But now, she was the aggrieved one. He'd walked out on her when she most needed him, and it was because of him she hadn't been there when her father died. He was to blame, and he hadn't even phoned.
She switched on her mobile and thought about her remaining time in England. Only today and tomorrow to go. Her family were driving her mad: Rick and George sniping at each other all the time, her mother playing the grief-stricken widow to perfection and Isabel whinging about Brian. She loved her sister, but she lived in some fantasy world—Brian was a boorish idiot and she was better off without him.
It made Grace's life in Italy seem idyllic. In Ischia she had places to escape to. However busy she was, there were moments when she could sit by the sea, wander the castello, drink sweet, strong coffee and think. That was what she wanted. She craved time and space to think about her dad. She was never going to see him again, and she had to adjust.
Her mobile bleeped. A voicemail from Franco must have arrived while she was asleep. At last. Whatever he had to say had better be good. She clicked to hear it and Franco's warm voice filled her ear: carissima, I miss you so much. I am sorry about your papa. Come home soon, so I can kiss you better. A pause. Then Is busy in ristorante. Grace kept the phone to her ear. Was that it? No apology. No explanation.
She swung her legs round and sat up. She checked her watch on the bedside cabinet: ten past eight. She supposed she'd have to go and see her mother.
Grace caught the bus to Highbury Corner. When she was at school, one of her friends used to live in Highbury, but it was a long time since she'd been there, especially on the bus. She gazed out of the window at the places that formed the fabric of her youth. The bus approached Hornsey Lane Bridge, and as they passed underneath, she remembered the man she'd seen jump. She was about fifteen and on her way home from a hockey match, when the school bus slammed into an emergency stop. Grace had pressed her face against the cold glass of the window. While sirens screamed, and ambulance men and police swirled round him, the man's body had lain, limbs broken like matchsticks. When her mother heard what had happened she became hysterical. He could have killed you. You could be dead. The words had resounded in Grace's head until it was as if the man's purpose had been to aim for a bus of teenage schoolgirls. It had been Isabel who'd held her hand across the narrow gap between their beds and talked to her, until she fell asleep that night.
The bus pulled up just before the Archway. Her first boyfriend had lived round the corner. She used to get off the bus here, heart racing at the thought of kisses and wandering hands—it was getting harder to say no. He'd sent her a message recently, wanting to be friends on Facebook, but she'd deleted the request immediately.
They drove down the hill towards Holloway. Grace had been terrified of the prison when she was a child. Prisons in storybooks meant dungeons and torture and violent men with matted hair. She imagined an escape and a prisoner on the run climbing through the window into her bedroom. It didn't matter that she'd been told it was a prison for 'naughty ladies'. Her prisoner was always a giant like the one in Jack and the Beanstalk.
Grace got off the bus at Highbury Corner. She fished in her bag for the directions to the hotel she'd got from the website. The Queen's was a ten-minute walk.
Archie Stansfield was waiting in the lounge. He held out his hand. 'Grace, it's good to see you.' There it was again—the soft burr that reminded her of her father's voice. 'I didn't expect to… you know… after the funeral.'
Grace hesitated and then shook his hand. The skin felt dry and papery. 'No,' she said, 'I'm surprised myself that I'm here.'
'I'll get them to bring us some tea… or coffee, perhaps?'
'Tea will be fine.'
He shuffled off to the reception desk, and Grace sat down in one of the leather armchairs in the big bay window, overlooking the hotel garden. A huge cedar tree, menacing against the metallic sky, dominated the view from the window.
Phoning The Queen's this morning and arranging to meet Archie Stansfield had been an impulse. She'd helped her mother have a bath, and Eva was being particularly complaining and difficult: 'Henry always got the temperature of the water exactly right'… 'Henry always warmed the towel'… 'Henry liked to scrub my back'… Grace had held back her words—Henry was nothing short of a saint!
