The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  Nineteen

  On Christmas morning Isabel hung the black dress her mother was planning to wear on the outside of the wardrobe.

  'You'd better get a move on, Mum. The service starts at ten.'

  Eva sat on the edge of the bed. She was twisting a hanky between her fingers. She coiled the thin white material into a knot before smoothing it out and then starting all over again. 'My first Christmas with your father was fifty years ago, although I hardly knew him then. I'd only been in England a month and I remember Aunt Rosa asking him to take care of me.'

  Isabel crouched down in front of her mother. She drew the handkerchief gently from Eva's fingers and clasped them in her own. 'Look at me, Mum,' she pleaded. Eventually Eva raised her eyes. Isabel squeezed her fingers. 'I might not know what it's like to be with someone for a life-time, but I understand the pain of losing someone you love,' she said. 'I miss Dad too. He always knew the right thing to say to make you feel better. He saw the best in everyone. But he's gone.'

  'No!' The word exploded from Eva's lips. 'He's not far away. Sometimes—when I'm on my own and it's quiet—I can feel him in the room. He's watching over us.'

  'Exactly. And we don't want him to think we made a mess of things the minute his back was turned.'

  'He used to tell me he was proud of me.'

  'Come on, then. Dry those tears. Rick and Deanna will be waiting. We'll miss the service if we don't get a move on.'

  'I wish we could have gone to Midnight Mass.'

  'So do I. But you know what Rick's like. It has to be done his way.'

  Isabel knew that criticism of one of her beloved sons would rouse her mother, and she was right. Eva immediately straightened her shoulders.

  'Rick's an important man, Isabel. He's used to making decisions for other people.'

  'I know. And if we don't want Christmas Day to get off to a bad start, we need to go downstairs.'

  Eva looked tired and sad, but she managed a smile. 'Thank you for being patient with a silly old woman, cara. You're a darling child.'

  In the end the service at All Saints passed successfully. Rick read his piece in a loud clear voice; the scent of flowers filled the church, and the organ's notes were thrilling and uplifting. Rick and Deanna stood on either side of Eva in the pew in front, and Isabel stared at the back of her mother's head. Her hair had been done in a rush and it was spilling from the bun as she joined in the hymns with her usual gusto. When she was young, she'd been embarrassed at Eva's fine soprano voice. Now she was relieved to hear the sound. She glanced at her two nieces each side of her in the pew. She smiled across at Camilla, but it was Rose's face that filled her mind. What were she and Josh doing this morning? She'd already told them she wouldn't phone. It would hurt too much to hear their voices.

  When they got back to the house, they had smoked salmon and scrambled egg for breakfast, washed down with a glass of bucks fizz. Grace had rung but Rick had wanted to show Isabel the garden, and she missed the call. They scrabbled down the last few feet to the river. Rick bent to select a stone. He lined up his wrist and flicked. The stone skimmed the water, landing with scarcely a splash, before rising again in a graceful arc. Each time the water eddied around the stone's landing place, Rick urged it on: 'Four… five… go on… go on…' The stone plopped into the water, and although he was poised to continue counting, it didn't appear again.

  'Dad taught me how to do that.' He picked up several more stones, examining each one. '"It's all in the selection process" he used to say.'

  'It's funny, isn't it?' Isabel said. 'It's the little things that get you.'

  'I remember him taking me to see Arsenal play. It was the only time. I think Mum was still away in Italy and Grandma looked after you. I'd been picked for the under-10s team and I was sure I was going to be a professional footballer.'

  'Did Arsenal win?'

  'You bet!' Rick smiled, and for a moment Isabel saw the little tow-headed boy he must have been. 'We went to a café in Highbury afterwards to celebrate. We had fried egg and chips. "Don't tell your gran," he said. "This is our secret."' Rick looked sheepish.

  He had three separate piles of stones by then. Judging by the different shapes, they were definite skimmers, possibilities and rejects.

  'What do you think about me learning to play the piano?' he asked.

