'Not Mum and Dad. They were madly in love till the day he died. We all knew that.'
'Grace…'
'I reckon Archie Stansfield's got this grudge against Dad and he wants to make it look bad for him.'
Isabel put her hand on Grace's arm. 'It's true,' she said. 'I think the letter is true.'
Grace started to cough. Some of her wine must have gone down the wrong way. She waved her hands about, as she tried to get her breath. Eventually the spasm subsided. She took a sip of water. 'What makes you say that?'
'Mum told me.'
'Mum? When?'
'The day Dad died.'
'What, months ago?'
'That morning after we got back from the hospital. I was helping her get into bed, and she told me then.'
'What exactly did she say?'
Isabel took a deep breath. She should have anticipated all these questions. 'I can't remember. She just said it.'
'What? By the way, Isabel, I know you think I loved your father but actually I had a baby by some other creep.'
'Grace, it's not my fault!'
'I'm sorry, Bel.' Grace's eyes were huge. 'But I can't believe you've known all this time and you didn't say anything.'
'Mum made me promise not to. I went along with it, but it's been torment.'
'That's awful.'
'I had a row with Mum in the end. I told her she had until George's birthday to come clean—'
'But that was in January.'
'I couldn't bring myself to say anything in the end. I was scared what would happen. But I decided before I came over that I was going to tell you.'
'I don't know whether I'd have believed you without Archie Stansfield's letter. It's really weird to think George has got a different father.' Grace filled her glass again. 'Everyone always says he and I are like twins.'
'I know what you mean. When I was in Cornwall, I kept looking at him as if somehow I expected him to be different.'
'It's finding out now, isn't it? If we'd known from the beginning…'
Isabel dipped a bread stick into the bowl of olive oil the waiter had put on the table and chewed on it. 'Mum said Dad had made her promise to keep it a secret.'
'I don't believe it. "Own up and shame the devil" he always said.'
'She said Dad couldn't cope with people knowing she'd been unfaithful.'
'So why did he tell Archie Stansfield?'
The waiter arrived with their pizzas and they were silent while they ate. Afterwards they went over the story again.
'I suppose technically they didn't lie,' Isabel said.
'They didn't tell the truth though, did they?'
'Perhaps they thought it was for the best… you know… difficult for George to come to terms with.'
Isabel watched Grace's changing expressions as she considered the idea. She hadn't changed all that much from the little girl struggling to learn English, her face screwed up in concentration.
'I suppose we all tell lies sometimes,' Grace said. 'But it's not really their secret to keep, is it? Surely George has a right to know who his father is.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'I've just thought… did she tell you who?'
Isabel shook her head. 'She wouldn't budge on that.'
Grace beckoned to the waiter. 'Let's have coffee and we'd better head home. Franco will be wondering where we are.'
When the coffee arrived, Isabel stirred it slowly. If it was anything like the coffee Mum made, it would be too strong for her. 'I've been thinking,' she said. 'We got so caught up in the George mystery, but there's loads of other stuff I don't understand in that letter.'
'I know. He told me he and Dad had a terrible row and I thought his letter was going to explain why. Instead of that, he seems to skirt round the subject.'
'Yeah. What does he mean Dad got his comeuppance, and "fight for her, like you should have done for Dottie"?'
Grace shrugged. 'Search me. He told me Dad and his sister, Dottie, were sweethearts when they were young, and Dottie got pregnant.'
The weather was cold and grey for the first couple of days of Isabel's stay in Ischia. Grace and Franco were busy—meetings with the architect about the building next door and a big family party who took over the restaurant each evening. Isabel didn't mind being left to her own devices. She was staying at a pensione not far from the ristorante. It was quiet and each morning she slept late. She hadn't realised how tired she was.
After breakfast, she walked into Ischia Ponte. She crossed the small causeway leading to the castle and stopped at a bar tucked away next to a pebbled beach. She ordered a cappuccino and gazed at the waves, tiny ripples like crimped hair. She wondered what Simon was doing. Was he thinking about her? He'd looked bewildered when she rushed away from him at the airport. He'd probably been steeling himself to make that speech. Strange to think she hadn't found him attractive when they first met. Now his steady grey eyes and full lips spread tingling warmth through her. He would watch her when she was talking and his interest made her feel special.