Then Uncle Eduardo had arrived to take Eva out for lunch. He cornered Grace in the kitchen to tell her—for the millionth time—that she was la piừ bella del mondo. Just like her mamma. When Rick turned up to check on the final details for scattering the ashes tomorrow, sending Eva into extravagant sobs, Grace had escaped to her room. Seeing the card for the Queen's Hotel on her bedside cabinet had prodded her nagging feelings about Archie Stansfield. She didn't believe what he'd told her at the funeral for one minute, but there must have been something, or why—
'Sorry about the delay. The tea's on its way.' Archie Stansfield sat down opposite Grace.
She was struck as before by his sad blue eyes. They watered constantly and he dabbed at them with a handkerchief. His face was cracked with wrinkles. He looked so old, yet he must be the same age as her father. Had he looked as old as this? If he had, Grace hadn't noticed.
When the tea arrived, Archie Stansfield motioned to Grace to serve.
She handed him a cup. 'I'm sorry if I was rude to you at the funeral, Mr Stansfield.'
'It was my fault,' he said. 'I shouldn't have told you what I did. And call me Archie, please.'
Grace glanced across at the old man. She couldn't imagine calling him Archie. 'You said you were a friend of my father's.'
'Aye, we lived a few streets from each other. We used to go fishing together.' His eyes watered more than ever. 'Till we fell out, of course.' His hands circled the teacup. A ridge of knotted veins ran along the thin skin on the back of his hand. His fingernails were long and didn't look very clean.
'When did you last see him?'
'Ooh, let me see.' Archie gazed up at the ceiling as if the answer was imprinted there. 'I saw him at his dad's funeral, but we didn't speak. I didn't go back to the house—it would have been embarrassing.'
Grace was still sceptical, but if this man was making it all up, he was a good liar. 'Was my mother with him? At the funeral, I mean.'
Archie shook his head. 'That would have been when they'd split up.'
Shock shivered through Grace. 'Split up? My parents didn't split up.'
'Sorry, lass. I shouldn't have put it like that. Your mam went back to Italy and left the wee ones with your dad.'
'Her mother was dying,' Grace protested. 'She took me with her.' She'd heard the story often enough—how she'd only spoken Italian until she was four; how she'd cried every night for months after she and her mother had come back to England.
Archie Stansfield smiled. 'Happen so, lass. But Henry told his mam Eva had left him. Wrote as much to me in a letter, an all. Heartbroken he was. I thought it was no more than he deserved… after what he'd done.'
Grace decided to cut short the topic. He'd spouted enough rubbish on her parents. 'You and my father had a fight?' she said.
He seemed unperturbed by her change of direction. 'Aye. I was proud of myself. Gave him a right shiner.' He tore open a sachet and stirred sugar into the tea, the spoon grating on the bottom of the cup. He opened a second sachet and began the process again. He looked as if he might stir the tea forever.
This was hopeless. If there was any secret to reveal, Grace couldn't imagine it coming out of this man's mouth.
He stopped stirring at last. 'Your dad and my sister were sweethearts.'
'Sweethearts? When they were children, you mean?'
'Nay. They knew each other, of course, but our Dottie was about seventeen when they started courting.' He hesitated. 'And she would have been twenty the day after it finished. I remember that birthday clearer than yesterday.'
Grace had never heard about any early girlfriends. As far as she knew, Eva was her father's first and only love.
'Why did it finish?'
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Archie leant forward. It was warm in the hotel lounge, but he was wearing a thick tweed suit. Beads of perspiration pricked his forehead. He'd probably brought his best clothes with him to London. His faded eyes met Grace's.
'Dottie was a year older than me and Henry,' he began. 'She was a clever girl.' He smiled. 'She came first and I reckon as she got all the brains! She wanted to stay on at school, but there wasn't the money in those days. She got a job in the mill, but then she went to night school. "I'm going to do something with my life," she used to say.' He took out the handkerchief and dabbed at his head. 'She and Henry started courting. Me mam was dead chuffed—our Dottie with a boyfriend from the posh side of town. He taught her to play the piano. Course we couldn't afford one, so she used to go to his house to practise.'
'What happened then?'
'Dottie fell pregnant.'
