Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  And Martha would scream that they were liars. The lot of them. Filthy, stinking liars! And it would end badly and she would be warned that there would be no privileges going forward.

  And the worst truth of all that dawned bright and dreadful in those early, terrible days that rolled into weeks and finally months was that in Millrose Mount Hospital there was not only nothing, apparently, she could do to get herself out but absolutely nothing to do, full stop.

  It was this most of all that Martha would come to remember about her two years, three months and two days in Millrose Mount Hospital. Not the fear. Not the injustice. Not even the trauma of those first terrible days, but the insufferable length of each and every day. The endless walking and sitting, with nothing to distract from the terrible thought of her circumstance, and what she had lost, and always with this same question pounding through her head.

  What on earth am I actually supposed to do?

  At first in the broader sense of sheer panic and terror. Also fury. How to make them listen and to let her go. But then later, in the very practical hour-to-hour sense of absolute despair and yes: sheer boredom.

  What to do to fill all these hours? To join the dots between breakfast and lunch and dinner.

  The problem was worse always at night, when Martha would never feel safe enough to sleep properly. This another of Millrose Mount’s shocks, that sometimes male patients would wander into female wards after lights out. The first time this happened, when she was still on one of the higher security admission wards, Martha was incredulous, screaming immediately for help.

  The male patient had not come close to her bed – hers thankfully being at the far end of the ward, nearest the window. He had not touched her. But it was the possibility. The very thought of it. Men being able to just wander around at night.

  And yet in those early weeks it was she, Martha, who was punished for making a fuss. Given an extra dose of sedative to calm yourself down, missy.

  All of the problems, Martha soon realised, were down to a motley crew of indifferent staff, an ineffective and inconsistent regime and a lack of the one thing you would expect in such a place. Care.

  The daytime staffing rule seemed to be at least two nurses on duty in the little bay of the corridor which divided wards, but at night a single nurse would have to watch two wards – one for all female patients and one on the opposite of the corridor for men. So the door of each ward would have to be left wide open so the nurse could see into both.

  At night it was almost always a male nurse in the corridor, which made Martha doubly uncomfortable. Sometimes they would simply fall asleep and sometimes they would just disappear – the rumour being that they liked to play cards with other staff on shift elsewhere.

  Sure enough, someone would come running pretty fast if one of the male patients went walkabouts and the screaming started, but the sense of risk and uncertainty meant Martha found it very difficult to ever relax. To sleep properly.

  Instead she would snatch naps whenever she could during the day, and at night would lie in bed with tears running down her face as she tried to work out the next strategy. The next part she might play in the hope of getting herself to a phone.

  To somehow get a message to Russia, to the only person in the whole world who could help her now.

  To Josef Karpati.

  16

  Martha had met Josef two days short of her eighteenth birthday. He was just starting out – an unknown, working with her father under an east–west cultural exchange.

  Not only did no one know Josef’s name back then, but Martha, as she made sandwiches for her father’s rehearsal, was quite possibly the least likely person to be impressed by him.

  They were ham – the sandwiches. She wrapped them very carefully, sunlight streaming into the kitchen reflecting dancing orbs onto the greaseproof paper. She had been thinking of her mother, trying not to dwell on how things might have evolved if she were still around.

  Martha could not remember a time when she and her father had not been at war – an only child fighting for his attention from the day he closed the door of his music room on her toddler form, screaming for her mother to do something for God’s sake. Is there no way you can keep the child quiet while I’m trying to work?

  Martha throughout her schooling had a succession of music teachers who tutted their way through a series of instruments with her – piano, flute and oboe – her natural flair for each matched only by a spectacular refusal to use it. The rows with her father over this as dramatic as Martha intended them to be, but futile also, for even if the grown-up Martha had written NOTICE ME in capital letters on her forehead, Charles Ellis would still have failed to read them.

  It was music he had chosen to read. Bass clef and treble clef – the childhood clef completely beyond him.

  It was only her mother, Jessica, who could calm the turbulent waters between father and daughter, and her loss, so sudden and so utterly unfair when Martha was just thirteen, had left a chasm of silence between them which even the loudest and most spectacular symphony could not penetrate.

  How can anyone die of a cold? he would lament over and over in hushed tones – to friends, fellow musicians, to neighbours, the vicar, the housekeeper Margaret – though never to Martha.

  So few words left for Martha.

  Charles Ellis’s great professional sadness was in becoming a better conductor than he ever was a soloist. And so to support and to buoy him, it became her mother’s habit, as a concert drew close, geography and weather permitting, to take her husband’s lunch fresh to the rehearsal hall. Jessica had liked to listen to the new programme, she confided in Martha, and to watch her husband – so absorbed in his work, baton in hand, when he did not know that she was there.

  ‘It is as if the music takes him to another place. Another world entirely, Martha.’

  And then, sweeping her daughter’s fringe back from her forehead and planting a kiss in the middle there to soften the frown. ‘You must try to forgive him, Martha. He cannot help himself.’

