Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Well, your horn player’s certainly one of those. You always do fancy older men.’

  ‘Shh!’ went Reuben’s stepdad. A hush fell, followed by applause as the conductor stepped out onto the stage and turned to face the audience. Hilly watched Reuben, who sat with his clarinet across his knees, not needed yet. Over the years of their friendship, Hilly had been to many concerts and recitals, though none as grand as this. The town mayor and various dignitaries sat with Mr William Watkins in a box opposite Hilly’s. In the Derngate, the boxes weren’t only for special guests or the holders of the most expensive tickets, but for a sizeable proportion of the audience. Hilly hadn’t sat in one since coming with her parents and Zoë to see Aladdin, years ago when she’d been in primary school. The imposing setting added to her apprehension for Reuben. How would it feel to walk out in front of such an audience, sit down at the piano and start to play? If it were me, she thought, my fingers would turn into bunches of bananas, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe, let alone remember what I was supposed to be playing.

  In spite of her anxiety, Hilly found her attention wandering, all through Bernstein’s Candide overture, and two solo items. She could rarely give her full concentration to music, the way Reuben did, and she found herself dwelling on the conversation with Heidigran in the garden, puzzling over every nuance of Gran’s disjointed remarks. I don’t like that name, she had said, about Reuben; and what about Reuben’s suggestion that Rachel had been a Jewish friend of Gran’s, back in Cologne? Rachel Reubens? Was Gran trying to blot out something horrible from the past? Had Rachel died in the Holocaust? And if so, why would Gran have decided to dislike Jewish people?

  Could she ask Heidigran directly?

  Hilly’s mind veered away from the concert hall and back to Natzwiller: to the punishment block, where cold had struck even in the heat of midday, where she had sensed – or thought she had sensed – lingering evil in the air, in the dust, in every atom of the place. Could Gran, she thought, feel guilty for what happened to Rachel? Could she have betrayed her in some way? But no, surely not. Gran had been, what, thirteen when she left Germany at the end of the war …

  An outburst of clapping startled her back to the warmth and comfort of her seat, the packed audience beneath her, the lit stage, the musicians standing to the applause. ‘That was marvellous, wasn’t it?’ said Reuben’s mother, beside her.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hilly, who had hardly registered. No, she was thinking, it doesn’t make sense at all: Heidigran said she had seen Rachel only once. But in that case, why had she kept the photograph?

  ‘The interval now. Shall we go down for a drink?’

  The bar was downstairs, in the spacious, open-plan entrance. Hilly thought of Reuben, minutes away from his solo in the second half; he was probably hiding in the loo, feeling awful. Sipping her drink, Hilly noticed the rangy horn player being kissed by a girl with sleek red-gold hair. He didn’t look so interesting closer up, either. Oh well. It was only a game, imagining you could pick and choose as if from shelves in a supermarket.

  As the audience began to drift back to the auditorium, Hilly saw a slight, dark-haired figure come in from the street door and go to the ticket window. Saeed! Reuben would have his supporter, after all, the one he really wanted. Saeed came away from the hatch with a ticket in one hand, pocketing his change with the other. He looked hesitant, unsure where to go. Hilly pushed through the crowd towards him, and was rewarded with one of his shy smiles, radiant with relief.

  ‘Si! You made it after all!’

  ‘I’m skiving,’ Saeed explained. ‘Tracy said she’d cover for me – Doug’s there and it’s not that busy tonight. I’ll go straight back after Reuben’s slot.’

  They looked at the number on his ticket, which directed him to the stalls, on the opposite side of the auditorium. ‘See you after, maybe?’ Hilly said, not sure what Reuben’s plans were. Saeed nodded and went to find his place, and Hilly returned to hers.

  The grand piano had been moved out on the stage during the interval. Throughout the Brandenburg Concerto which opened the second half, Hilly gazed at it. Playing in the orchestra, in the safety of the massed ranks, was one thing; performing a piano solo quite another. In her fidgety agitation she could only see it as a blood sport, like cock-fighting or bull-fighting: everyone gawping in relish while someone (Reuben) sweated and laboured, pitching himself against the challenge of the music, hurtling towards the traps that waited to catch him out. To perform in public was to offer yourself to the audience for approval or disdain; to risk failure, even humiliation.