Eight
Isabel sat down at the piano and opened the lid. The black and white keys stared back at her. She could hear her father's voice: 'Take it slowly. You always want to rush this bit.' His fingers appeared on the keyboard beside hers and the sounds of a duet echoed in her head. She slammed the lid down.
She had to start playing—the income from the lessons she gave bumped up the allowance from Brian, and several of her students were about to sit exams. But each day so far, she'd found a reason not to practise.
She avoided the living room where the piano stood, preferring the kitchen or her bedroom. She'd brought very little furniture from the family home, but several favourites hadn't gone to the auction rooms with the rest. The chaise longue covered in rich cream brocade had been her pride and joy, and the Victorian nursing chair was the first antique she'd bought. They'd looked beautiful in her old sitting room, but in the flat's twelve-foot square box they were stripped of their glory, and the room was like an over-full junkshop.
She ran her hand over the smooth wood of the piano. It was nowhere near as splendid as her father's. His father had bought that for him when he won his scholarship to the Royal College of Music and Grandpa always liked to say that Elgar had played on it at one time. Isabel's had never sounded as sweet and it was covered in scratches where Samson had climbed on it as a kitten. But as soon as her fingers touched the keys, she knew her father's death would become real. Tomorrow, they were scattering the ashes. Perhaps she'd manage to play after that.
Isabel was still sitting at the piano when Rose came in. She rushed straight to her bedroom and the door banged shut.
Isabel went into the hall. 'Rose?' she called. 'Are you all right?'
'Go away.' Rose's voice was muffled.
By the time she emerged, Isabel was in bed reading. Samson was in his favourite position across her feet.
Rose hesitated in the doorway. 'Can we talk?'
Isabel patted a space beside her, and Rose came and lay spread along the length of the bed as she used to when she was younger. Her face was red and blotchy and her eyes were puffy.
'What's happened?'
'I feel stupid! I wish I'd never sent the text.'
'Which text?'
'There's this lad…' Rose had been difficult since Brian left, sullen and argumentative, and Isabel gripped her book, afraid to say anything in case she put her off. 'I've liked him for ages.' Rose ran her palm down Samson's back, and he got up and stalked off. 'I told Sarah I liked him. I thought I could trust her, but she told Abigail, and she told that idiot Fallon and once she knew…'
'What happened?'
'Andy—that's this lad's mate—said to ask him to the pub at lunchtime.'
The pub? Isabel forced herself not to comment.
'I thought if Andy said that, it must mean he liked me. So I texted him.'
'And? What did he say?'
'No ta.'
'What do you mean—no ta? What did he actually say?'
'That was what he said. No ta. Why did he have to be so cruel?'
Isabel stroked Rose's hair. Poor love. Why did he have to be so cruel? The kind of question for which there was no answer. Rose's breathing slowed and her eyes closed. It was as if she was a little girl again. Her limbs twitched and Isabel thought she'd fallen asleep.
'Mum, I'm hungry.'
'At this hour? What do you fancy?'
'Comfort food. Like you used to make me.'
Isabel kept tins of spaghetti hoops in the cupboard for when Josh came and she warmed some now and piled them on toast. She leaned back against the sink unit and watched Rose gulping them down. The glare of the overhead light drained Rose of colour, but the tension in her face had softened. Isabel smiled. Perhaps they'd turned a corner and she would be that sweet girl again, like she used to be.
Rose sucked in the last spaghetti hoop and scraped her knife across the plate. 'I'd like to see Dad.'
Isabel felt the smile stitch itself to her face. Rose had previously refused to see her father. It was Isabel's only weapon in the war with him. He'd won on all other fronts. He had Josh, he had that woman and he had the new baby. Everything he wanted.
But was it? For weeks now, whenever Brian dropped Josh off, he'd find a way of getting Isabel alone. 'You know I want you, Bel,' he'd wheedle. 'Get lost!' she said on the first few occasions, but gradually he wore her down. She could hardly bear to admit to herself what was happening, but…
'Mum, did you hear what I said?'
'Yes.'
'You wouldn't mind, would you?'
'Why should I? It's up to you.'
