Simon had helped her buy garden furniture last weekend and she set out the glasses and jug on the wrought iron table. She put up the umbrella and positioned two chairs in its shade. She sipped her drink as Grace related what Archie had told her: the summer when their father was seventeen and fell in love with Dottie, his friend's sister.
'We know she was pregnant,' Isabel said. 'But I still can't believe it was Dad's.'
Grace tapped her glass against her lips. 'Prepare yourself, Bel. You won't like this.'
'Hurry up. I'm scared.'
'Dottie kept quiet about the pregnancy for months. Almost pretended it wasn't happening, Archie said. Her mother guessed something was up, but she denied it.'
'What happened when her mum and dad found out?'
'Archie said they went mad. It wasn't only the shame of it; Dottie was clever. She was studying at night school and she wanted to be a teacher.'
'Was it Dad's baby?'
'He was her only sweetheart.'
'So, they could have got married.'
'Apparently Dad wouldn't. He was working for his music scholarship—'
'This is awful.' A band of metal seemed to have attached itself round Isabel's head. She pushed her chair further into the shade.
'And Granny and Grandad wouldn't hear of it. They'd set their heart on Dad going to music college and you remember what Granny was like—no one ever argued with her. Dad didn't even go to see Dottie.'
'It gets worse by the second.'
'Dottie was sent to an aunt who lived miles away in Kent. Her parents told everyone she'd got a job down there as a cook in a big house. Nobody believed them, and the village blamed Dad for not facing up to his responsibilities.'
'So everyone turned against him?'
'Seems like it. And there's more.
'The baby was a boy and she called him Henry.'
'Oh no!' Isabel closed her eyes and felt tears squeezing between the lids. Her father's son. Henry. 'Did she keep the baby?'
'They made her have him adopted.'
'So we've got a half brother somewhere?'
'We've got two half brothers, Bel.'
Isabel fished a slice of lemon from her glass and sucked. Its sourness gave her something to concentrate on. She bit on something hard and found herself chewing the pip.
She poured them each another glass of Pimms. 'Imagine—a son of Dad's somewhere. I wonder where he lives.'
'I haven't told you the end of the story yet,' Grace said. 'After the baby was born, Dottie came home, but she was like a different person, Archie said. Dad had gone to London to college by then, but he wrote to her once via Archie. She never even opened the letter. Archie found it in her bedside drawer. He burnt it afterwards.'
'After what?'
'Archie cried when he was telling me, even after all these years. Dottie wouldn't go out of the house. She used to sit in her bedroom all day with the curtains pulled. After about six months, her father lost patience with her. "Lass will have to snap out of it. Moping about the house with a face like a wet week." He arranged for them all to go on a coach trip to Blackpool to see the lights. At the last moment Dottie refused to go. Archie wanted to stay with her, but his father wouldn't hear of it. "Do her good—a day on her own. Let her think about trouble she's caused." When they got back about midnight, she was nowhere to be seen. Archie went out looking for her. His parents went to bed. "She'll turn up in the morning, right enough." Archie searched all night. He found her at first light, down by the river where she and Dad used to go. It had been their hideaway. She was hanging from a tree.'
There was a scrabbling noise from the other side of the fence and Samson appeared from next-door's garden. He balanced on the fence and then skidded down the side, heading straight for Isabel. She leaned forward and scooped him into her arms, burying her face in his fur. He'd been lying in the sun and was warm.
'I can't bear it, Grace,' she said when she felt able to talk. 'To think what Dottie must have gone through.'
'I've been trying to get my head round it ever since Archie told me. Poor man—he's obviously never got over it.'
'He must have hated Dad.'
'He said he hit him.'
A dull fire of anger caught in Isabel. Her father's actions repelled her. 'I'm surprised he didn't rip him apart.'
Grace smiled. 'If you could see him, Bel. He's such a mild little man.'
'I remember in Archie's letter he said Dad kept writing to him afterwards—wanting forgiveness. That was some load of guilt Dad had to carry for the rest of his life.'
'Perhaps he took George on to try to make amends.'