  But Reuben looked composed and professional as he stepped out onto the stage for the Gershwin. Hilly hoped he wasn’t remembering his nightmare: his mind blank, the music forgotten. Three short pieces – seven minutes at most – and it would all be over, the performance he had practised and practised for.

  Calmly, he seated himself on the stool, spread his hands over the keys and launched into the playful opening phrases of the first prelude. As the jazzy rhythm followed, the sweeping runs of notes in the right hand accomplished without a fault, she allowed herself to breathe; Reuben seemed to be fully in control, playing with all the exuberance the piece required. You need to be a real show-off to play it, he had told her. It made Hilly think of an acrobat, a tumbler – spring-heeled, energetic and daring, throwing in extra twists and somersaults just for the fun of it. The second prelude, the slow one, brought a change of pace: dreamlike, measured, almost soporific. Then back to Allegro ben ritmato e deciso for the giddy rush of the final piece, showy and demanding, which contained Reuben’s downfall in practice – a run of triplets where he had to think very fast if he wasn’t to find himself short of fingers. Hilly was hardly able to watch, trying not to think of the number of times in practice he had crashed to a standstill, swearing fiercely; but the moment was past, no hint of a wobble, and he was hurtling towards the finish. After the final triumphant flourish he lifted both hands and sprang from the stool like a jockey dismounting from a winning racehorse.

  Applause was like the breaking of waves; someone whooped from the audience, others got to their feet, William Watkins among them. Hilly felt herself swelling with pride and relief. She wanted Reuben to look up at her, just a glance, an acknowledgement that she was there, but as he straightened from his bow he was gazing out into the stalls. Had he seen Saeed? He stood, flushed and smiling, for a few seconds, and Hilly thought he was going to play an encore; then he turned and marched off to the wings. Now Saeed slipped along the side aisle and out to the foyer. The conductor returned to centre stage for the final big piece, Bizet’s Symphony in C; the orchestra came to attention; coughs and chatter from the audience subsided with his raised baton.

  Hilly wondered if this was how it would be, in years to come. Her imagination soared, picturing Reuben as Young Musician of the Year, winning the Leeds Piano Competition, travelling the world, playing the big concertos, with herself and Saeed (or whoever) in attendance. Why not? Anything was possible.

  Reuben had suggested that Hilly and Tessa might go on afterwards to the party at someone’s house. ‘What do you think?’ Hilly asked, as the audience spilled out into the dusk.

  ‘Mm, not sure,’ said Tessa. ‘We’d feel out of it, wouldn’t we, with all those musical types? They’ll all be on a high, and we’d just be hangers-on. I’d rather go into town.’

  ‘OK. Shall we go to Settlers?’

  ‘What, and make eyes at Reuben’s beautiful boy over the latte machine?’

  ‘You never know who else might be there. Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if Reuben turned up.’

  ‘Ah, isn’t love sweet!’ Tessa made a soppy expression.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Me neither. I wasn’t speaking from experience. You know me,’ Tessa said airily. ‘I’m far too self-centred.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve always thought that.’

  ‘Cow!’ Tessa aimed a genial swipe. ‘Besides, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.
Have you heard that? It’s one of my mum’s sayings.’

  Hilly giggled. ‘If you were a fish, you’d spend an awful lot of time goggling at bikes on the riverbank.’

  ‘Goggling’s fine. Window-shopping. You can look – no obligation to buy.’

  ‘Bicycle voyeur! I’ve heard about people like you.’

  ‘Hill, you’re off your trolley, you are!’

  Settlers was busy, every table occupied, but there was no sign of Saeed. ‘No, he hasn’t come back,’ said Tracy, busy operating levers amidst hissing steam. ‘Said he’d only be half an hour, but it’s hardly worth his while showing up now. Stuart’ll do his nut if he finds out.’

