Sarah closed the front door behind her and looked at the quiet Sunday street, the long pavement, the rows of brick terraced houses each side, and wondered what difference being At War would make. On the way to Lansdowne Terrace she saw an army truck driving past the end of the street. Perhaps the town would soon be full of marching soldiers.
I’d better not speak German any more, she decided. Germany is the enemy.
She found Helga in tears, and Mrs Lewin quite unable to comfort her.
‘They won’t get here now,’ Helga sobbed. ‘They should have come weeks ago. Why did it take so long? Now it’s too late, too late!’
‘Shh, shh.’ Mrs Lewin stroked her hair. ‘Maybe they’re already on their way. Maybe they’ll get through.’
‘They won’t! I know it,’ Helga wailed. ‘I’ll never see them again, I know I won’t!’
Sarah stood by in dismay. She had never seen Helga cry before; Helga was always the sensible one, the one who knew what to do.
Sarah wrote that evening,
Chapter Twelve
Preludes
Reuben Jones is a promising and versatile
young musician who plays clarinet with
the youth orchestra but whose main
instrument is piano. He enjoys playing jazz
and his own compositions as well as
extending his classical repertoire.
Programme notes
‘I keep having a nightmare,’ Reuben said. ‘The same one. I walk out on the stage and sit down at the piano. Then there’s this great awful silence. My mind’s gone blank. Can’t remember a note. Can’t even remember what I’m supposed to be playing.’ He was sitting at Hilly’s piano, playing irritable arpeggios, unable to settle.
‘What you must do,’ said Hilly, ‘in your dream, is take the score with you. You can make things happen in dreams if you really concentrate.’
Reuben shook his head. ‘I’ve tried that. Doesn’t work. Either it’s the wrong score, “Three Blind Mice” or “O Come All Ye Faithful” or something, else it’s the right one but I can’t read it. The more I stare, the more the notes blur into fog.’
Hilly didn’t wonder at that. She had seen the score, much annotated by Reuben in pencil, and had marvelled that marks on paper could represent so free and exuberant a sound. All three pieces were liberally scattered with sharps, flats, accidentals, blue-notes and runs of triplets that she knew she would never, ever be able to get her brain round, let alone her fingers. When she stood ready to turn the page for Reuben while he practised, her eyes could hardly travel over the bars fast enough to keep up.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Hilly said. ‘You’ll be brilliant. You’ve played in front of an audience lots of times before.’
‘Yes, but not at the Derngate. A proper concert hall!’
‘Good practice for the Festival Hall and your solo career,’ Hilly said briskly. ‘And it’d be worse not to be nervous, wouldn’t it? You ought to be nervous.’
‘I suppose.’
Reuben began to play properly; not the Gershwin preludes for Saturday but a Chopin étude that was one of Hilly’s favourites. Sometimes she thought she loved Reuben most when he was playing the piano. She loved his complete absorption, his reverent stoop over the keyboard, his clever fingers, his frown of concentration. At the piano he was transformed from ordinary boy into artist, conjuror, musical athlete. Hilly never tired of watching and listening to him.
He broke off and turned to look at her, stretching and pulling at his fingers. ‘I wish Saeed could come.’
‘I know you do.’
‘I hardly see him,’ Reuben grumbled, ‘he works so hard. Some summer holiday.’
‘You’ll have to make do with me,’ Hilly said lightly. ‘And you’ll soon be back at college, then you’ll see him all day.’ She glanced out of the window to the back garden, where Heidigran was trimming the edges of the lawn with hand-shears. Heidigran was in good form today; she had recognized Reuben, understood when Hilly had told her about Saturday’s concert, and wished him luck.
Reuben started to play again, with his eyes closed. Hilly crept out, ran up both flights of stairs and fetched the photograph she had found in her grandmother’s underwear drawer. She hadn’t shown it to Zoë or her parents, nor even to Reuben; it was hidden inside the cover of her French dictionary.
Heidigran, on her knees, humming to herself, was pushing cut grass into a pile, and did not notice Hilly coming across the lawn.
‘You’ll get backache, Gran, if you’re not careful,’ Hilly said. ‘Don’t try to do the whole lot in one go!’