Isabel ran her hand over Samson's fur. He arched his back and settled again on her lap. She tried to imagine that past world. The decisions that were made. The consequences that followed. They could wonder and surmise, but however much they probed what had gone before, the truth would never fully reveal itself. The past titillated—the what could be uncovered, but in the end it retained its secrets: the why and the how remained hidden.
'I suppose…' she said, unable to resist, like going back to a crossword you have to complete '…if he'd refused, Mum might have left him and taken us with her, so he'd have lost more children.'
'Or she'd have been forced to give her baby away. Like Dottie.'
'Do you think Mum knew about Dottie and the other baby?' Isabel asked.
'She must have known something because she let Archie know Dad was dead.'
Isabel heard a snuffling noise from Grace. She looked across and saw she was laughing.
'Grace! How can you?'
'Sorry. I've just had a thought… Dottie and Dad's baby was adopted…'
'Yeah. We've been through all that.'
'No, listen, Bel. The baby was adopted, but he's still Dad's son.'
'Technically, yes. What are you getting at?'
'You remember that night Rick and George had the big row about the piano?'
'Remember it? I thought if Rick ever got his hands on George—'
'Rick said that as Dad's eldest son, the piano was his.'
Isabel started to laugh too. 'Now there are two eldest sons.'
'What about us?' Grace said. 'We're his daughters. I'm sure you'd like the piano, Bel.'
'I've just remembered…' Isabel stared at Grace over Samson's back. 'Rick saw the email you sent yesterday. Kept on and on about the secret. He nearly got it out of me about George. If Flavia hadn't phoned—'
'He knows, Bel.'
'He knows?'
'There was so much other stuff to tell you, I haven't had a chance. Rick phoned while I was with Archie. He was at the hospital, but Deanna must be improving, because he'd got the bit between his teeth. Demanded to know what my email was about.'
'I should have warned you.'
'I decided there was no point stalling. So I told him.'
'What did he say?'
'Nothing. He put the phone down on me. I wouldn't be surprised if he's on his way here now.'
Isabel pushed Samson to the ground. Indignant, he stared up at her and stuck his tail in the air. She stood up and reached out a hand to pull Grace to her feet.
'Where are we going in such a hurry?'
'We'd better get round to Mum's,' Isabel said. She gathered up the jug and glasses. 'Tell her what's happened in case Rick arrives. As far as she's concerned, I'm the only one who knows about George.'
Thirty-one
Eva was in the dining room when they arrived. The table was piled high with books and letters, bills and magazines. Discarded scraps of paper littered the floor, like confetti after a wedding. Their father's records were strewn around, their covers abandoned. Eva was sitting in the middle, a sheet of paper clutched in her hand.
'Mum! What's happened?' Isabel knelt next to her mother. She stroked her arm. Eva closed her eyes and rocked backwards and forwards.
Grace put a hand on Eva's shoulder. 'What's wrong, Mum?'
Tears rolled down Eva's cheeks. Her hair was loose about
her shoulders. It looked dull and lifeless, the once-glossy sheen gone.
Isabel took a packet of tissues from her bag and held one out. 'Talk to us. Has something upset you?' A thought struck her. 'It's not Deanna is it? Has Rick phoned?'
Eva clenched the tissue in her hand, but she made no effort to wipe her eyes.
'I'll make some coffee,' Grace said.
Left alone with her mother, Isabel prised her fingers from the sheet of paper. 'Let me take that.' She tossed it on the table with the rest of the debris. Isabel massaged the fingers to bring back the blood.
Grace arrived with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She placed a cup in Eva's hands. 'Drink some. It will help.'
Obediently Eva took a few sips. She looked up at Grace. 'It's good. Just how I like it.'
'What's happened, Mum? Why are you so upset?'
Eva looked from Isabel to Grace, her brown eyes like an ill-treated dog's. 'I don't want to live in Northumberland,' she said. 'It's so cold. So dark. I would die in the winter.'
'You don't have to go, if you don't want to.'
'Rick says I'll like it when I get there.'
