George managed to stop first. He poured out the champagne and held up his glass. 'Cheers, Dad.' Isabel felt a surge of love for her sister and brother as she sipped. She'd been so preoccupied with her own problems since Brian left that her family had taken second place. Now as she looked from one to the other—and it was like looking at twins—she realised how important they were to her. George could be thoughtless at times, but he meant well.
George crouched down, sorting through the pile of 78s stacked beside the piano. 'Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, Elgar,' he listed. 'Walton, Wagner, Mahler.' He let out a low whistle as he flicked through the records. 'The old bugger. It's some collection Dad's got here.'
'He did love his music,' Grace said. 'It got more difficult each year to find something he didn't already have.'
'He was only just coming round to CDs though,' George said, refilling their glasses.
'It would be nice to hear some music,' Grace said. 'Why don't you play for us, George?'
He settled himself on the piano stool. 'What do you fancy?'
As he spread his fingers above the keys, Isabel felt the familiar knot in her stomach. Why was she never the one asked to play? She closed her eyes and soon the power of the music overwhelmed her negative thoughts.
Images trickled through her mind: a meadow, green and lush, an expanse of water, fringed with stooping trees, a sky of cerulean blue, across which kites dipped and soared. Brian appeared beside her, a smiling, handsome Brian. In their first years together they'd often walked on Hampstead Heath. When Rose was born, Isabel carried her in a papoose, slung across her front. Her little body was warm and reassuring. She remembered Brian kissing the baby, and then his lips on hers.
The sound of the music died away. Isabel kept her eyes closed. It was the most peaceful she'd felt since Brian left. When she opened them again, Grace was staring straight ahead, tears streaming down her cheeks. George's elbows were on the piano, his head in his hands.
She sensed a movement behind her and looked round. Rick was standing in the doorway. His eyes took in the almost-empty champagne bottle and the glasses on the table. Isabel waited for the explosion. He wouldn't approve. Instead a smile spread across his face. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, drawing the champagne bottle towards him. 'I could do with a glass myself.'
George swung round on the piano stool. 'Let's open another. I put some in the fridge specially.'
Isabel avoided George's eyes. She couldn't gauge Rick's mood and didn't want to say the wrong thing. Grace didn't answer either.
'Good idea.' Rick nodded at George.
Isabel breathed out. Perhaps it was going to be all right.
George went into the kitchen and came back with a couple of bottles.
'Two?' Rick's voice was sharp.
'One will be gone in the first round.' George poured them all a generous glass.
Isabel hadn't eaten much all day and the champagne was going to her head.
'Bad luck about Deanna, Rick,' George said. 'I had no idea until Grace told me.' He took Grace's hand and made an elaborate show of kissing each of her fingers.
'Sorry about that, Rick.' Grace looked uncomfortable. 'I assumed he knew.'
Rick shrugged. 'No problem. We didn't want to make a big thing of it.'
'How is Deanna? How's the treatment going?' Grace asked.
'She's good. One more month of chemo and then we should get the all-clear.'
'An excellent reason for another round.' George started filling up the glasses again.
Isabel noticed Rick covering his with his hand, but George pushed it away. 'Don't pussy foot around. Let's give the old man a send-off he'd enjoy instead of all that stuffy church crap we had at the funeral.'
Isabel glanced from George to Rick. Rick was looking down at his hands. He pulled at the cuff of his shirt until it was just below the sleeve of his jacket. She watched him adjusting it until it seemed to satisfy him and he began the same process with the other one. She stared, mesmerised, at the sprinkling of hairs on his fingers.
'I don't suppose it was quite Dad's thing,' he said eventually. 'But it was what Mum wanted.'
Grace caught Isabel's eye and they managed a quick smile at each other. Could this be a truce?
'Since we're all here together,' Rick was saying now, 'there's something I want to tell you.'
'That's funny.' George poured himself another glass of champagne. Isabel watched the bubbles forming on the surface. 'I've got an announcement as well. But age before beauty.'
