‘Yes. Maria and I go back a bit. I spend most winters here. People are very kind. Look out for me.’
‘And you’ve found somewhere to stay OK?’
‘The hostel, yes. The usual.’ She pulls a face, suddenly looking at her watch. ‘Damn.’
‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No. No – but I need to be somewhere.’ She finishes her tea in one swig. ‘You can come if you like, unless you want to stay on? For your breakfast?’
‘No, no. I’m fine. I’ll eat later.’
‘Come on then.’ And now Martha winks. Patently teasing.
Just minutes later and Kate understands why Martha laughed off the offer of a lift. Wendy’s Wool Shop, their destination, is precisely two doors down. The same enviable view of the quay from a glorious bay window and the interior – Kate’s idea of heaven.
As if frozen in time, the shop smells of the past; an aroma of care and attention. Beeswax. Something akin to lemons. And all the shelves in immaculate order. Rows and rows of wool – categorised by grade and colour with the prices neatly recorded in smart black pen on square white cards.
‘Oh – Martha, it’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry I was away when you got back.’ The woman behind the counter exchanges a warm hug with Martha. ‘I so wish I had a spare bedroom you could use. You do know that?’
‘I’m fine. The hostel’s OK. You’re not to worry.’
And then the wool shop owner is stepping back to hold Martha at arm’s length for a moment, appraising her outfit, Kate all the while smiling awkwardly in the background.
‘Salvation Army? The Lord forgive me, but we can do better than that. I’ve put a few bits aside. Out the back.’
Martha turns to Kate and beckons her forward to the counter, repeating the sequence in the café. Wendy-Kate. Kate-Wendy.
‘You’re new in Aylesborough then, Kate?’
She trots out her script – her husband, an architect, moving his business, their desire for a healthier, quieter life by the sea, but it is soon apparent that Wendy is struggling to concentrate and, as Kate pauses, the shopkeeper’s gaze moves back to Martha – the smile broadening as she scurries out to the back of the shop, reappearing with two large bags: one stuffed with wool and notes, the second with clothes. For a time the women babble amiably about mutual acquaintances. Which wool is popular just now. The trends. The frustrations.
‘Quite a few orders.’ Wendy is rummaging through various notes in the bag with the wool. ‘A lot of tank tops and waistcoats, I’m afraid.’ She pulls a face. ‘I blame that Leo Sayer character myself. I know they’re fiddly, but see what you can do. There’s no hurry.’
And then, as two customers appear at the counter holding patterns for tank tops, which makes Wendy colour, there are more hugs and Martha is juggling the bags as they move aside to let Wendy get on with her work. Only at the door does the convivial mood change ever so slightly as Martha turns and Wendy speaks more quietly.
‘I’m sorry, Martha. No letters. I’ve asked around for you. Nothing.’
And then they are back on the bench where they first met, sipping tea once again from chipped mugs – Kate still completely disorientated.
‘So you knit then to order, Martha?’
‘Sometimes. Wendy’s very persuasive and I enjoy it. Helps with the pennies when there’s not much work about.’
‘But you can’t make much, knitting, surely?’ Kate immediately regrets her tone. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound patronising. Forgive me.’
Martha just sips her drink and for a time the women look pointedly out to the water where a fisherman is tidying the nets on his boat, watched closely by the gulls circling above – the boat rocking ever so gently so that the man has to stand with his legs wide apart as he works.
‘I know it’s not really any of my business, but do you mind me asking why here? Why Aylesborough every winter?’
She would like to ask about the letters really. What letters, Martha?
‘And would you mind if I lied as you did to Wendy back there?’ There is no disapproval in the tone. Just a directness which feels as surprising as it is refreshing to Kate, who sits in silence, wondering what on earth to say. Should she admit that she is secretly pleased to have been caught out? Pleased for someone to see through her?
