The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  She flicked through the envelopes, mostly routine stuff. But half way through the pile, she stopped. It was a blue envelope with an English stamp. The writing was small and neat and sloped backwards. She raised the envelope to her face. There was a faint smell of cigarettes. Could it be the reply she was waiting for?

  On that last visit to England, Grace hadn't known what to think when she found the photo in the bureau. Seeing Henry with two people called Archie and Dottie seemed to confirm Archie Stansfield's assertion that he and her father had once been friends. For Henry… All my love, Dottie. What did that mean? Her father and Dottie were lovers? Dottie fell pregnant. Whose baby? She must have been having an affair with someone else—that's why the relationship had ended. But Archie had hit him. It didn't make sense.

  She'd studied her mother's face when she arrived home from the Advent lunch, trying to view her with a stranger's eyes. Eva had admitted to Isabel that Henry and Archie had a row many years ago, just as Archie himself had said, and Grace was sure she knew more.

  The day before she returned to Ischia, when her mother went upstairs for a rest, Grace searched the bureau again. There might be something she'd missed. She'd been about to give up, afraid her mother would come downstairs and catch her, when she'd found it. Right at the back of the bottom drawer, hidden under a pile of Granny's knitting patterns, was a scrap of paper. It looked as if it had been torn from a child's exercise book, and on it was Archie Stansfield's name and address.

  She'd written to him as soon as she arrived home. His reply arrived almost by return of post. It contained only a few lines in which he politely, but firmly, refused her request for more information. It was best that things remained as they were, he'd written. He should never have come to the funeral. Shouldn't have spoken out as he did. I trust you'll understand and respect that the past doesn't belong to us and we shouldn't meddle with it.

  It had been too tantalising. Something had happened all those years ago that her father had concealed. Grace had to know. Before Christmas she'd written a second letter to Archie Stansfield, offering to come to England to meet him again. I need to clear up these doubts, she had written, so that I can grieve for my father in peace. I shouldn't have run away when we met before.

  It was Archie's reply to this letter that had just arrived. For a moment she was tempted to burn it, but she'd gone too far. Whatever Archie Stansfield had to reveal, she needed to know.

  She drew the two sheets of closely written script from the envelope.

  My dear Grace,

  I have thought long and hard since your second letter arrived. I might not be doing the right thing, but I don't like secrets and I think you should know what happened.

  Henry was my friend from the day we started school. I left when I was 14. My family didn't have any money and I went to work in the mill. But your dad was clever and his mam was determined he would stay on until matriculation. I thought he would forget about me, but he didn't. He used to call for me every Saturday afternoon and we'd go fishing down at the river. To tell you the truth, he didn't really enjoy fishing. He'd spend all his time gathering a pile of stones that he'd skim across the water. I remember the day he managed to make his pebble leap seven times. He made so much noise, whooping and cheering; I shouldn't think I got another bite for the rest of the day. We were forever quarrelling about that—I'd want it dead calm so as not to disturb the fish, and his stones would be plopping into the water all over the place. I smile now when I think of it. We were an unlikely pair to be friends. My mam said his family was posh, and some people in the town thought your grandfather was racy, what with him playing the piano at the pictures, but I didn't care. Henry was the best friend ever.

  The page dropped on to Grace's lap. The computer screen told her that she had four new emails, but she didn't click on them. She was lost in thoughts of her father as a boy. The best friend Archie Stansfield ever had. She could picture the look on his face the day his skimming stone had leapt seven times. His mouth would have been drawn tight in concentration, but his eyes would have sparkled. She'd seen that look when he'd mastered a difficult piece of music.

  Part of her wanted to hang on to that image of her father, as she'd always known him. It wasn't too late to destroy the letter. But deep down, she knew it was. Her eyes returned to the blue pages.

  Twenty-one

  After Isabel returned from Rick's, thoughts of Simon preoccupied her. Last thing at night, she'd take his card from the top drawer of her bedside table and stare at his name. She would phone him the next day, she told herself, but come the morning her resolve always weakened. It was weeks since they'd met at Kenwood and he'd probably forgotten her by now. She could imagine the call: 'Hello, it's Isabel here.' Isabel? Who on earth is Isabel? he'd be thinking. She tucked the card back inside the drawer underneath her underwear.