  ‘He’s gone off somewhere with Reuben, I bet,’ said Tessa in an undertone to Hilly. ‘They want to be alone.’ She struck a film-starrish pose.

  ‘Leaving us standing here like a pair of wallies.’

  ‘Well, it was your idea. Hey,’ said Tessa, suddenly alert, ‘you’re jealous!’

  ‘No, I’m not! Jealous of who?’

  ‘Of Saeed – coming between you and Reuben.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! I don’t own Reuben. But it’s a bit odd,’ Hilly added, ‘Si not being here, after we saw him leave. Wouldn’t he have stayed to the end if he was going off with Reuben? Anyway, he told me he had to come straight back.’

  ‘Let’s have a coffee anyway, and see what happens.’ Tessa slid onto a bar stool. Hilly sat too, watching the door, expecting at any moment Saeed to come in, flustered and apologetic, or Saeed with Reuben. After a few minutes she took out her mobile and tried phoning Reuben, but got only voice-mail. She left a quick message: ‘Hi, it’s me. We’re at Settlers, but no Saeed – is he with you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tessa said, looking at the menu. ‘P’raps he felt ill or something and went straight home. God, I’m starving – how much dosh have you got?’

  ‘That you, Zoë?’ Hilly’s mother called, as she let herself in.

  ‘No, it’s me.’

  Hilly went quietly up the stairs and glanced through the open door of her parents’ room. They were both in bed; her mother’s reading lamp was on, though all Hilly could see of her father was a hummock of duvet and the fingers of one hand.

  ‘You didn’t double-lock the front door, did you?’ her mother asked. ‘She’s late again.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Hilly said drily.

  ‘And after last week! I wonder how she expects me to get any sleep at all. How was the concert?’

  ‘Good, thanks—’ Hilly broke off, hearing the unmistakable sound of a powerful motorbike coming towards the house. They both listened. It stopped outside, the engine idling. Zoë’s voice called, ‘See you later!’ and then her key turned in the lock.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said their mother. ‘After we told her! She’ll get herself grounded if she goes on like this.’

  Hmm, fundamental mistake, Hilly thought: imagining that merely telling Zoë something was likely to make the slightest difference. Didn’t parents ever learn? ‘Oh well, at least she’s not very late. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Just as well Dad’s not awake! I’m too tired to argue all over again.’

  So was Hilly. She heard Zoë going through to the kitchen, and a tap running. ‘Night, Mum,’ Hilly said hurriedly, and went upstairs to undress.

  She was lying awake, though with the lights turned off, when Zoë came up to the attic. Uncharacteristically, Zoë tiptoed around in the darkness, avoided slamming doors or drawers, and got into bed with barely a creak of her mattress.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Encounters

  ‘We’re very concerned about this unpleasant outbreak of hooliganism,’ Councillor James Raymond, the Town Mayor, said yesterday. ‘It’s a disgrace to the town and its people, and risks making the town centre a no-go area at night, especially for those from ethnic minorities.’

  Chronicle and Echo

  ‘Hilly! You awake?’

  For a few seconds, her father’s voice was part of a confused dream; then Hilly came to, registering closed curtains and Zoë’s sleepy murmur of protest.

  ‘Reuben’s on the phone.’ Her father was calling up from the middle landing.

  ‘Coming.’ Hilly pushed back her duvet and padded barefoot down the stairs, slowly remembering last night, and Saeed’s non-appearance at Settlers. Her dad, still in his dressing gown, handed her the receiver.

  ‘Hi!’ she said to Reuben. ‘What time d’you call this? Have you been to bed yet?’

  ‘Hilly, Saeed’s in hospital. I’ve only just heard. He was attacked last night.’

  ‘Attacked—?’

  ‘Beaten up by racist yobs. How sick is that?’

  ‘God, no! Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘Concussed, black eye, cut face, possible broken ribs.’

  ‘How’d you find out?’

