“What did she say?” Nina’s question jerked him back to the present. For a moment Martin thought she meant Evie. What did Evie say?
Evie said, in amongst the tears, “Martin, you’re scaring me. I think you need help…professional help…I can’t cope with you like this.” He stood helplessly watching her cry. Part of him, a strong part, wanted her to go, immediately, to leave him in peace with the music and his quest but another part realised that perhaps she was his remaining link to reality and sanity and that he should beg her to stay and help, to take him to a psychiatrist.
Instead he said, “Goodbye Evie.”
“Martin?” Nina again. He yawned so widely his jaw ached. Tried to gather his thoughts. Celia, telephone, where was he?
Nina said, “Shall we continue tomorrow?”
“If you like. I’d better go.” He had no idea where. He’d slept in a park the previous night.
“You can sleep in the spare room, if you like. Unless you have a place?”
“No. Thank you. I mean, yes, please.” Inarticulate fool. Hopefully she’d realise it was exhaustion making him babble. And overwhelming relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t afraid of him. She wanted him to stay.
Martin closed his eyes and rested his head on the crocheted rug. He heard Nina get up and remove the tray. She went into the kitchen and then a door opened and closed in the hallway.
He dragged himself to his feet and found her spreading a sheet on a low bed in what was obviously her room for dumping extra stuff. Her violin case lay in the corner and a music stand along with a pair of rollerblades, assorted hats, summer and winter, piled on the wardrobe, two tennis racquets propped behind the door, several large posters of the Beatles and one of Mount Fuji on the wall, a pile of papers stacked neatly on the floor under a small desk and two bookcases jam-packed with books and CDs.
Where was the music? The desk itself was clear but he had the feeling Nina had hastily stuffed things into the drawers or tossed some rubble into the wardrobe. That’s what he would have done.
“I’ll do that, Nina.” He picked up the remaining bedding.
“It’s fine. You get your bag.” She expertly slipped a pillow case onto the pillow. “Perhaps you’d like to have a shower. There’s a towel.” She pointed to a blue striped one neatly folded on the chair by the desk. Martin took the hint.
Franz’s suitcase held a pitifully small collection of his belongings. He had literally thrown any clothing in that came to hand plus the most valuable possession, his flute. He hadn’t packed pyjamas but had tossed in a toothbrush and all his underwear and socks as well as an extra pair of jeans and one decent pair of black trousers and shoes. He’d been carrying his leather jacket around since he landed yesterday. His clothes looked and smelled as though he’d been sleeping in them, which he had.
Nina’s shower was like standing under Niagara Falls. He helped himself to shampoo and conditioner and toothpaste and used her pink safety razor, carefully clearing the beard hairs from the blade before replacing it on the bench. A new man emerged from the bathroom but Nina had disappeared into her room.
Martin had to sit up, yawning, for a while until his hair dried enough for him to go to bed but he amused himself by looking at her books and CDs. Working in a music shop would have benefits. She had quite a selection of classical, mainly violin things of course but she obviously liked the Beatles and that whole sixties era of British pop. He did too.
Both his parents had been right into it and his father had even been to the Cavern in Liverpool and heard the Beatles before they were famous. He never tired of telling his family that as if he were personally responsible for discovering them and sending them on their way to fame and fortune. The kids used to roll their eyes and groan when he got started but they were secretly very proud and used to boast about it to their friends. “My Dad saw the Beatles before they were famous. He knew they were good. He knew they were going to be great one day.”
Then his mother ran off with a man who sold used cars and the happy home fell apart at the seams. His Dad was never the same after she left and he died a sad, bitter man who never forgave her, the woman he loved with all his heart, for betraying him so publicly and humiliatingly. “She’s Leaving Home” was the one Beatles song Martin couldn’t listen to.
He gave his hair a last rub with the towel and lay down. Body and brain had had enough and he slept.
Nina had gone to work when he got up. He wondered what her work hours were. She must have been tired after the late night. She probably started at nine and he knew she finished at six. The clock in the kitchen said three in the afternoon. She hadn’t left a note. Perhaps she expected him to sleep all day. Despite having only met him yesterday she had an uncanny knack of knowing what was in his mind but didn’t seem perturbed by it, which put her ahead of everyone else he had encountered lately.
He poked about in the pantry cupboard and found some bread for toast. There was also a jar of the infamous vegemite which he’d heard about but never tasted. Black, thick and very salty, rather like marmite. Obviously an acquired taste.
The phone rang while Martin was eating his second slice of toast and honey, not caring to acquire a taste for vegemite just yet. He let it ring until the machine clicked on.
“Martin? Are you there?” Her husky voice sent a frisson down his spine. “Pick up the phone.”
He snatched up the receiver. “Yes. Nina?” Maybe she was hoping he’d left. But he had nowhere to go
“How are you feeling? I rang earlier but you must have been still asleep.” She paused. “I thought you might have left.”
Hardly. She was why he’d come to Australia. “No. I’m still here. I hope that’s okay. I’ve only just got up.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be home about six thirty.” She sounded pleased.
“Would you like me to cook dinner?”