'We'll talk to him. Make him understand.' Grace drew her mother's hair back from her face; it lay limply across her back.
Eva shook her head. 'He won't listen. I tried to tell him when he was down here, but he was making lists. Told me what I had to get rid of. I gave up in the end. I've never been able to argue back in English. I can't think of the words quickly enough.'
'It's all right, Mum. We'll do it for you,' Isabel said. 'We know how much this house means to you. Where you're surrounded by Dad's things.'
'But that's just it.' Tears brimmed in her eyes again. 'I'm so lonely without Henry and I miss Italy.' She caught at Grace's hand. 'I thought maybe I could come to Ischia. Live with you and Franco.'
Grace and Isabel exchanged glances.
'I wouldn't be any trouble. I promise.'
'No, I know you wouldn't,' Grace said. 'But Bel and I need to talk to you about something else.'
'What is it? You're not ill, are you? Or you?' Her gaze moved to Isabel. 'I couldn't bear it if anything happened.' She started moaning. 'It would be too much after Henry.'
'There's nothing wrong with us.' Isabel took the coffee cup from her mother's hands and placed it on the tray. 'But we need to talk. You know what you told me the morning Dad died? About George.'
Eva glared at Isabel. 'Not that again!' She sat up straight and jerked her head upright. 'I told you it would break your father's heart to hear you going on about it.'
'You can't keep a secret like that forever. It's bound to come out sometime.'
'Not unless you tell anyone.'
'You can't gag me, Mum. I'm not Dad.'
'I don't know what you mean.' Eva's voice had grown shriller. 'It was your father who insisted we kept it a secret.'
Isabel shrugged. 'Whatever you say. But I might as well tell you, Grace and Rick know.'
Eva's face shrivelled, lines and wrinkles appearing as if she was ageing in front of them. 'You took it on yourself to tell them after all.'
Isabel didn't answer. It didn't seem the moment to mention Archie Stansfield.
But Eva wouldn't leave it at that. 'Now you'll see the trouble you've caused.'
'Me!' The accusation stung Isabel. 'I'm not the one who had a child outside my marriage.'
In the split second before it struck, Isabel saw her mother's hand coming towards her. She heard the dull slap and felt the pain almost in the same moment. She cupped her face in her hand.
Eva stood up. She staggered and caught hold of the table.
'I can't believe a daughter of mine could be so cruel. I would never have spoken to my mamma like that. I loved her too much.'
I can't believe a mother would slap her own daughter. Isabel cradled her cheek—if only she was brave enough to say the words out loud.
'I'm sorry you're upset, Mum, but we all know the secret—apart from George—and it's not Isabel's fault, so don't take it out on her.'
Isabel heard the determination in Grace's voice: she was going to stand up to Eva.
'And the first thing Rick will ask is who is George's father?' Grace folded her arms. 'It will be easier if we already know. We can pacify him.'
Eva took another tissue and blew her nose. 'All right,' she said at last. 'I'll tell you.'
Isabel's mouth went dry. She swallowed several times trying to find saliva. She couldn't look at Grace.
'But first I must ask him. See if he agrees.'
Isabel snapped her head back to stare at her mother. Eva's face was spread in a broad smile as if she had given her daughters a wonderful present.
'Ask him?' The words shot out of Grace's mouth like bullets. 'You mean you're still in touch with the father?'
Eva looked from Isabel to Grace, her mouth pouting and her eyes cast down. 'Si. Why wouldn't I be?'
Isabel couldn't believe it. Her mother didn't care. It didn't matter to her what her daughters knew or thought. Her metamorphosis from helpless widow to arrogant coquette was breathtaking.
Grace picked up a chair and banged it down next to Eva. 'Sit down, Mum.'
Eva's hands fluttered at her throat. 'I no understand. Why you shout?'
'Come on, Mum. Don't start doing the broken English, the poor me act.'
Eva's eyes flashed, but she sat down. 'I didn't know you could be so hard.'
'I must have got it from you. Now, who is George's father?'
'Henry idolised Giorgio.'
'We know that, but he wasn't his biological father, so who was?'