  'If there's something you want to do, go for it,' Isabel said. 'Dad dying has made me realise how short life is.' As she heard the cliché emerge, Isabel wondered what her dream was. All she'd thought about for months was getting Brian back. There must be something she'd like to do with her life.

  'George thinks it's a joke. I expect you do as well, only you're too polite to say so.'

  'I don't think it's a joke, Rick.' Isabel hoped she sounded convincing.

  'In a year's time I'll be able to play like Dad.'

  'He had been playing all his life.'

  'See!' Rick kicked his pile of discarded stones into the water. 'You don't think I can do it.'

  'It's not that.' Isabel was getting cold. There was a lovely fire in the drawing room and she wanted to go in. 'But it's much harder when you're older. Like any new skill.'

  'I'm going to do it, Isabel,' Rick repeated. 'And because I've bought this piano, it doesn't mean that I'm not going to have Dad's.'

  'Mum wants to keep it. You know it reminds her of Dad.'

  'I'm prepared to leave it for a while. That's why I've got this one in the meantime. But when she moves house, there won't be room for a piano.'

  Isabel stared at him. 'You're not serious about her moving?'

  'I'll wait until she's stronger. But I want her to sell up and move here. She'd be better off out of London, and Deanna and I will take care of her.'

  'But I'm only ten minutes away. I'm always popping in and out.' Angry words leapt to Isabel's lips, but she clenched her teeth. It was Christmas Day, she was a guest in his home and for her mother and Deanna's sakes, she wouldn't cause a scene.

  'I've already put in an offer on a house in Hexham for her,' Rick said. 'It's only thirty minutes from here.'

  From the terrace came the sound of Deanna's voice calling them.

  'Thank goodness. That means Alicia's home.' Rick turned towards the house. 'I knew she'd see sense when the time came.' He started to clamber up the bank from the river. He turned back and reached out to Isabel. 'Give me your hand.'

  She was about to refuse, but the bank was muddy and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of watching her undignified scramble.

  Rick strode up the lawn while Isabel trailed behind him. By the time she reached the house, he was already several yards ahead, but she still heard his explosion of anger. She arrived at the door of the drawing room to find the others looking as if they'd been interrupted in a game of musical statues. Her mother sat huddled in a corner of the sofa. Deanna was standing at the drinks tray. She was deathly pale. Flavia and Camilla were at the other end of the room by the Christmas tree. They were on their knees, a present in each hand.

  Rick held his eldest daughter by the arm. A young man stood behind Alicia. He was very tall and gangly. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt with the words Piss Head printed across the front and jeans, which were torn at the knee. Tattoos covered his spindly forearms. His hair was stringy and greasy looking.

  'If you'd let me speak…' Alicia was saying. 'This is Gary.' She turned to her right, but Rick's eyes didn't even flick in the boy's direction. His gaze bored into Alicia.

  'I told you never to bring that lout here!'

  'And I told you I wouldn't come today if he wasn't welcome.'

  'Then why are you here?' Rick's bellow was terrifying. Isabel looked towards her mother. She'd shrunk into the cushions that enveloped her and her eyes were squeezed shut.

  'You needn't think it was to see you.' Alicia spoke quietly. Every word was carefully enunciated. 'I came to see Mum and my sisters.'

  Rick lifted his right arm in the air. Oh God, he was going to hit her.

 
Alicia laughed. 'Go on. Do it. Isn't that what bullies do when they can't get their own way? You bully the people at work and you think you can do the same to your family.'

  'How dare you!' Rick clenched his fist above his head. Isabel could see his arm was shaking.

  'Dad!' From the far end of the room, Flavia came to life. She pushed Camilla out of the way, knocking a present from her hand. The sound of glass splintering on the polished wooden floor filled the few seconds' silence. Deanna, too, seemed to wake from a dream. She and Flavia reached Rick at the same moment. Deanna put her arms round him. 'Honey, calm down. Alicia's your princess. Remember?'

  Rick was still glaring at Gary, but he lowered his fist.