She sipped her cappuccino and took her mobile from her bag. She sent texts to Rose and Josh. She'd recently bought Josh a mobile, so that it was easier to keep in touch. R u in the team this week? she wrote. She'd loved watching him play last Saturday, and when he scored a goal, she screamed his name as loud as she could. There was no sign of Brian, or the baby, but she met Anita, a thin woman with mousy hair, who darted timid glances at Isabel as they stood on the touchline. After the game Josh had rushed up to Isabel and ignored Anita.
*
Three days into Isabel's stay the clouds lifted and the sun appeared. Grace was free and she took Isabel on a tour of the island. From the square at the foot of the castle, they caught the bus into Ischia Porto. 'I won't drive you,' Grace said. 'The roads terrify me.' So they boarded the circulare, a bus that would take them all round the perimeter of the island. 'We can go in either direction,' Grace explained, 'but anti-clockwise gives better views.' They passed through places with exotic names, Casamicciola and Lacco Ameno, towns sandwiched between the sea and the mountain that towered over them. Sandy beaches, deserted in the thin February sun, stretched away to the right, while to the left the road was fringed with trees behind which stood hotels and small pensione. The bus lumbered on into Forio. The haunt of poets and artists in the fifties, Grace explained. 'Let's stop for lunch. There's a good trattoria near the church.'
It was warm enough to sit outside now and Isabel lifted her face to the sun. 'Mm, this feels good.'
Grace ordered them each a glass of wine and a plate of spaghetti pomodoro. 'Sorry, Franco and I have been so busy.'
'The relaxation is exactly what I need.' Even with her eyes closed, Isabel could feel Grace appraising her. She opened them. 'Well, what's the verdict?'
'Was I staring?' Grace fiddled with cutlery the waiter had put on their table. 'You've lost some weight, haven't you, Bel? And that strained look's gone from your face.'
'I've had a minor breakthrough with Josh. That's helped.'
'I thought he'd come round. And what about Simon?'
Isabel looked up towards the sky rather than meet Grace's stare. Answer in a normal way, she told herself. You're not a teenager—you don't need to blush and stumble around for words. 'He's nice,' she said. That should do it. Nice: a safe bland word. Pleased with her note of offhandedness, she added 'How do you know about Simon?'
Grace laughed. 'He's nice—I knew you wouldn't be able to leave it at that.'
'I wondered how you knew, that's all.'
'You mentioned him in an email, and George told me you'd found yourself a new man.'
'George should keep his big mouth shut! Simon is a friend.'
Grace raised her glass to Isabel. 'Here's to friends, I say.'
Their lunch was simple, but delicious. The tomato sauce was rich and creamy and the pasta had the right amount of bite. The wine made Isabel sleepy. She pushed her plate to one side and leaned back. She felt as if she might have dozed off when she heard Grace's vo
ice: 'I said—what are we going to do about George?'
Isabel was instantly awake. 'Can't we put that on the back burner?'
'I've been thinking about it. George and Rick should be told.'
'Let's wait and see what happens.'
'They've got a right to know,' Grace insisted. 'How would you feel if you found out we were all keeping some secret from you?'
'I'd hate it but—'
'There's no but. We've got to tell them. Apart from anything else there's the piano.'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'They both want Dad's piano, right?'
'Right.'
'If Rick finds out George is not Dad's son—'
'Only biologically, Grace. In every other way, Dad was his father.'
'That's not how Rick will see it. Better he finds out now than later.'
'He'd make George's life a misery. You know what he's like.'
'He's got too much on his plate to bother with George,' Grace said. 'The news is not good about Deanna.'
Isabel felt her scalp prickle at the thought of her brothers. 'I can't do it, Grace. I can't bear the thought of George's face when he hears about this.'