All at once sweat prickled in Isabel's armpits, and the room felt hot and cramped.
'Okay.' Rick placed his hands on the table. 'As soon as I get home, I'm going to make arrangements to have the piano moved to Northumberland.'
'What piano?' George asked.
'Dad's, of course.'
'What for?'
'Mum won't have room for it once she moves.'
'Hang on.' Isabel jumped in before she'd had time to think. 'Who said anything about Mum moving?'
'Stands to reason.' Rick glared at her. 'This place is too big for her. She won't want to stay here without Dad.'
'It was me who shared Dad's love of music,' George said. 'And I decided at the funeral. I'm going to have the piano. I told you that evening, didn't I, Grace?'
Grace chewed her bottom lip. Her hand moved across the table towards Isabel.George was sitting on the piano stool. He had pulled it up to the table, but now he turned back to the piano and deliberately and slowly picked out a few notes.
Rick stood up. 'As Dad's eldest son, that piano belongs to me.'
George bent over the keyboard, his fingers moving faster. There was no sign that he had heard. Rick looked back at Isabel and Grace, his mouth set in a tight line. 'The piano belongs to me,' he repeated.
George turned round, his lips curved in that lop-sided smirk of his. 'But you can't even play the damn thing! It's not like tapping the keys on a computer, you know.'
'I'm going to learn.'
'You're going to learn? You never managed it while Dad was alive. What makes you think you can do it now?'
'I didn't choose to then. I was busy making a success of my career. A concept you've never grasped!' Rick snatched up the second bottle. He sloshed champagne into his glass, knocking it back in one go.
George laughed but his eyes had that hooded look which had always meant a tantrum when he was a child. 'You're a fucking arrogant bastard, aren't you?'
'If being proud of what I've achieved makes me arrogant, then, yes, I am.' Rick stared at George over his glass. 'I run a successful company; I've got a wonderful wife and daughters, a beautiful home. What have you got to show for your thirty-five years?'
'I can play the piano and I got on with Dad, which is something you never managed.'
'Leave Dad out of this!' Rick's eyes blazed.
'Face it, Ricky. You can't stomach it because Dad and I were closer than you and he ever were.'
Rick stepped towards George. He grasped his shoulders and yanked him from the piano stool. The shock on George's face passed in a second and his hands came up, knocking Rick's arms away from him.
'Don't you fucking touch me like that ever again!'
'Get away from that piano, then. It's mine now.' A blue vein bulged and throbbed at each of Rick's temples.
From the hallway, came the creak of the stairs. They'd always hated the fourth step from the bottom when they were young. If you were trying to creep to the kitchen for another packet of crisps or to the front door to slip out unnoticed, you'd get to that one and the sitting room door would fly open and their father would be standing there. That night, though, it gave them vital seconds to pull themselves together. When Eva appeared in the doorway, they were all sitting round the table as if nothing had happened.
'Sorry, Mum, did we wake you?' Rick asked. His voice was calm, but his face was still stained red.
'I heard the piano.'
'Was it too loud?'
'No. I
love it. It reminds me of Henry.' She rested her hand on the piano lid. 'I'll never get rid of it.'
Nine
Grace was pre-occupied on the way to the airport. She searched her handbag and checked her mobile. Isabel tried to talk, but felt driven to silence in the end. She wished she'd let Grace get a taxi, as she'd wanted to. But it seemed heartless to let her go on her own.
Isabel had always been in awe of her little sister. She was taller and slimmer, wore the right thing, said the right thing, and even when they were young, Isabel had known her sister was the pretty one—and the nicer one. Although Grace had their mother's stunning looks, it was their father's personality, sunny and calm, that she displayed. Isabel used to resent the unfairness. She'd inherited the short wide-hipped stature of Henry's family and seemed to have got the worst of her mother's sensitivity. That's what Brian always said anyway.
But this time, although Grace was as beautiful as ever, she'd been edgy and distant. There was the day in London with Josh when she'd seemed her old self, but otherwise it was a miracle they hadn't ended up in a row. Some of Rick and George's bad blood must have rubbed off.