  'I wanted Alicia here. I told her to bring Gary rather than stay away.' Deanna's voice was silky as she stroked his hair back from his forehead. 'I needed us to be together, Rick. This year, especially.' Deanna reached up and wound her arms round Rick's neck. She began to kiss his mouth. It felt wrong to watch, but Isabel couldn't tear her eyes away.

  She wasn't sure what happened next. Whether Deanna tipped her head back too far, or Rick accidentally knocked her turban as he cupped her face in his palms, she didn't know. But Deanna's yellow turban slipped. It hung from the back of her head and then as she clutched at it, it fell to the floor. Unsightly tufts of grey hair sprouted from the largely bald dome of her head. Isabel saw the horror on Rick's face.

  It lasted only a matter of seconds. Deanna bent down, swept up the turban and repositioned it on her head. 'Darling, don't look so scared.' She stroked his cheek. Rick pulled away from her embrace, and Camilla had to catch her arm to steady her. He didn't seem to notice. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself a large measure of whisky. He turned back to where the others remained mesmerised. 'I'll be in my study when dinner's ready,' he said. 'And he…' he jerked his head to where Gary stood '…had better be gone.'

  Twenty

  Grace poured herself a glass of water from the bottle in the fridge and stepped on to the balcony. Franco was still asleep, and she relished these moments alone. Below her, the sea was calm. It was a cold morning, but the sky was a bright blue with only the occasional cloud rolling across. Grace pulled her wrap closer round her shoulders. She was so tired; her whole body ached. Christmas was spent with Franco's family, while the restaurant had been fully booked since New Year's Eve. It would be the same now until the Epiphany.

  Her eyes were drawn, as always, to the castello and she was just in time to see a halo of sunlight illuminate the fortress. She wondered if it had been a morning like this on 27th December 1509 when Vittoria Colonna married Count Ferrante d'Avalos in the castle cathedral. The Castello d'Aragonese had been a great Renaissance court, a magnet for artists and poets with Vittoria at the centre. Despite Grace's fascination with Vittoria, a sense of what it would have been like to be her remained elusive. A great beauty— Michelangelo was said to be in love with her—she was a romantic figure from a remote world. Yet she stared out from her portraits like a woman from the twenty-first century.

  The light made Grace's eyes water and she raised her hand to shield them. Thoughts of Vittoria's life sent her back to when she was nineteen. She'd had a terrible row with her father. It was the summer holiday and her first year at university was over. She wasn't enjoying her degree—studying Italian was a step back instead of a new adventure. There was a boy on her course who was going to drop out and travel America. Grace had slept with him a few times and he asked her to go with him. Her father wouldn't hear of it, and when October came, Grace went back and continued her studies.

  She stared across the narrow stretch of sea to the castle. Suppose she had abandoned her course and travelled to America? She would never have been in Naples teaching English. She would never have met Franco and fallen for his brown eyes and long lean body. She would never have been on a small island which—for all its beauty—imprisoned her. She would never have married Franco and felt as caged by his demands and expectations as the thick walls of the castello might have held her captive in earlier times.

  A few nights before, the castle had been the backdrop to a spectacular show of fireworks to welcome il nuovo anno. Franco had gone up on the roof about eleven o'clock when the evening in the restaurant was in full swing and let off their own display. Everyone had swarmed outside on to the pavement to watch. Grace remained in the kitchen. The fireworks reminded her too much of the previous summer. Her parents had come to Ischia for the first time and together they'd watched the island's annual celebration for the feast of St Ann. The balcony provided a perfect view.

  Lights had shone out from hundreds of lanterns placed around the castle and on the rocks that stood in the sea below. They cast a glow that trembled across the stretch of black water between the castle and the reefs. The sea was filled with boats of all shapes and sizes, rocking in the waves. People crammed on to the bridge that linked the castle to the island to watch the parade of decorated carnival rafts. Just after midnight, the firework display began from a boat moored out in the bay. Arcs and swirls and spirals of greens and golds and colour after shimmering colour filled the sky. Then the castle began to glow. One patch of red appeared in the darkness and then another sprang up, and another, until the whole castello was fired with crimson and flames leapt into the black sky. Grace remembered her mother's gasp.