  It was well into January when she gained the courage to ring.

  'Hi, it's Isabel.'

  'Hi! Great to hear from you.'

  'Sorry it's been so long.'

  He laughed. 'I thought the famous Franklin charm had failed to work its magic!'

  'I was wondering…' This was the difficult bit. She'd never asked a man out. Well, she wasn't inviting him out exactly, but… seconds passed as all the phrases she'd rehearsed evaporated.

  Simon's voice sounded again in her ear. 'If you were going to ask me if I'd like to meet…'

  'Yes, yes, I was,' she said, and before her nerve went again: 'Do you? I mean would you like to?'

  'Isabel, I'd love to.'

  They met for lunch in a pub in Highgate. She arrived first and ordered a diet coke, trying to look as if she always propped up bars on her own. Simon rushed in with apologies. When he kissed her cheek, her heart beat faster. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his hand on her back and forgot he was late.

  'How about a nice chablis?' he said.

  'Wine goes to my head at lunchtime.'

  'Just one glass for you then. Shall we sit at that table by the fire?' Isabel bagged the table, while Simon went to the bar.

  He poured out the wine and raised his glass: 'Here's to a blue-sky, yellow-sun, green-grass day.'

  'What's one of those?' The wine tasted cool on her tongue.

  'You know… hunky dory, tikkety boo…'

  'Oh, I've got it—a white-snow, brown-chocolate, red-bus sort of day.'

  Simon laughed—a barrelling sound that made her want to join in. 'I love it, Isabel. You're on my wave length!'

  This was new territory. She'd never been on anybody's wavelength before. She took a few more sips and looked at him properly. He was wearing a thick blue cotton shirt and jeans. His hair was even shorter than she remembered and it seemed to make his ears stick out. He rubbed a hand across his head when he saw her glance. 'It is drastic, isn't it?' He grinned. 'I wouldn't have had it cut if I'd known the call was going to come.'

  'Sorry I didn't phone before. But I went to Cornwall to see my brother, and then there was Christmas…'

  'It's fine, but I'm glad you rang in the end.' He smiled. 'Shall we eat? I'm starving.' He handed her a menu, and the tips of his fingers touched hers.

  Isabel stared at the drops of condensation slipping down the neck of the wine bottle. She was sure he'd touched her on purpose. But they were meeting as friends, right? Two lost souls, rejected by their partners and sharing the hurt. She lowered her eyes to the menu. 'I'd like pasta with mushrooms.'

  'I'll have the cod and chips.' Simon patted his waist. 'One day I'll take myself in hand.' He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, which he'd hung over a chair, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. 'I know. I know,' he said, catching her eye. 'I've given up, but I like to have them near me.'

  'How was Christmas?' Simon asked as he chased the last few peas around the plate. 'Hope yours was better than mine.'

  'Were you on your own?'

  'Yep. I had a steak, half a bottle of whisky and watched the box all evening.'

  'What about
your son?'

  'Helen won't let me see Edward at the moment. Says it will unsettle him.'

  'It's hard, isn't it? Rose and Josh went to Brian's and I hated it.'

  'And your first without your dad.'

  'Thanks for remembering. People don't generally.'

  'I try not to forget what people tell me—especially nice people.' Simon looked down at his food and Isabel thought she saw his cheeks flush.

  'Mum and I went to Northumberland to stay with Rick and Deanna,' she said.

  'Is he the brother with a big house?'

  'I'll say! It's a mansion.'

  'Sounds nice.'

  An image of Deanna standing at the front door waving goodbye to Alicia invaded Isabel's mind. Alicia had refused to stay without Gary even though Deanna pleaded with her. Deanna had looked so lonely and frail in her yellow turban.

  'It wasn't nice,' Isabel said. 'Pretty awful actually.' She drank some more wine and looked over her glass to find Simon's eyes on her.