Crouching, Heidigran moved her kneeler pad farther along. ‘I’m all right. I know you think I’m decrepit, but I’m not ready for my Zimmer frame, not yet!’
‘Heidigran—’ Hilly was not sure how to broach the subject.
‘Yes, lovey?’
‘I was wondering about Rachel. You know you sometimes talk about Rachel? Well, when I went home with Dad and got your stuff for you, I found this in your drawer.’
‘What’s that?’ Heidigran leaned over and looked. She pulled off her gardening gloves, took the photograph and studied it closely for several moments. ‘No.’ She handed it back. ‘I’ve no idea who that is. Never seen her before.’
‘Are you sure, Gran? It says “Rachel” on the back. That’s not your writing, is it? Do you know whose it is?’
Heidigran frowned. ‘Could be. Not sure. Things get left in drawers, hidden for years and years. Could be anyone’s writing.’
‘Have you got any more? Any more photos?’
‘There’s the album, under the TV. But I don’t suppose you’ll find anything like that in there.’
Hilly knew. For as long as she could remember, the padded white album had been on the low shelf with the Radio Times and old magazines. When she was little, Hilly had loved to leaf through it, with Heidigran by her side: ‘That’s your mum at the fair. That’s Charles on his first bike.’ Hilly would turn the pages that chronicled her mother’s upbringing: her brother, Uncle Charles, and her progress through fashions, hairstyles and several boyfriends, then Hilly’s father – impossibly boyish and long-haired – and several pages of wedding photos, followed shortly by Hilly’s own arrival, tiny, swathed in white.
‘Why isn’t Rachel in the album?’ Hilly said, watching her grandmother narrowly.
Heidigran gave her an it’s obvious look. ‘Well, I only saw her once.’
Once? That made nonsense of Reuben’s suggestion that Rachel might have been a childhood friend. ‘When was that, Gran?’ Hilly asked.
‘Oh, years and years ago. Years and years and years.’
‘So you do know!’
Heidigran let the photograph drop from her fingers to fall face-down on the grass. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t remember.’
You do, Hilly thought, who was learning to distinguish genuine lapses from forgetfulness feigned, a convenient let-out. I know you do . She picked up the dropped photograph and looked again at the girl, the elusive Rachel, who gazed back at her, posed, selfconscious, almost smiling.
‘Why do you talk about her so much, Gran?’ she prompted. ‘Was she your friend in Cologne? What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Heidigran’s face became obstinate. ‘Please leave me alone. Don’t be cross with me.’ Her voice took on a childish wheedling note. She turned her back on Hilly and continued trimming. Hilly saw the shake in her hands as she tried to manipulate the hand-shears.
‘No one’s cross, Gran. I’m just trying to solve the mystery.’
‘What mystery?’ Heidigran said, sharp again. ‘There’s no mystery. The only mystery I can see is why you’ve been rummaging through my drawers.’
‘But you know you—’
‘Aren’t I entitled to any privacy? You young people don’t seem to care about anything. What in the world would your mother say about you stealing my things?’
‘No! I only borrowed—’
&n
bsp; ‘And is that young man still here? You know I don’t like him.’
‘Oh, Gran! Yes, that’s Reuben at the piano. What have you got against him, all of a sudden? You’ve known him for years.’
‘Why does he come here all the time? Can’t you send him away?’ Heidigran said plaintively. ‘Reubens? I don’t like that name.’
‘Why not, Gran? Do you know someone called Reuben?’
‘No,’ said Heidigran. ‘Now go away and leave me in peace, for goodness’ sake.’
Later that afternoon, when Reuben had left, Hilly’s mother decided to take Heidigran to the garden centre. ‘Feel like coming?’ she asked Hilly. ‘Actually, it’d be a help to have you with me – you could sit with her in the back seat. I’m a bit afraid she might try to jump out of the car or do something daft.’
The garden centre was a huge one, with a large indoor display of garden furniture, barbecue equipment and tools, and extensive rows of plants and trees outside, divided by screens of trellis. Dismissing all the paraphernalia, Heidigran made straight for the plants.
‘Penstemons. I want to look at the penstemons,’ she announced, making purposefully for Hardy Perennials. ‘Husker’s Red, that’s the one I want. It’ll look nice in my front bed by the holly. Ken likes those.’