“No, no, I’ll do a stirfry when I get home.” She laughed softly. “You can do the washing up afterward.”
“Right you are. I’ll find a bottle shop and buy some wine.”
“Martin…” She lowered her voice. “It’s real, isn’t it?”
He swallowed hard before he answered.
“Yes,” he said.
Chapter Five
They sat in the same places as the night before. She in her armchair opposite him on the couch. He wanted her to be sitting next to him so he could he feel the warmth of her body and smell the subtle freshness of her perfume but she treated him like a guest, friendly, with the distance of new acquaintances.
There was something indefinably welcoming about the house, like coming home, though he’d never even been anywhere near Australia before, let alone set foot in the place. Despite her reserve he was comfortable with her too, beyond their shared experience of the music. They’d prepared dinner together and eaten it sitting in her tiny back garden where it was cooler. They’d laughed and been amazed at the coincidence of having the same last name albeit spelt differently. Another link. As promised he’d done the dishes.
She’d changed from her work clothes into loose white cotton pants and a baggy pink shirt, sexy and cute all at the same time and he wanted to hold her and feel her body through the thin cotton of her clothes but knew he couldn’t touch her or the fragile relationship would crash. They had enough emotional chaos to sort through without his unwanted advances adding to the mess.
But Nina was simply the most perfect woman he’d seen in his life. He’d thought she was yesterday at the shop but he’d been jet lagged and his nerves strung to breaking point by his quest and today, waiting for her to come home, relatively clear headed, he’d wondered if he’d imagined that snap of certainty that she was his soul mate. Too far-fetched, too romantic in the worst possible way.
But he could hardly take his eyes off her and had to avert his gaze when she glanced at him so she wasn’t unnerved by the stalkerish attention. She told him as they ate she had a Chinese great grandparent on her mother’s side, come to Australia in
the 1850’s gold rush. She’d inherited her mother’s colouring and oval face shape but her features were less Asian than European. She’d inherited the best of both worlds and then some. The short bobbed hair swung against her cheeks in a glossy, black curtain and she looked at the world through dark, mysterious eyes.
Neither had mentioned the music before or during dinner. Somehow, with two involved, the pressure seemed less intense, more bearable. There was truth in the saying, “a trouble shared is a trouble halved.” At least for him and he suspected, by her expression and her manner, for Nina.
Now, though, the time had come to continue his part of the story. He topped up both their glasses with the remains of the crisp, chilled Riesling he’d bought that afternoon and which had gone so well with the stirfry.
“So Celia told you about her brother, the musician,” she said.
“Yes. George had played with a string quartet. He was the second violinist. She said they rehearsed together every week almost, for years. Occasionally they would have someone join them. A clarinet or flute player or pianist for example to do one of the famous quintets, and they gave concerts every now and again. They were all amateurs but Celia said they were dedicated and very good players. She gave me their names and phone numbers and I intended to ring each one and ask about the music and if I could visit to talk about it. I also managed to get George’s widow’s name and contact. Jessica. Celia had become quite chatty by now.
“I decided to ring Jessica first. I thought she might remember if George had said anything about it or what he had done with the other parts. I thought if he had the flute and cello parts he must have had all of them at some stage especially as it seemed to have come from an ancestor. She didn’t answer the phone so I moved on to Charlie Davis the first violin. He was a tetchy old character. Quite abrupt—and when I mentioned the music he said he remembered playing it just the once. Couldn’t remember where it had come from or anything else about it except in his words, “It was a horrible piece of music, too darn hard to read—handwritten—and I refused to play it. I gave it back to George and said don’t ever ask me to play that tripe again.”
“That would have been my part,” said Nina with a laugh. “Did he mention the warning?”
“No, and I didn’t know about it then so I couldn’t ask him. He may have written it but it didn’t sound as though he had had the part long enough to bother. He might have. We’ll probably never know.”
“Not much help.”
“Except that he reacted the same way as Sylvia. And for someone who only saw it briefly it had a profound effect on him. That made two people and I still don’t understand why.”
“The music didn’t like them,” Nina said dismissively. “What about the others?”
“The viola player was a complete write off because there was no viola part and he knew nothing about it. They must have run through it when he wasn’t there. I was getting a bit discouraged by now. I’d been on the phone for hours and hardly got anywhere but Stephen Adamson, the cellist, was the best. He invited me to his house the following day. He said the music had really intrigued him at the time but they’d only played it once and Charlie reacted with such vehemence George had collected up the parts and they never saw them again.”
Martin picked up the wine and drank.
“I went to visit the next afternoon. He lives in Wimbledon. His wife had baked a cake and set out afternoon tea. I had the impression they didn’t have many visitors. They’re a lovely couple, both well into their seventies but fit and healthy. Edith fussed about, making sure we were comfortable. They adore each other still. She told me they’d just had their forty-ninth wedding anniversary. Quite restored my faith in love.”
He said it flippantly hoping to cover the depth of feeling seeing them together had so unexpectedly unearthed. Even the memory of that loving couple brought with it a deep longing to have what they had, what his parents had missed out on and what he seemed doomed to miss out on as well. Unless Nina…
“Love is the key to everything,” she said. It sounded like a quote. “My parents are coming up to their thirtieth anniversary.”