  'You know I'm a good listener,' he said.

  'It's boring. I went on about family stuff too much last time.'

  Simon refilled their glasses. 'I'm into living Christmas vicariously at the moment.'

  'You wouldn't want to live this one. Rick had a fight with his daughter because she brought home some boyfriend he didn't like; she walked out, leaving Deanna distraught; a present my niece had bought for her mum—a little horse made from Venetian glass—got broken in the scrum; I told Deanna that Rick is a complete boor…'

  'Wow! Sounds some party.'

  'That's why I don't want to talk about it.'

  'Okay—let's talk about how long you're going to leave it till you ask me out again.'

  Isabel realised she'd nearly finished her second glass of wine. She hoped her cheeks weren't too pink. 'I did have an idea…' God, had she really said that? A vague thought that she had rejected in the night had sprouted from her lips.

  'Ah! I like ideas.'

  'It would just be as friends.'

  'Friends—definitely.'

  The doorbell rang. Isabel glanced in the mirror in the small hallway. She reached up to smooth her hair. She regretted choosing the new green trousers. George and Chloe were sure to be casually dressed. Jeans would have been better. The bell rang again. She jumped as the letterbox snapped open.

  'Come on, Sis!' George called through the gap. 'It's freezing out here!'

  With a final nervous glance in the mirror, she opened the door. The hall filled with cold air and jostling bodies.

  'At last.' George kissed her once on each cheek and then a third time, as their mother always did. 'We were about to go to the pub up the road.'

  'Hello Isabel.' Chloe smiled as she and Isabel aimed for the same cheek to kiss and there was an uncomfortable moment as their noses collided and their lips puckered fruitlessly.

  Chloe laughed. 'Shall we try that again?'

  Isabel was relieved. George and Chloe were her first real visitors and she'd been fussing for hours before they arrived. She'd almost cried off, but she wasn't sure where they were staying, and George wasn't answering his mobile. But the mistimed kiss broke the ice.

  Isabel took the bottle of wine George was holding out.

  'Come in and get warm.' She led them into the small sitting room. She'd pushed the nursing chair into an alcove and moved the chaise longue into the bay window to make the room look less cramped. She borrowed a small coffee table from Sally and set out crisps and nuts in little glass bowls, like she used to when she and Brian entertained. Then she had second thoughts. She could hear George's mocking voice, 'Ooh! Nibbles! How twee!' She cleared the lot away, only to have to rush round refilling the bowls before they arrived.

  She opened one of the bottles of wine she'd already put on a tray. She managed to break the cork and one bit got stuck in the neck of the bottle. Damn! Just when she wanted to look in control. She pushed that bottle to one side and inserted the corkscrew in another. Great. Success this time.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Chloe helping herself to peanuts. George was sitting at the piano. He ran his fingers over the keys. 'Mm. Nice tone.'

  'It needs tuning.'

  George played a few more notes. 'C's a bit out, but it's not too bad. That piano of Dad's is forever going off.'

  'Do you want to choose some music, George?' Isabel indicated a pile of CDs on the floor in the corner.

  'Can I?' Chloe asked. 'George hasn't got any taste, if it's not classical!'

  Isabel watched her brother and Chloe on their knees, squabbling about which CD to play. For the moment at least, discussion of Henry's piano was shelved.

  The doorbell rang again. This had to be Simon. He was late—she'd hoped he'd be here before George and Chloe. When George had emailed that he and Chloe were coming up to London for his birthday, and it would be nice to see her, Isabel had panicked. She couldn't do it on her own, and they'd feel sorry for her in her poky flat. She'd asked Rose, but she was going to a school disco. She even considered getting Brian round, but that wasn't a good idea considering George's scathing comments, and she'd feel pathetic. Then she had a brainwave: invite Simon.

  When she opened the door and saw his crinkly face and sparkly eyes, she felt a soppy smile spread across her face. She didn't feel shy introducing him to George and Chloe. 'This is Simon. He's a friend of mine.' It was okay: she'd done it, and nothing terrible had happened. Nobody laughed. Nobody seemed surprised that she should have Simon as a friend.