Isabel was bursting to talk about Eva's secret, but Grace's closed expression made it impossible to broach. They waited in silence for the flight to be called. When the boarding sign for Air Italia to Naples flashed on the screen, Grace leapt from her seat. She still had to go through passport control into departures, saying she preferred to wait here until the last moment. Now, as Isabel stood up to say goodbye, she saw the tears in her sister's eyes.
'Come over, Bel.' Grace hugged Isabel tight. 'I get lonely.'
Isabel hugged her back. 'I'll try. I'd love to see Ischia. Dad never stopped talking about their holiday.'
Grace picked up her bag and strode off. Isabel waited for her to turn and wave, but she didn't look back.
On the way home, Isabel called at her mother's. Rick and George had left that morning, and Uncle Eduardo had flown back to Italy after the scattering of the ashes, saying he had questioni di business.
Eva was sitting at the kitchen table. It was early afternoon, but her hair was loose and she was still in her dressing gown. The bits and pieces from Henry's shattered clock littered the table in front of her.
'Mum, whatever are you doing?' Isabel pulled a chair next to her.
Her mother held up a coil spring. 'Look at it.' She waved her hands at the other bits of the clock's mechanism. 'It's a good job your father's not here to see this.'
'It probably wouldn't have happened. He'd have noticed the screws were coming loose.'
When Isabel had arrived at the house the morning after the funeral, her mother had been in her bedroom shouting and crying. Isabel heard her as soon as she opened the front door. She went to rush up the stairs, but Grace appeared from the kitchen: 'Leave it.' She beckoned Isabel towards her. 'George is with her.'
'What's happened? She seemed okay when I left yesterday.'
'There's been a bit of drama.'
'What? Tell me.'
'I was asleep last night, and this crashing noise woke me up. It seemed to go right through the house. I thought it was someone smashing a window.' Grace broke off and listened. 'Thank God for that! She's stopped.'
'Come on,' Isabel urged. 'Don't keep me in suspense.'
'I rushed downstairs—'
'What? Into the arms of a burglar?'
'Don't be stupid. George had got down here before me.'
'And? What was it?'
'The floor was covered…' Grace spread her hands wide '… and I mean covered in broken glass and bits of spring and—'
'Oh no!' Isabel's eyes darted across to the wall. 'Grandpa's clock.'
'Yep. It must have fallen off. The screws looked as if they'd worked loose.'
'Did Mum come down?'
'No, she slept through. She'd had another sleeping tablet. But when she saw the mess this morning…'
'Where is it now?'
'I've shoved it all in the broom cupboard.'
Isabel took the spring from her mother's hand. 'Why don't you go and get dressed? I'll put all this stuff in a box, and we'll decide what to do about the clock when you're feeling stronger.'
Her mother drew her hair back from her face and piled it into a bun. Her bracelets jangled as they slid up her arm. Despite the dressing gown and unkempt hair, she'd coated her lashes in mascara and lipstick had smudged on to her teeth. 'Your father would be desolato. It was his father's.'
'We might be able to get it repaired.'
Her mother shook her head. 'No, it was an omen. It fell down at five to four.'
'Go on, Mum. Get dressed and I'll make some coffee.'
Isabel carried the tray of coffee and biscuits into the dining room. It faced south-east and was usually filled with light in the mornings. She remembered her father reading the paper in there when he came back from his walk. She set out the cups on the table and poured the coffee. It was very strong and sweet, as Mum liked.
As Isabel looked up, she caught Henry staring down at her from his portrait. She'd hated it when she first saw it. It seemed full of harsh lines and shadows, and she thought it made him look old and cruel. She was surprised he liked it himself and decided he was only pretending for George's sake. But now, she felt a shiver of recognition, as Henry's eyes met hers.
When her mother came downstairs again, she seemed calmer. Her hair was drawn back in its customary plait, and she'd reapplied her lipstick. She was dressed in a black cashmere jumper and dark grey trousers. Henry had always insisted on buying expensive clothes for her. She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee.