Martin did a rapid calculation. She must be in her mid to late twenties.
Nina smiled. “I’m twenty-six and my sister Lucy is twenty-eight. We have a younger brother, Jason.”
“Are you psychic?”
She grinned. “No. You’re obvious. But I went to see one.”
“A psychic? I never thought of doing that. What did she say?”
Her smile faded. “That I’d meet a tall, dark foreigner. She assumed he’d be handsome.”
He smiled again. “You did. Me. And I am.”
No answering grin this time. “Yes, but at that time I thought she may mean Piers. He’s tall and dark and incredibly handsome.”
Again that stab of jealousy. The man was long dead but he reached out from the spirit world and ensnared Nina. For the first time the thought crashed into his mind—Piers had to be stopped.
“He’s hardly likely to appear,” he said.
“Except in my dreams. And in your mind.” She fixed him with steady gaze. “She also said the path was troubled and there was fear involved.”
“She was right about that.”
“She was but I had the feeling she wasn’t telling me everything. I wasn’t sure…it all seemed vague. Not wrong but not exactly right, either.” She tilted her head with a small shrug and exhaled. She drained her wine glass. “Maybe that’s typical, what they say to everyone.”
Martin said, “Anyway. Stephen said he remembered that piece because it had such a hauntingly beautiful melody. He was amazed when Charlie reacted the way he did. He would have kept playing but George collected up the parts so quickly he didn’t have a chance to even finish going through it. The really interesting thing was George had asked a woman to play the flute part. They were doing a work with flute and string quartet at the time. Stephen remembered her being quite taken with it as well. Unfortunately she died of breast cancer about three years ago so I couldn’t talk to her but then, we’ve got the flute part. Do you realise? They must have had three parts playing together, the three we’ve got.” He emphasised the last words.
“But what about George? He was a violinist why didn’t he play the violin part if Charlie hated it so much?”
“I wondered that too but not until later. It just didn’t occur to me when I was talking to Stephen. You see he mentioned that there were a few other pages that George didn’t hand out. He’s sure there was a score and a guitar part at least. He remembered George humming along following the score as they played. He might have been singing a missing part.”
“The voices would have been very strong.”
“You’d think so. I needed to talk to Jessica. She must have noticed something if George was experiencing what we’ve been experiencing. I’d tried to ring her again the previous night but she didn’t seem to be home. I kept trying every day at all different times but she didn’t answer. I even rang Celia again to ask her if she knew why Jessica wasn’t answering but she said as far as she knew she was still in London but could easily have gone away without telling her.
“While all this was going on I wasn’t practising or working at all. The orchestra fired me, I’d forget about my students and they’d turn up for lessons suddenly and surprise me. Over a period of time they began to drift away to other teachers. I rarely got calls for subbing and when I did more and more often I would refuse. That’s the kiss of death when you’re a freelance. People won’t call again.
I kept playing the music and I even asked another friend to play the cello part. Actually it was Sven, a double bass player. I thought if he played it on double bass he might not be affected the way Sylvia was. He wasn’t. It’s hard to tell with Sven what’s going on most of the time because he smokes a bit of dope and he’s already a bit…not exactly crazy but eccentric, I suppose. He’s reliable where it counts though or I wouldn’t have let him flat-sit for me now.
He’s not a very good reader. I think the combination of things negated the effects.
If Sven heard voices he’d think it was quite normal. He probably hears them all the time anyway. He thought the melody was “cool man”—he speaks with this funny mix of Swedish accent and American slang—and sort of improvised his own bass line.”
Martin stopped as for the first time in months, something funny occurred to him. “Piers and Company probably didn’t recognise their music.”
Nina burst out laughing at the same moment. Martin laughed and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks and his stomach hurt. Nina, through the tears, was holding her stomach as well, laughing not because what he had said was so funny although it did conjure up a picture of three confused spirits scratching their heads and saying to each other “What’s that? Is that our music?” but because they could finally joke about it.
When the laughter had subsided to the occasional gasp, Nina said, “Want a beer?”
His wine was long gone. Martin nodded. She reappeared with two icy cold stubbies and handed him one. His first beer in Australia. He knew why they served it cold here now and why his Australian acquaintances complained about the warm beer in England.
He’d ventured outside to the bottle shop after Nina had rung that afternoon and it was hot. Baking. Humid, too. He’d wandered about, first taking careful note of her address and where he was going so as not to get lost. She lived in a terrace house and the area seemed to be undergoing gentrification, although it hadn’t reached her street yet. He found the local shops where they’d eaten pizza, mostly trendy restaurants and cafes but nowhere to buy shorts or sandals. He bought Nina flowers at a greengrocer’s when he was tempted in by the exotic array of fruit on display. They’d eaten fresh mango and pineapple for dessert tonight.
The fragrant pink and white blooms sat in a china jug between them on the coffee table and her dark eyes strayed to them quite frequently. Pleased.
He put his beer carefully on a coaster.
Shadow Music Page 8