The fisherman is now tossing overboard some scraps from a large plastic bucket, which sets the gulls into a frenzy of squawking, the two women turning to look at each other for just a moment – yet another brief holding of eye contact; this strange acknowledgement of something Kate does not yet understand – before their gaze is drawn away to a man muttering to himself as he marches to the library next to the wool shop, a huge black folder under his arm, bearing the large logo of the development up on the hill – Millrose Mount Village. A logo which Kate has spotted subject to sometimes comic but mostly coarse graffiti on various billboards around the town.
Kate watches the man go into the library and opens her mouth to ask Martha how she knew that she was lying back there. But Martha looks so relaxed, still no judgement or disapproval on her face, and so Kate changes her mind.
Says nothing at all.
Moscow State Orchestra
1960
My Martha,
I keep telling myself this will be my last attempt to reach you. And then I change my mind. And write again…
Friends are still saying that it is time – way, way overdue – to let this go.
Are they right?
As you see, I am in Moscow still – rehearsing for a new tour. We are to play the Debussy Sonata and I always find it so difficult… Do you remember the first time that I played it for you? At your father’s home?
I will certainly never forget.
Sometimes I wonder if these letters are even leaving Russia. Other times I imagine it is your father who refuses to forward them. Destroys them, even?
At night sometimes I lie in bed and imagine still the worst thing of all. That my friends have been right all along and I am now some kind of embarrassment to you.
But the hell for me is in the not knowing.
That is the worst thing, Martha. The thing I find so impossible to live with. Thinking of you. And not knowing if you ever think still of me.
Your Josef x
6
Day three in Alyesborough. Matthew glances at his watch and scratches his head. Bad decision to use the leisure centre soap on his hair. Even a long rinse has left it dull. Unbearably itchy. He brushes his shoulder, instinctively turning to the nearest shop window to double-check his reflection. He pushes his chin up and tilts his head, the shift in the angle then dissolving the mirror so that he is looking through the window.
Matthew closes his eyes immediately. No. He is no kind of believer in fate. And he does not have time for this.
No, Matthew.
He is already pushing his luck for his interview. Keeping his eyes firmly shut, he lifts the rucksack gently from his shoulder and lowers it to the ground, all the time trying to ignore the music in his head – the movement of his fingers. Twitching. He has played one like it only once before. Grade three. He remembers the cool of the ivory – picturing the small crack on the upper C which he could feel clearly against his fingers during the forte passages. But most of all he remembers the tone – the exquisite tone which has never quite been equalled. Before or since. And he remembers too the sick feeling in his stomach as he left the cold, draughty exam room in the city museum with a sense of utter bereavement.
Matthew opens his eyes now and stares, leaning forward to take it in properly. A rosewood case with ornate flowers looped in bowers around the side – too fussy for most tastes but a gem nonetheless. He can picture the craftsmen assembling it, smiling all the time with pride, and watches the scene play out, wondering if their banter is in German – the piece from the New York factory or Hamburg?
He cups his hand into a peak over his eyes to deflect the sun, surprised and embarrassed sudden
ly as a man walks into view alongside the piano with a large yellow duster in his hand.
Matthew leans back and stands very straight, keen to avoid eye contact. Too late. The man is beaming from ear to ear and then, horror of horrors, beckoning.
Matthew looks over his shoulder and turns back, frowning, to find the man now laughing at him and beckoning again. No – you. Yes – you. Matthew blushes, furious with himself for not marching on by. He signals at his watch that sorry, he is in a hurry. Has no time. But the man is having none of it and laughs, swinging the door open, the duster still in his hand, and as a small bell tinkles middle A above his head stands there expectantly. So that in the end Matthew has absolutely no choice but to go inside.
‘Arrived yesterday.’ The man is breathless with excitement, prowling around the piano like a great cat stalking its prey – taking small, measured steps as if any sudden movement might make the instrument panic, hitch up its wooden skirt, rise onto the tips of its metal claw feet and run for the hills. ‘I can’t believe it either.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Matthew pushes his rucksack with his foot to rest alongside a stand of sheet music.