Isabel stared up at George's portrait of Henry. Her father's eyes met hers. He could never have imagined this scene would occur only a few months after his death. He must have thought he'd taken his secrets to the grave. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps they shouldn't be pushing Eva. George had a right to know, but maybe she and Grace didn't.
'Okay, you want to know…' Eva pinched her lips together spinning out the silence… 'It was Eduardo.'
'Uncle Eduardo?' Isabel had been waiting, her body tensed, for a name. She thought she was prepared for anything, had primed herself not to react, but she couldn't help the yelp of surprise.
'Your cousin?' Grace looked equally shocked. 'That creep.'
'My second cousin.'
'Second, third, fifty times removed. Who cares?' Grace stood over Eva. 'He used to visit us. He paid for your trips to Italy.'
Eva nodded. 'He wanted to help us. He had money and your father didn't.'
'But you made Dad tolerate him.'
'Henry was grateful Eduardo let me come back. And when Eduardo visited, he could see little Giorgio.'
The phone rang. None of them moved; locked like actors in the scene they'd just played. Isabel turned to her mother, but she had her hands clamped to her ears. The ringing bounced around the room. Someone was going to have to answer. She looked at Grace. Her sister's eyes were fixed on the portrait.
'Make it stop! Make it stop!' Eva whimpered.
The ringing finally pierced Grace's reverie. 'I'll get it,' she said.
The phone sat on Henry's bureau in the sitting room. Isabel listened to the soft rise and fall of Grace's voice. She didn't dare look at her mother.
It must have been only a couple of minutes, but it was like forever before Grace came back. 'It was Rick,' she said. 'Deanna died at ten o'clock this morning.'
Thirty-two
Isabel woke. Her heart drumming, soaked in perspiration. There'd been a voice. It was calling. She sat up straining her ears. Nothing. Only Samson's soft breathing from the foot of the bed. Rose was at Brian's, and Grace had stayed with Eva.
Isabel fell back on the pillow. She turned her head towards the clock: five a.m. Not even twenty-four hours since Deanna had died. After Rick's call, Eva had cried. 'Triste. Molto triste,' she muttered over and over. Grace made more coffee and they talked about Deanna. How beautiful she was. How Rick had adored her. What would happen to the girls
. 'Poor bambini.' Eva sighed. 'She was a good mamma.'
Isabel lay on her back in the darkness. Sometimes weeks passed and nothing happened. You got up—you looked after the children—you worked—you prepared food—ate—you went to bed. Day after grey day slipping into each other, like one foot and then another into quicksand. Then comes a day like yesterday: Brian. Dottie. Eduardo. Deanna. She turned on her side and curled into a ball. Samson crept further up the bed and settled against her left hip. She ran her hand over his head and down his back. His body vibrated with purring under her touch.
Ringing reverberated in her ears. She reached out blindly for her alarm, but the noise persisted. She forced her eyes open and squinted at the clock. It was nearly eleven. The ringing stopped and started again. Samson lifted his head from his paws. She struggled out of bed, sleep still clawing her. There was a figure at the front door. She pulled it open. 'Simon!'
Isabel stared at him. She smoothed down her nightie and tried to flatten her hair. She hadn't taken her make-up off last night and mascara must be smeared across her cheeks.
'Can I come in?'
Isabel opened the door wider. 'I was going to phone you when I'd had a shower.'
'I've been texting you all morning.'
'I overslept.'
She could see the fine criss-crossings of wrinkles around his eyes. He looked as if he was going to kiss her, but she stepped back. 'I must freshen up,' she said. 'Go on through to the kitchen.'
Simon was looking out of the window. He'd had his hair cut since she'd seen him the other day and a line of pale skin ran across the back of his neck. She wanted to put her lips to it.
He turned. There were dark circles under his eyes, stubble where he hadn't shaved.
'You didn't phone last night,' he said.
'Sorry.'
'I got your message you were meeting Brian. I've been imagining all sorts.'
'Sorry I didn't ring. Deanna died yesterday.' She took a step towards him and his arms went round her.
The Piano Player's Son Page 23