.
'About an hour ago,' he said now. 'Just in time to exchange the odd word with my dear brother.'
'Where is Rick?'
'Gone to the funeral directors.'
'Why didn't he wait so we could all go?'
George shrugged. 'Eldest son and all that.'
'But there's so much to decide.' Isabel tidied the sheets of music into a pile.
'Steady on, Sis. I'm going through those.' George scattered the pages across the table again.
Isabel tried not to look at them. Her father always kept his music in chronological order—it was one of the things she'd enjoyed helping him with. He played the piano with me as well, don't forget—The words she wasn't able to speak bounced around her head. 'Rick can't decide it all himself,' she said. 'We'll have to choose hymns. And what about readings?'
'You know our Ricky. Got to be in control.'
'But he hasn't even been to see Mum and Dad since Easter.'
'Too busy with his dot com company, I guess. Anyway, as soon as I was here to keep an eye on Eva, he pushed off.'
Isabel couldn't remember when George had started calling their mother by her first name, but he was the only one who could get away with it. She looked at the glass of wine in his hand. It was typical of him to sit here drinking and let Rick take over. He might be charming—their mother thought the sun shone out of his backside—but he was so irresponsible.
'Do you want a drink?' George asked. 'You look as if you could do with one.'
'It's the middle of the afternoon.'
'Your point is?'
'It's too early to start drinking.' Isabel wasn't going to tell George that if she had a drink now, she'd never stop.
'I thought you might need one when you hear the news.'
'What's happened? Is it Mum?' Isabel turned to the door, ready to rush upstairs.
George laughed. 'Nothing like that. But Eduardo's on his way. He phoned just after I got here.'
'Oh God! He's all we need.'
Isabel went into the kitchen. As always the fridge was full and she decided to make a meal for later. It would give her something to do. She took an onion from the vegetable rack and with one of her mother's beautifully sharp knives peeled and sliced it. Tears pricked her eyes.
From the room next door, came the sound of the piano, as George picked out the notes of the Moonlight Sonata. It was one of their father's favourites and the music filled her head. She held a tea cloth to her face, forcing the thick towelling material against her lips. Why couldn't her fingers tempt sounds of such exquisite melancholy as George's?
She went back to the dining room and stood at his side as he played. By rights neither he nor their father should have been a pianist. He was the only one of the children to have inherited their father's short stubby fingers and they were always comparing hands, matching palm to palm, arguing whose fingers were longer.
George stopped playing and swung round. He looked surprised to find her beside him.
'Dad loved this piano,' he said, his fingers lingering on the lid. She put her hand on his shoulder and he reached up and grasped it.
Isabel thought he might talk, drop the usual banter, but at that moment Grace appeared in the doorway.
'That was lovely. Mum said it was as if Dad was down here.'
'Grace!' George stood up and kissed Grace on each cheek. 'How's my sister?' He leant back and studied her face. 'Beautiful as ever.'
Grace pulled away. 'Not now,' she said. 'Play for us again.'
George sat down at the piano and flexed his fingers. 'You shall have your wish.'
Three
Rick drained the last of his coffee and stood up. The heavy drapes at the hotel window made the room dark apart from the glare of the desk light. He reached for the tasselled cord and the drapes swished back. Early morning sunshine slanted across the roofs opposite. Below him, the tree-lined street was quiet, apart from a group of four women gathered on the pavement outside the hotel entrance. Rick stared down at them until a taxi appeared, and they climbed in and drove away. He turned back to his laptop.
He'd been up since six and had already been out for his morning run. He was freshly showered and dressed—white cotton shirt and blue chinos. He adjusted the photo of Deanna and the girls, which he kept propped in front of him when he worked, until the light fell on it from the best angle. He turned back the cuff of his sleeve so that it measured exactly an inch and a half and twisted the signet ring on his little finger until the stone was straight. Deanna had given him the ring when they got married. Before the operation she'd run with him in the mornings, but the chemotherapy was leaving her exhausted. He pulled up the spreadsheet on the laptop.
'Honey, whatever are you doing?'
Hunched over the computer, Rick hadn't heard Deanna getting up. She stood behind him, her
arms around his neck. He breathed in the warm smell of sleep and a lingering trace of her perfume. Her silk wrap stroked his cheek.
It had been one of her birthday presents last year. He'd chosen it because it was flimsy and when she wore it, he caught glimpses of her tawny skin and beautiful breasts, her jutting hip bones drawing his eyes down to her dark triangle. But now instead of turning to bury his face in her breasts, as he used to, Rick kept his gaze fixed on the spreadsheet on the screen. Since the operation he hadn't been able to bring himself to look at her naked body. He knew Deanna needed him to show he still desired her and he would. In time, he would.
'Sorry, darling,' he said. 'I won't be long.'
'Come on, baby. You can't work today of all days.' Her warmth pressed against his back.
'I must have these figures ready for—'
'It's your dad's funeral.'
He avoided her eyes in the mirror. 'I can't help it,' he said, more sharply than he'd intended. 'Why don't you have a lovely long bath and then meet the girls for coffee? You can have another go at convincing Alicia that yob is a waste of space.'
'Honey, his name's Gary—'
'I don't give a stuff what he's called. He's a mechanic.'
'Rick, she's nineteen.'
'She should have more sense then.'
Deanna moved her hands to his shoulders. 'You're so tense.' Her thumbs moved in circles, pushing into the hard knot at the top of his spine. Rick allowed himself to give in to the pleasure. He arched his back, easing the pain across his shoulder blades. She ran her fingers over his face and up around his eyes. He caught the scent of apricots, smelt summer, long hot afternoons. Champagne. She'd always loved champagne. They used to take a bottle to bed and he would lick golden drops from her breasts.
'That's better.' Deanna's voice caressed him. 'Easy now, easy.'
'Mum!' There was a thump at the door connecting to the girls' suite and Alicia's voice came through the thin wooden panel.
'Shit!' Rick slammed his fist on the table and the laptop jumped. The figures on the screen vanished.
The Piano Player's Son Page 2