‘Sorry. But I saw you gawping.’
Matthew closes his mouth, aware only now that it is wide open, and checks his watch again. This is ridiculous. The hotel job sounded perfect – even a room thrown in. It would be crazy to miss the appointment. And what is this, anyway? A conversation with no beginning. The man is clearly barking.
‘I know it’s madness. For a little shop like this, I mean… to tie up so much money in one piece. But it’s not a risk. Not really. I mean, they sell themselves, don’t they? I have a friend who’s made a fortune with them.’
Still the man walks around the piano, as if needing to take in every angle.
‘He’s an authorised dealer – in Bath. Can help with parts. Advice. Liaising with the factory. They guard their reputation, of course. Quite understandable. But if I do a good job. With the restoration, I mean.’
Matthew moves towards the piano and runs his finger over the case – smooth, bar a few tiny ridges where the decorative inlay needs attention.
‘Is it in tune?’ Matthew tries middle G. Slightly out. Just below concert pitch.
‘Twelve thousand parts apparently. In every one. Astonishing, isn’t it?’ The man finally stops stalking to sit suddenly on a piano stool positioned alongside a much humbler upright model.
‘I’m going to spend the first month just assessing her, of course. Take it slowly. I’ve done rebuilds before. But not a Steinway. Never a Steinway grand.’
They are both staring at the keys, the man grinning again.
‘Go on then.’
And now he is hurriedly positioning another stool in front of the grand – gesturing for Matthew to sit down.
‘I beg your pardon?’
And then the man tuts as if Matthew has said something completely ridiculous.
‘You’re wondering how I know you play?’ The tone is high-pitched and teasing but affably so. Not sarcastic. ‘Young man, I have been in this business all of my life. No one looks at a piano like that unless they play.’
Matthew raises his right eyebrow and can hear his father’s voice. Don’t do that with your eyebrow. It’s rude, Matthew. Looks so bloody superior.
‘I have watched people gaze through that window for a generation,’ the man is smiling. ‘And trust me – there are only three looks. First – those who don’t play. All they see is a piece of furniture. You can watch them weighing up the measurements. The colour. Trying to picture how it will fit the proportions of their room. The same way you might look at a sofa or a chair. Then there are the people who wished they played. Or wished they played better. Regret in their eyes.’ At this he sighs in sympathy. Sad for them. ‘And then there is the third group. The ones, as you know very well, who do not look with their eyes at all.’
Matthew for a moment is unnerved to be read this well. And this quickly.
‘Please.’ He is waving now for Matthew to sit down. ‘Anything you like. I’m a pretty average pianist these days. Spot of arthritis, sadly. Would love to hear how she can really sound.’
Matthew, obedient, finally sits and feels his stomach somersault – nervous not of his eccentric audience but the fear of disappointment, like a child with a large box at Christmas, afraid that the gift inside may not live up to the dream.
Chopin or Debussy?
Matthew holds his breath. Flexes his fingers. Undecided. A few notes then changes his mind. Debussy. Yes. He closes his eyes and begins again, slowly and tentatively. And then as the tone confirms his best hopes, a smile – his shoulders relaxing as he plays a few more bars and then, beaming, on through the whole piece – eyes wide open, with his new companion grinning a told-you-so.
And not until the piece is done do either breathe properly. Or speak. Both astonished that, even ahead of all the work required, it can sound like this. Like a cloud of magic has passed through the shop – freezing time and holding them there in some strange and mesmeric bubble. The spell cast.
‘Tea.’ The man has to cough to clear his throat. To compose himself. ‘I’ll make us tea. I’m Geoffrey, by the way.’
Matthew looks at his watch – resigned now. The hotel job lost.
‘Matthew. And yes, please. Tea would be just lovely.’