  Somehow his easy manner, his casual request that George play the piano, the interest he showed in Chloe's work, made her relax. It was easier than when she was with Brian. 'I'm a man's man,' he used to say. 'A few pints with the lads on a Saturday and discuss the match. Can't be doing with all this namby pamby music and painting and bollocks to your computer whizz kids. With me, what you see is what you get.' She'd always been on edge at family get-togethers in case Brian said the wrong thing.

  'Isabel tells me you've set up an art school, George,' Simon said as she was opening another bottle of wine. 'How's that working out? I imagine there's a lot of competition in Cornwall.'

  'We've broken even this first year.'

  Isabel was astonished. She wouldn't have imagined George understood the concept of breaking even, let alone was able to achieve it.

  'And what about your own work?' Simon went on. 'It's supposed to suffer if you teach others.' He held up his damaged hand. 'That's why I didn't bother after this put paid to my musical career.'

  'You're a musician?' George asked.

  'I played violin with the BBC Phil.'

  'What happened?'

  Isabel tensed, but Simon didn't show the edginess about his injury that he had when she first met him.

  'I was skiing—stupid thing for a violinist—when I hit a tree stump. I fell and the bloke behind me—silly bugger was too close—crashed into me. His ski sliced straight through my fingers, cut through the glove and everything.'

  'That's tough,' George said. 'I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't play the piano any more, or paint for that matter.'

  Simon shrugged. 'You adjust.' He turned to Isabel who was leaning over him refilling his glass. 'And compensations come along.'

  Twenty-two

  'I don't like these any more, Mum.'

  Isabel looked at the plate in front of Josh. Spaghetti hoops had been all he would eat on his weekly visits. The kitchen cupboard was crammed with tins of them. 'Don't you? What do you like?'

  'Jackets with grated cheese. They're ace.'

  Isabel turned back to the sink. 'Okay. Eat the spaghetti for today. I'll do a jacket next time.'

  Not so long ago she would have gone on at Josh. Why didn't he like spaghetti hoops any more? When had he gone off them? She would have blamed Anita. Now it wasn't important. She finished washing-up the saucepan and sat down at the table. Despite what he'd said, he was shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. A streak of orange sauce ran down his chin. His hair had grown longe
r and looked as if it needed a brush, but she knew it took a good ten minutes to achieve that effect. He scraped the plate with his spoon, chasing the last spaghetti hoop. The spoon clattered on to the plate. He looked up at her and smiled.

  Isabel couldn't believe it. The scowl that had been etched on his face for months had disappeared. His eyes shone and she noticed the long fringe of eyelashes that had always been a source of admiration. 'He'll break a few hearts with those lashes,' she remembered people saying when he was younger. He'd had a gap between his milk teeth at the front, which she'd loved, but now she saw his second teeth looked white and strong.

  'Guess what?' he said.

  'What?'

  'I've been picked for the football team.'

  'That's fantastic. I'm so proud of you.'

  'Will you come and watch me, Mum?'

  At last. A sign that she still meant something to Josh.

  'I'd love to. When is it?'

  'Saturday afternoon. Oh, I forgot.' His eyes had that hooded look again. 'Anita will probably be there.' It was the first time Josh had voluntarily referred to her.

  'That's okay, love,' Isabel heard herself saying. 'I won't bite her head off.'

  'Kick off's 2.30. Shall I let Samson in? He's soaking.'

  Isabel followed Josh's glance. Samson was sitting on the windowsill, his mouth wide in a silent miaow. His fur was thick with raindrops and his pleading eyes met hers.

  'Just wipe his paws on that old cloth. He's bound to make a beeline for my bed.'

  Isabel was watching television in the lounge when the bell rang. Rose had gone to a friend's after school, as she seemed to so often now, and Isabel presumed she'd forgotten her key. But as she went to the front door, she could see through the glass that the silhouette was much bigger than Rose's. It was Brian.

  She pulled open the door. 'What is it? Is Josh okay?' Brian had only picked him up a couple of hours ago; surely nothing could have happened.