'Have you heard from Uncle Eduardo?' Isabel asked.
'He phoned this morning.' Her mother nibbled at a biscuit. 'He wants me to go home.'
'Home? This is your home.'
Eva stroked Isabel's cheek with the back of her hand. 'I know, but Eduardo's old and lonely like me.'
'Tough! He should have thought of that when he was the big I am, swanning all over the world. You belong here, with us.'
Her mother reached forward and took another biscuit. She didn't answer.
'You're not thinking of going, are you?'
'I don't know. I still miss Italy.'
Eva was the youngest of a large family from Cassino, a small town north-east of Naples, and Eduardo, her cousin, was her only surviving relative. He had visited England several times over the years and always brought expensive presents. 'Mafioso,' Rick used to mutter whenever he arrived. He had a shock of jet-black hair and a pencil thin moustache. He talked in a constant stream of loud Italian to Eva, and she became even more excitable in his presence. He was the one that Henry and Eva had stayed with on their annual visits to Italy.
'What was it like for you when you first came to England?' Isabel asked her mother now. Neither of her parents had talked much about their lives before the family arrived. Isabel only knew Eva had come to London to work as a nanny for her Aunt Rosa who was married to an Englishman.
'Cold,' Eva remembered now. 'So cold. I arrived in London on 20th November 1954. It was foggy. When you breathed in, it made black marks under your nose.'
'Could you speak English?'
'Not much. Aunt Rosa used to send me to the shops every day so that I had to speak it. The first thing I asked for was a bag of flour.'
'How did you meet Dad?'
'His father knew Uncle Dennis, Rosa's husband, and he asked if Henry could lodge with them when he came to London to go to Music College. Aunt Rosa had a photo of the family on the sideboard and your father told her I had beautiful eyes.'
Isabel laughed. 'So, he fancied you even in the photo?'
Eva smacked Isabel's hand. 'Fancied! What would I have known about such things?'
'Come off it, Mum. You were nineteen!'
'But I was innocent.'
'What made you come to England?'
Eva shrugged. 'Oh… you know…'
'Come on,' Isabel said. 'We've never talked about this
before.'
'It's difficult for me. I had no choice. Papa died during the war. The bombing… it was so bad in Monte Cassino. We even had to run to the church for his funeral.'
'Really?'
'After he died, the farm was neglected. My brothers said I would have a better life in England with Aunt Rosa.' Eva sighed.
'You didn't want to come?'
'I wanted to stay with my mamma. But lots of Italians came to England in the fifties and sixties and my brothers made me.'
'What about when you met Dad?' Isabel asked. 'Was it love at first sight?'
'Poof! I was too homesick. I cried every night.'
'How long did it take to settle down?' It was helping her mother to talk about the past, but Isabel hadn't got any closer to the question she was desperate to ask.
'I felt better when Rick was born. My little Ricardo, I called him. And then I had you. But Mamma got ill. She needed me.'
'What about your sisters?'
'Mamma needed me,' Eva insisted. 'I couldn't eat. I went down to seven stone and Henry—he was so kind—he said I must go home. I took my little Grace.'
'And you left us.'
'Cara mia, Rick was at school and you'd started nursery, or I would have taken you all with me.'
'I wish you had.'
'It broke my heart to leave you,' Eva said. 'Henry's mother came to look after you. I had three months with Mamma before she died. I nursed her day and night.'
Isabel poured some more coffee. 'But you were away longer than that. Grandma seemed to live with us forever.' She thought of her father's mother—a big, harsh woman, who rapped you over the knuckles with a spoon if you came to the table without washing your hands.
'Once I was there, I couldn't bear to leave. I missed my bambini, but it was wonderful to be with my family, not having to speak English. After Mamma died, I just stayed on.'
'Didn't Dad mind?' Isabel tried to keep the question neutral. What she wanted to say was how the hell could you abandon your husband and children, but she was terrified her mother would clam up.
The Piano Player's Son Page 7