No one liked to tell her that she was unlikely to return home, or to remind her that Ken – her husband, Hilly’s grandfather – was dead. But how odd, Hilly thought, that she could still name a herbaceous perennial at twenty paces, yet often struggled to identify her granddaughters and son-in-law.
‘Shall we choose something for that untidy bit by our shed?’ Hilly’s mother suggested. ‘You’ve done such a good job weeding it. I could buy something new to put there.’
‘Well, what would you like?’ Heidigran prepared to take charge. ‘A hardy geranium, perhaps – or how about a shrub, for winter colour? You haven’t got much for winter. One of those lovely pyracanthas, with yellow berries? Or a mahonia? They’re lovely in December and January when there’s not much else.’
This was a good idea of Mum’s, Hilly thought, wandering ahead, not much interested in plants. It showed Heidigran at her best: knowledgeable and enthusiastic. But when the shrub was chosen and they went to the café for a cup of tea, Heidigran’s mood changed abruptly. They sat at a pine table, with a pot of tea to share and a plate of flapjacks. Heidigran lapsed into silence while she ate, dabbing up every last crumb with her forefinger. Then she launched her attack.
‘Why are you keeping me here?’ Her voice was loud, attracting attention from people at the other tables. ‘Why won’t you let me go home?’
‘Shh, Mum!’ said Rose. ‘We’ll go home in a minute. Have you had enough?’
‘I want to go home! I want to go back to Northampton!’
‘Mum, we’re in Northampton. This is Northampton.’
‘No.’ Heidigran looked down at her empty plate, frowning. ‘No! No! The other one. Where I used to live.’
Hilly and her mother glanced at each other.
‘You don’t care about me!’ Heidigran burst out. ‘Why can’t I go back to Charles? I liked it there.’
‘Did you, Mum?’ Rose soothed. ‘Tell us what you did when you were staying with Charles and Anita.’
‘Anita? I don’t know Anita. Do I? All I’m asking is why you’re keeping me here, like a prisoner!’
‘Shh, shh! We’re looking after you, Mum, you’re our guest, not a prisoner!’
‘That’s what you say.’ Heidigran folded her arms and kicked the table leg. ‘It was different with Charles. He’s a good boy. I like staying with Charles. So does Ken. It’s not fair, the way you treat me!’
By now the other customers in the café were trying not to look, ostentatiously pretending not to notice, having animated conversations of their own. Hilly stayed silent, unequal to the embarrassment of being in public with a grown woman who was behaving like a six-year-old.
Heidigran changed her tack, leaning across the table to speak confidentially to Rose. ‘I hope you know she’s been stealing my things, this girl here! Rummaging through my drawers, she’s been, helping herself.’
‘Oh, now Mum, don’t be ridiculous!’ Rose reproved. ‘You know Hilly went to get some of your things you asked for.’
Reluctant to mention the photograph to her mother, not yet, Hilly was saved from having to when Heidigran went on: ‘Like that plumber came to do my radiators. Not Eddie, my usual, this one was a darkie. Took money from my purse, I swear he did! A ten-pound note went missing. I phoned Eddie and told him, only he wouldn’t have it, said it must have been my mistake. I said to him, don’t you send that darkie round again—’
‘Shhh!’
‘Told Eddie, he’s not setting foot in my house, not him or his sort,’ Heidigran went on loudly. ‘I don’t like blacks. You can’t trust any of them.’
‘Gran, please!’ Hilly wanted to crawl under the table, aware of the black girl behind the counter.
‘What? Twenty pounds went missing and I know it was that darkie took it—’
Rose got abruptly to her feet. ‘Let’s talk about this later. Not here.’
Following, Hilly smiled apologetically at the waitress, who surely must have heard, but she looked down, unresponsive.
‘Now, Mum,’ said Rose, in the car. ‘About this missing money. You really need to be sure of yourself before you start accusing people. How much was it?’
‘How much was what?’ Heidigran was fumbling with her seat belt.
‘The money you said the plumber stole.’
‘Oh, no.’ Heidigran looked at her with wide-eyed innocence. ‘He never stole it after all. I found it in my other purse.’
Rose caught Hilly’s eye in the driver’s mirror. Neither dared speak for a few moments; then Rose began, ‘Mum, you’re going to have to be more careful what you say in public.’