Through Mozart and a few lighter pieces, Matthew assesses there is a lot of work to be done. Several of the notes are failing completely. Others sticking. And the pedals need major attention too. But for all that, the piano is a dream. The tone beyond wonderful.
He teases his new companion, finishing with Chopsticks as Geoffrey emerges from the back office with a tray and, inexplicably, three mugs. After offering Matthew milk, Geoffrey explains the spare drink.
‘I’ll just pop next door with this. To Wendy. In the wool shop. I always do the morning cuppa. She does the afternoon. Won’t be a tick.’
Matthew stops then – stunned that this complete stranger is about to entrust his shop to him. Even in the brief moment that it would take to deliver the tea, a dishonourable person could at worst be into the till and away – at best leg it with a stack of the music books on display.
‘You shouldn’t go trusting your shop to a stranger, you know.’
‘Shouldn’t I?’
And then the bell tinkles above the door again as Matthew watches Geoffrey emerge onto the pavement outside to collide almost immediately with a man he recognises – the salesman from the old hospital who is carrying a large folder bearing the development’s logo. Millrose Mount Village.
‘Stupid bloody idiot!’ The developer jumps back as a slurp of hot tea cascades down his trousers. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’
Geoffrey steadies himself to appraise the man very carefully, just as he sized up Matthew – the conclusion clearly less pleasing this time. ‘I’m very sorry. You must be in a hurry.’
The salesman snorts, glancing momentarily into the shop so that Matthew has to turn away – keen that he should not be recognised – and then marches off, muttering that people ought to be more careful. Look where they’re bloody well going…
Geoffrey does not reply but smiles weakly at Matthew and disappears for just a few minutes before returning a little breathless. ‘Half a cup better than none, I suppose. Wendy can be quite busy on a Wednesday. Now. Where were we?’
And then a whole barrage of questions. So what is Matthew doing in Aylesborough-on-sea? And where is he staying? And when Matthew confesses he is roughing it until he finds a job, Geoffrey ushers him, almost exploding with excitement, to the desk at the other side of the room where, to Matthew’s astonishment, is a small, faded sign. Part-time help needed. Musical experience essential.
So that, within half an hour, it is all agreed. A trial period. Twenty five hours a week at first. Yes. Matthew can play and serve customers while Geoffrey keeps the other side of the business going – piano tuning – which these days means closin
g the shop. Losing sheet music sales and the like.
And Matthew, quietly wondering what these days refers to, is saying – surely you’ll want references until Geoffrey gives him the same look which answered his question about how he knew that he could play. And Matthew stops. Realising he is in danger of insulting him.
7
Kate and Martha meet next on the beach.
‘It’s why I wear wellies.’ Martha, hands on hips, is teasing as Kate minces her way along a river of seawater, trying to decide where to cross. The stream divides the beach in two, widening much further back into a rock pool through which three children are wading, carrying fishing nets.
Kate finally decides to leap for it but lands short, Martha then roaring as she stands momentarily bemused – ankle-deep in water.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking with these canvas shoes.’ Kate steps out of the stream to shake her right foot, spraying water, her shoe and sock sopping. ‘You’re right. Wellies next time.’
They walk then for a time in silence, something Kate likes very much with Martha. Not to have to do small talk. Finally, as they reach rocks on the far side of the beach, Martha sits and takes out a flask provided by Maria from the café, lifting a spare cup by way of invitation.
‘Oh yes, please. Perfect. You know, Martha, it’s really funny, isn’t it, how with some people you can feel OK very quickly. Truly relaxed, I mean. And with others you never get to that point.’ She accepts a biscuit, wrapped in a napkin. Again made by Maria.
‘God. These are delicious, Martha. Maria is seriously good.’
‘She is.’
Martha takes a deep breath and for a moment Kate worries that she has embarrassed them both; crossed a line by mentioning the rapport. Said too much? And then…
Last Kiss Goodnight Page 3