  'It's all right,' she'd whispered. 'It's not real. They pretend to set fire to the castle to recall the pirate invasions.'

  They'd been standing close, her father in the middle with his arms round Grace and Eva.

  'They don't do fireworks as well as us,' he said, 'but they're pretty nonetheless.'

  'Pretty!' Eva exclaimed. 'How can you be down-key about something so magnificent?'

  'You mean low-key.'

  'What?'

  'You said down-key. It's low-key.' Henry was the only one who dared correct Eva's mistakes. She often got annoyed, but that night she laughed.

  'Down… low… who cares?' she'd said. 'I adore fireworks,' and she'd kissed Henry on the cheek.

  Grace turned back to the darkened bedroom. She pulled on some trousers and a jumper. Franco was snoring. Usually he was up ages before her. He worked hard, determined to make a success of the restaurant. He wanted to extend it. In the early hours of the morning, he'd made Grace sit down with a glass of prosecco while he outlined his plans. The building next door was up for sale and Franco intended to put in a bid. He paced between the tables, as he explained how they could create three or four en-suite rooms and offer accommodation. The extra space would also be useful for the bambini.

  Grace smiled awkwardly. When she came back from England the second time, she'd expected a cold reception. They'd parted on such bad terms she'd almost reconciled herself to the fact that her marriage was over. Instead Franco had been warm and loving. Asking her lots of questions about her mother, holding her tight when she woke in the night crying. In the morning, when she opened her eyes, he would be leaning on one elbow watching her, a smile on his lips. 'Mia cara,' he would murmur, 'bella, bella.'

  One morning she had whispered the word 'Yes.'

  'Yes?'

  'Yes, I will.'

  His dark eyes looked puzzled. 'You will what?'

  'I'll have your baby.'

  Perhaps it would work out. Her father had gone and nothing could replace him, but a new life growing inside her might make the pain less raw. At Christmas, when Franco had revealed the news to his family, Grace had been showered with attention. His mother could not have made more fuss of her if she'd been Our Lady herself. And for a few days she too had been consumed with joy. It was as if she was already pregnant. But in spite of that, every morning she'd continued to remove the packet of pills from the back of her underwear drawer where she'd hidden them, press one from its foil wrapping into her palm and swallow it. One day soon she would stop taking them, she told herself. One day soon.

  Franco had told the staff to come in later this morning after all their hard work, a
nd the office and restaurant were deserted. Grace opened the shutters in the office. Light streamed into the room, bouncing off piles of papers on the desk. It would be good to have more space if they expanded into next door. She turned on the computer to check her emails, hoping for something from home. She hardly ever heard from Rick, but George was an avid email and texter—sometimes sending several a day—and Isabel had been in touch a lot since their father died.

  But not since Christmas. Grace watched the little icons ripple on to the screen. Since her mother and Isabel had come back from Newcastle, she'd hardly heard from her sister. She had never got used to the Italian custom of the big event being on Christmas Eve. It left her feeling flat and longing for home on Christmas Day. She used to picture the scene in her parents' dining room while she waited for them to answer the phone: him at one end of the table nearest the piano, her at the other with the light from the window gleaming through her hair. When the phone was picked up, it was always her father's voice: 'Happy Christmas, love.' 'I miss you,' she used to say. 'Aye lass,' he would answer. 'I expect you do.'

  Grace hadn't been to Rick's new house, so this year she hadn't been able to visualise them all. Her mother sounded subdued when she rang and even Deanna wasn't her usual bright self. There was a lot of noise in the background—Deanna said she'd have to go as Alicia had arrived with her boyfriend—and Grace had hung on waiting for someone else to pick up the receiver. But no one had and eventually she'd been forced to hang up, disappointed that she hadn't been able to speak to Isabel.

  'Buongiorno, Signora!'

  Grace's head whipped round at the unexpected voice. Benito, the postman, was standing in the doorway. He was grinning. 'Un bel mucchio di posta oggi!' He dropped a huge pile of mail on the desk with a wave and then Grace heard the whine of his scooter as he accelerated up the road.