On the southern side of the island, most of the other passengers got off at Ponte Grado. The buses waited there for a few minutes before completing the trip back to Ischia Porto. Isabel and Grace stayed on while the driver leant out of his window to chat to one of his colleagues. Grace gestured down the hill. 'Sant'Angelo.' Isabel glimpsed the sea and a huddle of houses, washed in delicate pinks and blues and yellows.
'We'll go there one day. It's beautiful, especially in spring and autumn when it's cooler and not besieged by tourists,' Grace said. 'God's own hideaway on earth.'
Isabel heard a strange note in her sister's voice and turned to look at her. A smile lifted her mouth, emphasising the tiny lines at the corners. She was distracted.
'You love it here, don't you?' Isabel said.
'Very much.'
'Would you and Franco ever leave?'
Grace shrugged. 'Who knows what the future holds?'
Isabel pulled her jacket round her. She suddenly felt cold. The driver restarted the engine and the bus pulled away up the hill to Panza.
It was late morning and Isabel and Grace sat at one of the tables in the restaurant with Franco, enjoying coffee and pastiere.
'I think we'll go over to the castello today,' Grace said. 'I want to show you the cathedral where Vittoria Colonna got married.'
Franco picked up one of Grace's hands and kissed the back. 'My wife…' he said turning to Isabel. 'I think she's a little… innamorata di Vittoria.' Grace pulled her hand free of his. 'Don't be silly, Franco.'
Isabel stood in the ruined cathedral, examining the columns and archways where the remains of statues and intricate carvings were visible in the blighted stonework. The high vaulted roof was largely open to the sky, clumps of moss and other vegetation its main decoration. Grace was standing close to where the altar would have been. She gazed up as if praying. Isabel wondered if Franco had a point. Grace was obsessed with this Vittoria.
A cold wind was blowing across the cavernous space. The scirocco, Franco had told her that morning. She watched her sister's slim back. Even from a distance, she could see her shoulders were hunched under her coat
Twenty-four
Rick picked up the phone to ring Deanna. She hadn't been so well over the last month, and he'd been trying to get home earlier. She answered on the first ring.
'I'm afraid I'll be late,' he told her. 'I've got these wretched figures.'
'Don't worry,' she said. 'I'm watching TV, and Camilla's here.'
'Where's Flavia?'
'She's working on a project with a friend. You remember Sophie. She'll probably stay the night.'
'Are you sure you're okay?'
'I'm fine, honey. Don't fuss.'
Rick let the receiver drop into its cradle. He stared at the spreadsheet on the computer screen. He had the chance to take over a technology company in the Midlands, but when he looked at the increased staffing costs alone, he realised his gross turnover would have to double. His accountant said there was no way he could make it work. But if he made the Midlands, it wasn't such a leap to the south.There was also the bungalow in Hexham he'd bought for his mother. They hadn't accepted his first offer and he'd had to go higher than he could afford. Still, once she sold the house in Highgate, he could recoup most of that and she'd still have a tidy amount left over to boost her pension.
Deanna wasn't sure. 'Honey, don't you think you ought to talk to your mom before you spend money on a house she might not even want?' she'd asked the day he went to sign the contract.
'Dad always looked after her and I'm going to take over now he's gone.'
'You can't fill your dad's shoes, my precious.'
'You don't always know what's best for me!' he'd shouted.
He cursed himself now remembering the tears in her eyes. Why was he on such a short fuse all the time? And he had to admit, she was often right. Perhaps she was this time. Perhaps Eva would take convincing that the move was a sensible step. He'd written to her to explain what was happening, but perhaps he'd need to see her too. That might not be a bad idea. It would give him a chance to talk to her about the piano. He'd held off long enough and she'd need time to get used to the idea of him having it.
He turned back to the computer. There had to be some way he could make this new company work. If he moved some of the Newcastle staff to Birmingham… no, they were down to the bone as it was. He picked up the photo of Deanna and the girls he kept on his desk. He ran his fingers lightly over Deanna's face. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. He loved her so much.