  It was for her mother she had chosen ham that day – freshly roasted with a coating of mustard and brown sugar as she had taught her; Martha’s only comfort this – to keep the food, the house, the routines exactly as they had always been. As if she could pretend that her mother had just popped out to the shops. Would be back any moment. With something for that cold.

  The next concert was just three days away and there was much brouhaha over the unexpected cooperation between Charles’s own somewhat provincial orchestra and a more prestigious ensemble visiting from Czechoslovakia. How permission had been achieved for this liaison did not stand up to public examination. That Charles Ellis was on a panel of judges soon to host an important international competition was a key factor, according to international commentators, though strenuously denied by all concerned. What was more at issue, but less widely known, was the ongoing affair between the British-based press officer for the competition and one of the senior figures in charge of security for the visiting musicians.

  None of this Martha knew or cared about at the time. All she saw was that the prospect of playing with the cream of the eastern bloc’s touring entourage had thrown her father into even more of a tizz than usual.

  The clock from the hall chimed twelve – the cue to hurry – and Martha added some tomatoes, an apple and a large chunk of strong cheddar to the blue plastic lunchbox before placing it into the canvas bag which already contained a flask of tea – Earl Grey, not too strong – with slices of lemon wrapped in foil. There was just a light breeze, and for the twenty-minute stroll to the Salvation Army hall Martha dreamt of the eighteenth birthday party she might have enjoyed if her mother were there to organise it. Friends over. Yes. There would have been a gathering of her closest friends, but not a childish party with buns and sandwiches as her father had proposed. No. Her mother would have realised that something very much more sophisticated would be in order. A little dinner party perhaps. Cocktails even. Two d
ays and she would be old enough for cocktails, surely?

  She could hear the muted drift of the rehearsal in full swing long before she turned the corner at the bottom of Clarence Street from where the Salvation Army hall came into view.

  Canapés. Of course. Her mother would have organised proper, grown-up canapés. Martha found herself smiling at the very thought of this. Smoked salmon. Caviar?

  Acoustically, it was apparently not too bad, this hall, though the musicians complained it was draughty, some of them even wearing fingerless gloves one season when the heating had packed up completely.

  Martha on the whole liked the musicians and her smile broadened as she remembered how very funny they had looked in their coloured gloves – the eclectic jumble of tall and short, fat and thin, with their preening, their perfectionism and their paranoias. In other people, all of this was entirely fascinating to observe. She remembered the first time she had used the cloakroom at one of the rehearsal venues and had happened upon an oboist retching into the bowl. Oh dear. Should she get someone? Fetch her mother? Martha, just ten at the time, had been completely mortified but, to her surprise, the woman had simply wiped her mouth and flushed the chain to explain, quite matter-of-fact, No, thank you, dear. I am always sick before I play. And I feel very much better. Will be fine now, thank you.

  And Martha had watched her then, throughout the rehearsal, with astonishment as she had proved the point – playing quite beautifully. The pink entirely returned to her cheeks.

  Yes. Musicians were an interesting if unpredictable bunch – just not cut out for family life, in her father’s case.

  The first set of double doors to the hall were exceptionally heavy and Martha held the bag of food to her stomach as she turned and pushed with her bottom to ease them open as quietly as she could, using her hand then to slow the shutting mechanism – working against the overhead spring so that it would not slam. God forbid that she should interrupt her father, baton still in hand.

  There was a small inner lobby before less substantial glazed double doors to the main hall, and it was here that it happened.

  That moment she first saw him. The moment imprinted forever on her brain.

  She recognised the piece – her father had played it years back. Though not like this. Nothing like this. And she was standing now in the lobby staring through the glass, uneasy. Unsteady. Ill-prepared. She could not recall the name of the movement; all she knew was that she had never been forced to listen quite like this before. Felt tricked. Winded. Stripped suddenly of the defence mechanism which had always served her so well where music was concerned.

  He had his back to her – the soloist – so that she could see only his hair at first. Curly hair, which moved like waves on the sea, catching the light from a high window as he played – his upper body at one with the music as if swimming. Or dancing. The muscles of his bare arms – flexing. Tensing and relaxing. To. Fro. Taut. Relaxed. Mesmeric – yes; exactly like waves on the surface of the water. His back completely straight and his head stretched so far to the side that the skin of his neck seemed almost translucent – white and unnaturally smooth so that even from this distance she found herself digging her fingers into her palm in response to the overwhelming and ridiculous urge to imagine how it might feel to the touch.

  And then the slight turn of the head so that she sees his face. The perfect shape of his jaw. Those eyes…

  It was her father’s instrument, the cello, but even he, so applauded in his day, had never played like this. For just a moment then Martha had looked beyond the soloist to watch her father – his baton bobbing over the surface of the water – to see the confirmation in his eyes. Yes. The glint of envy, masked as admiration.

  And now she was closing her own eyes and could see her mother sitting alone in the midst of the sea of chairs, smiling at her. See, Martha? Do you see now? And she was holding her breath. Yes. She, Martha Ellis, who had blamed music for so much unhappiness in her life – standing, staring and holding her breath for it.

  And then, just as suddenly as the magic arrived, so it was gone. The hall silent for just a brief pause before the familiar scraping of chairs as the musicians moved to gather up their things. Rising to the surface.