Isabel had been dreading it, but scattering her father's ashes was nothing like the day he died. She felt detached, as if she was hovering above the scene, looking down at the ill-assorted procession wandering around, searching for the best place to lay the ashes. Every so often, the man from the crematorium would stop and look at them questioningly. Here, in the shade below the beech tree? Here, in the washed-out sunshine? At each stop, they surveyed the area, as if they were looking for the ideal picnic spot.
Rick was in front, carrying the container with the ashes. It looked like an old-fashioned sweetie jar, Isabel thought. Deanna clutched his arm. Eva, leaning heavily on Uncle Eduardo, tottered behind in the most inappropriate heels. Grace and George were next, and somehow Isabel found herself at the back, on her own. She didn't mind. It felt easier to be apart from the others
They arrived at a dark corner below a line of yew trees.
'This is it,' Rick said. Isabel shivered. The trees blocked out any hint of sunlight, and she didn't want to leave her father here. But if Rick had made his mind up, then this is where it would be. When it was her turn, she dipped her hand into the jar and felt the soft powder clinging to her skin.
Afterwards they went back to the house for tea. Nobody said much. Eva needed to lie down, and Isabel sat with her until she fell asleep. When she went downstairs, Grace was in the dining room on her own. George was in the kitchen talking on his mobile, and Rick had driven Deanna to their hotel.
'He's coming back once he's got Deanna and the girls settled.'
'You don't mean Mr High and Mighty actually wants to spend time with us?'
'Even Rick might need his brother and sisters more now,' Grace said.
Isabel sat down at the table. She rested her chin in her hands and looked across at Grace. Perhaps this was the chance to recover some of the closeness they'd shared. 'I still can't believe Dad's gone.'
'I can't get a picture of his face.' Grace glanced up at the portrait above the mantelpiece. 'Despite George's efforts.'
'I keep expecting him to walk in,' Isabel said. 'That it's all been a mistake.'
'I hadn't seen him since the summer. Their visit to Ischia seems such an age ago.' Grace looked wistful. 'I thought there would be lots more holidays.'
Guilt pricked Isabel: she'd spent a lot of time with their father since she'd been on her own. He'd helped her move into the flat; got rid of furniture, consoled her when she was upset. She'd seen him every day, whereas…
'I always thought I'd have time to get to know him.'
Grace was picking at some candle wax on the table. 'Find out what made him tick.'
'He was a private man. He had Mum, I suppose.' This was safer territory. Isabel didn't feel as if her words would explode in her face. 'I read in some magazine that children can feel left out when their parents have a great love affair.'
'Only two of the children in our case.'
It was Isabel's turn to tense. 'Two? You're not on this middle child thing—'
'Rick and me—we were the ones left out.'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
Grace swept the slivers of wax into a pile. 'I can't recall Dad ever saying he loved me.'
'But somehow you knew he did.' As the words slid from her mouth, Isabel heard how complacent they sounded. As if she and their father had shared some bond that didn't need voicing. 'What I meant—'
'Do you remember the day of the funeral?'
What was this now? She'd never known her sister analyse things so much. 'How could I forget? The sight of Mum…'
Grace shook her head. 'I wasn't thinking of the ceremony.'
'What, then?'
'Afterwards, back here. There was a man on his own. Archie—'
'Anyone fancy a drink?' The door opened and George came in, brandishing a bottle of champagne.
'Do you think that's a good idea?' Isabel said. 'Supposing Mum comes down? She won't want to see us all celebrating.'
'Why not?' George eased the cork from the bottle. 'We're celebrating the best old man anyone could have wished for.'
The cork shot across the table. It struck George's painting of Henry full on and bounced back hitting Grace on the side of her head. She gasped and her mouth dropped open. She looked so different from her usual self that Isabel started to laugh. It felt wrong and she pursed her lips trying to smother the bubble rising inside. But the more she tried, the worse it got. She glanced at the others: George's eyes were screwed shut and Grace had clamped her hand across her mouth. Isabel laughed in uncontrollable gulps of noise that burst from her throat.
The Piano Player's Son Page 6