‘Yes, dear, I know. I’m sorry,’ said Heidigran, contrite and reasonable.
‘But Gran,’ said Hilly, ‘don’t you realize—?’
‘Realize what, dear?’ Heidigran turned with one of her most charming smiles.
Hilly gave up. It was impossible to know what her grandmother remembered or understood.
Back at home, Heidigran got out of the car with complete composure, looked around her, and remarked: ‘You know, I really enjoyed that. Pity Ken couldn’t have come too. I must get home soon, he’ll be wanting his dinner.’
Reuben grew more and more agitated as Saturday approached. ‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’ he asked Hilly, for the fourth time.
‘Course I will! Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
Now the William Watkins Birthday Concert, which had loomed for so many weeks, was tonight. Feeling that a special effort was required to mark Reuben’s solo performance, Hilly had bought what she hoped was a sophisticated outfit from the Oxfam shop: a dark-green blouse with lace sleeves that fitted closely to her wrists, and a slim black skirt. Together they produced a rather Edwardian effect, which she tried to match by pinning her hair up and back. She frowned at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her glasses marred the elegance she was hoping for, but it would have to do.
‘Wow!’ said Tessa, meeting her in the Derngate foyer. ‘Ready for a surprise appearance on stage? Guest slot with the Three Tenors or something?’
‘Hey, look at you!’ Reuben, immaculate in a dinner jacket, held Hilly at arm’s length to give her a full scrutiny.
‘You too! Not the grungy slob we know and love.’
‘I feel like a penguin,’ Reuben complained, tugging at his bow-tie.
‘Good luck. Not that you’ll need it.’
Reuben went backstage to join the other musicians, and Tessa and Hilly, with Reuben’s mum and stepdad, found their way to the box seats reserved for them. ‘Come on then,’ Tessa prompted. ‘Who are you trying to impress? Hunky horn player, is it? Fabulous flutist?’
‘You mean flautist,’ said Hilly. ‘And no! Not even a dreamy drummer or a sexy saxophon
ist. Thought you were supposed to be a feminist? Can’t I dress up a bit just for myself – or for Reuben, on his special night?’
‘Hmm.’ Tessa didn’t look convinced. ‘We’ve got a good view, anyway. Who do you fancy?’ She leaned forward to look at the members of the youth orchestra, who were taking their seats – the girls rainbow-coloured and gorgeous in bare-shouldered dresses, the boys smart in dinner jackets and bow ties. Hilly watched with interest as they settled themselves, exchanging comments and smiles, placing their sheet music on stands. Reuben, who was playing clarinet in the orchestra for the first half, looked at Hilly and smiled, holding up both hands and pretending to shake uncontrollably.
‘I always feel like a wimp, don’t you?’ Hilly said. ‘Not being able to play.’
‘Never wanted to. All that practising. Hey, he’s not bad – see the percussionist? D’you know him?’
‘Only by sight,’ said Hilly, glancing. How odd, she thought, that you could take one look at someone and think, well, he may be nice, funny, friendly, but he’s not my Someone. Whereas – her gaze travelled along the third row, and settled on an unfamiliar face that did attract her. Bony, alert, it went with a rangy body – he would be tall when he stood up – and a highly polished French horn. He wasn’t one of the regulars.
Tess nudged her. ‘Who’re you looking at?’
‘Hunky horn player, like you said. Not the ginger-haired one. On his right.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Tess sounded disappointed. ‘I wouldn’t call him hunky. D’you need stronger glasses? And who’s this William Watkins bloke anyway?’
‘Look at your programme,’ Hilly said. ‘He was the founder of the youth orchestra. It’s his seventieth birthday, and the Gershwin Reuben’s playing is his special favourite. I think that must be him, over there.’ She indicated a box opposite, where a small man in a dark suit sat between the mayor, in his chain of office, and a plump woman in a tangerine-coloured dress. William Watkins – if it was him – had a tanned face and silvery hair, and was talking animatedly, gesticulating with his programme. ‘It’s this week, the birthday,’ she continued, ‘’cos otherwise it’d be an odd time to put on a concert, in the summer holidays, with lots of people away. That’s why some of the musicians look a bit too old for the youth orchestra. They’ve been drafted in to fill the gaps.’
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