  Lunch break.

  And Martha was disorientated. Cross with herself and embarrassed too as she pushed her way through the second set of doors, forgetting the noise of the hinge and not expecting, never imagining, what will come next.

  Over and over in her dreams she will replay this moment. The excruciating squeak of the door. His turn. And then the smile. Not just the mouth but the ice blue eyes – so pale, like crystals, that, in theory, they should chill, and yet somehow do exactly the opposite. And she wonders if she has rewritten it. Adorned this moment too much. Reinvented it. Or if it really was as she remembers.

  That he did not blink. Not once. That she watched and watched, waiting for him to turn away first but he did not.

  Ice-blue eyes. Just staring back at her. Unblinking.

  And thank God, her father did not notice her yet – blushing and so awkward, wishing that she had combed her hair, checked her reflection in the double doors. Worn something nicer.

  Martha looked beyond the soloist to the far corner of the hall where a group of musicians were huddled together, whispering – alongside them a rather odd-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. The minder her father had mentioned? Yes – he must be the minder, for his eyes were darting around the room all the time. For what, she wondered, smiling to herself, in a Salvation Army hall? Still she watched the musicians, wondering why they did not rush off as usual for their lunch – the brass section so keen normally not to miss a moment of time in the pub. And then her father was signalling the way into the back office, with a grey-haired man following him – his oboe still in his hand – and from this distance Martha unable to make out his face.

  Only then did she turn back to the young man to find to her astonishment that he was still staring at her. Dear God. Worse. Approaching. And now in her head she was desperately searching for something grown-up to say. Something interesting. Something…

  ‘Hello – I’m Martha. Charles’s daughter. Gosh, you play well.’ Blushing then – Oh shut up, Martha. Shut up – while still he looked. ‘What I mean is that it was a good piece. A good choice.’ She had no idea if this was true.

  And then at last his voice – low and with an accent she could not identify.

  ‘Josef Karpati. I am pleased to meet you, Martha.’

  He bowed his head as he said her name, dropping the tone of his voice and holding out his hand to shake hers. Did she imagine that he held onto it just a little longer than was customary? Pressed his palm, still warm from the bow, against hers. Did she imagine that?

  And then she was gabbling again, trying to explain that her name wasn’t truly Martha. Jessica, actually, after her mother, but it had caused such terrible confusion in the house. I mean – how ridiculous, don’t you think? To name a daughter after the mother. And so in the end she had taken to using her second name. Martha.

  At which he smiled again.

  ‘So – your father?’ He turned, to confirm that Charles had left the main hall. ‘You like to watch him rehearse?’

  ‘Well – yes. No.’ Martha’s face felt very hot. ‘I just bring lunch, actually.’ She held up her bag, feeling ridiculous. Did this man never blink? If he moved any closer, he would hear her pulse, surely? She swallowed. Too much fluid in her mouth suddenly. Wondering where on earth so much saliva had appeared from.

  ‘So – what’s going on?’ Martha signalled with her head to the gathering of musicians still whispering in the corner, gulping now. Dear God, what if she dribbled?

  Josef’s eyes blinked at last and he signalled for them to move aside – to some seating at the back of the hall, glancing and nodding momentarily towards the minder.

  ‘It is very sad,’ he was whispering. Guarded. ‘There is a musician who is having problems today? Michael. Do yo
u know him?’

  ‘Michael on oboe? Yes – he’s been playing with Dad for years.’

  Josef dropped his head and shoulders and lowered his voice yet further so that Martha had to lean right forward to hear him. ‘I shouldn’t perhaps say. But it seems he has…’ He was flexing his fingers and wrist slowly like a mime. ‘Pain in his hands. I don’t remember the word?’

  ‘Pain? You mean like arthritis?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. He has been drinking today to help him play. Your father is upset. Understandably. It is very sad.’

  ‘But the concert’s in three days. He’s lead oboe. He’s always been lead oboe.’

  And then the muffled sound of raised voices from the kitchen across the hall. What sounded like a fist banging on the table – the group of remaining musicians across the hall suddenly dispersing – heading for the far exit as Martha stood up, her hand trembling. The door of the music room slamming shut on her toddler form. Her father’s voice so loud. So angry. ‘Look – I’m sorry but I’m going to have to go.’

  And now the ice-blue eyes were confused.

  ‘Look – would you mind if I leave these with you, Josef?’ She was passing him the lunchbox. ‘It’s probably better that I go. If things are difficult, I mean.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Martha. I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Over the years Martha will come to remember this precise moment more times than she would choose. In Millrose Mount. Then later, on her travels, when his name is on the front of a magazine or newspaper. A billboard. Or he pops up on a television through a shop window, catching her unawares.

  From the moment Josef becomes famous, Martha will find it harder and harder to escape what happened between them. And when she is forced to think again of that very first day, she will wonder if she has rewoven it.

  The way he spoke to her. Did he really take her hand yet again just before she rushed away – so that once more she felt the warmth of his skin, which made her stomach turn right over as she dived into cool water to escape, her hair slicked straight? Delicious and cool down her back.