Apart from all this stuff with Alicia, that is. Ever since the fiasco at Christmas, Deanna had been on at him to let Alicia come home.
'When she sees sense and finishes with that layabout, she'll be welcome,' Rick said. 'Until then…'
'But she's our daughter and I miss her,' Deanna had pleaded. He longed to see Alicia himself, but he wasn't going to admit it. If she chose to disregard his wishes, then he had no choice. She was throwing herself away on that yob, and he was right to reject her till she saw sense.
After Christmas he'd gathered up all the photos of Alicia and pushed them into a drawer. But Deanna must have retrieved the one taken for Alicia's eighteenth birthday and replaced it on the bureau. Deanna was looking so tired that he hadn't got the heart to complain. In fact he often used to slip into the drawing room himself so that he could catch a glimpse of his daughter's beautiful face.
He forced his eyes back to the computer screen. He was spending too much time on this emotional claptrap. Work: that was the thing that mattered.
*
He thought he'd found a way to raise some funds, when the phone rang. He reached for the receiver, ready to tell Deanna he'd be on his way any minute now. He'd be in Rothbury before ten. He would open a bottle of wine and they could watch some television together.
'Hello Dad.'
'Flavia, I thought you were staying with Sophie.'
'It's not Flavia.'
'What?'
'It's Alicia.'
Rick's heart jumped. 'Alicia, thank God! I told Mum you'd see sense in the end. I'll pick you up. We can drive back together.'
'That's not why I'm ringing.' Alicia had always had a slight speech impediment, which he loved. When she was a little girl she would put on concerts, marching up and down in front of her parents on podgy little legs, while she lisped her way through Baa, Baa, Black Sheep and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Nowadays you could hardly detect the lisp, but this evening it was obvious. She was still his baby.
'Not tonight then,' he said. 'It would be better to warn your mother first. She'll be thrilled. When do you want to come? I can help you move your stuff.'
'Dad, listen a minute. I'm not coming back.'
'You're still seeing that slime-ball?'
'If you mean Gary, yes, I
am.'
Rick felt the familiar throb in his brow. 'Then, what the hell are you ringing for?' His fist was clenched around the phone. 'I thought I told you—'
'Mum's been rushed to hospital.'
'What's happened?' He barked out the words.
'She couldn't get her breath and then blood started coming out of her mouth. I phoned for an ambulance.'
'Where was this?'
'At home.' Alicia's voice was barely a whisper.
'You were at home?'
From the other end of the line came the sound of Alicia crying. 'Dad, you've got to get here.' Her voice broke. 'I'm scared she's going to die.'
The room they'd put Deanna in was tiny. The walls sloped inwards, the feeling of claustrophobia emphasised by their khaki colour. The small window was too high for anyone but the tallest person to see out. Disinfectant hung in the air. Rick was back to that night his father died and they sat trapped together in a room much like this one, as they watched his life tick away. He shook his head. It wasn't that night. And it wasn't his father lying in the high narrow bed. It was Deanna, the woman who meant more to him than the whole world.
An oxygen mask covered most of her face and a drip was being fed into her left arm. Above the mask, her eyes were closed and the lids looked thick and puffy. Rick stared at her hands. They were clasped across her chest, one on top of the other in an attitude of prayer. It was as if she was already dead.
He felt stinging at the back of his eyes and he blinked. He wouldn't cry, especially in front of Alicia and Camilla. They both turned from the bedside as he appeared in the open doorway.
'Dad.' Alicia got up and came towards him. 'Thank goodness you're here.'
Rick sidestepped her arms and approached the bed. He looked down at Deanna, one hand on Camilla's shoulder. 'How is she?'
There was silence apart from the hiss of the oxygen mask.
'Camilla, how is she?'
Camilla looked up at him, her blue eyes that were so much like Deanna's, wide and scared. 'I don't know,' she whispered.
Alicia moved back to her place by the bed. She took one of Deanna's hands in hers. 'They haven't told us anything,' she said, her voice low and flat.
The Piano Player's Son Page 17