  ‘Rashid just phoned from the hospital.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Right away. I had no idea, Hilly – I was at the party, for Christ’s sake! While Si was lying half unconscious in A and E—’

  ‘Well, how could you have known?’ A thought struck her. ‘Saeed was at the Derngate – in time for your Gershwin – he came specially. Did you know?’

  ‘Yeah, saw him in the audience. I was well chuffed. But that’s when he got mugged, on his way back—’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Yeah. It was my fault he was walking about on his own.’

  ‘Don’t be daft! How bad is he?’

  ‘Bad enough, from what Rashid said.’

  ‘Did the police arrest anyone?’ Hilly asked, with a horrible suspicion forming.

  ‘I bloody hope so!’

  ‘Shall I meet you at the hospital?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Course. What’s the ward?’

  Reuben gave details; they agreed to meet at the main entrance in half an hour. As soon as she had replaced the receiver, Hilly bounded up both flights of stairs. Zoë was still sprawled in bed, face up, blinking as Hilly yanked back the curtains.

  ‘Don’t! Whassup?’

  ‘Zoë, where were you last night?’

  ‘Oh, not the Spanish Bloody Inquisition again!’ Zoë said, tugging at her duvet. ‘What are you, my prison warder?’

  ‘Come on, I need to know. Where were you?’

  ‘Band practice, as if it’s your business.’

  ‘You do a lot of practising,’ Hilly said neutrally.

  ‘We need to. You complaining?’

  ‘Where was it, this band practice?’

  ‘Someone’s house. Why’re you going on about it?’

  ‘Were you in town?’

  Zoë rubbed sleep from her eyes and blinked at Hilly. ‘No. What’s this all for?’

  ‘Saeed was attacked last night,’ Hilly said, watching her sister carefully. ‘He’s in hospital, injured.’

  ‘Saeed? Who’s Saeed?’ Zoë said, yawning.

  ‘You know. The young guy from Settlers. I told you about him the other day!’

  ‘Oh, right. I get it!’ Zoë sat up abruptly, hugging the duvet to her chest. ‘The guy’s been mugged, so naturally you jump to the conclusion it was me that did it. I mean, I’m a known criminal – mugger of old ladies and snatcher of bags.’ She held out both hands, wrists turned up. ‘Got your handcuffs handy? Want to see me safely behind bars?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Zoë – course I didn’t think it was you.’ Hilly felt wrong-footed, hardly knowing what she did think. ‘I was just – well, you know how I feel about Grant and Co. – I wanted to find out if you knew anything, that’s all!’

  ‘Yeah, right. Well, I don’t, OK? Happy now? You’ll have to find another suspect.’

  A little later, walking through the Sunday-quiet edge of town towards the hospital, Hilly felt bad about interrogating Zoë like that. For one thing, it would only make her even more prickly. And for another, Hilly had believed her when she said she knew nothing about the attack. Zoë was irritating, inconsiderate, maddening at t
imes, but she wasn’t an outright liar – not usually to Hilly, anyway – and she wouldn’t stand and watch while someone was beaten up. Maybe it hadn’t even been a racially motivated attack; maybe Reuben had jumped to that conclusion. Saeed could have been mugged for his money, or his mobile phone; attacks in the street weren’t unheard-of.

  Reuben was waiting at the hospital entrance, his hair tangled as if he’d just got out of bed, his face pale; dressed in a crumpled T-shirt and torn black jeans, he was unrecognizable as the dinner-jacketed concert pianist of last night.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Hilly said, touching his arm.

  ‘Yeah.’ He turned away.

  ‘Is it OK to visit, this early?’ Hilly said, as they entered a long corridor of polished lino.

  ‘I don’t think they’re all that strict about it. Rashid had just come from the ward when he phoned.’

  Hilly registered newly-washed flooring, a lingering smell of disinfectant and a plethora of signs pointing in various directions: RESTAURANT, FRACTURE CLINIC, X-RAY, OUT-PATIENTS. A young woman in white tunic and trousers hurried past, clutching a clipboard. The hospital was like a small town, functioning independently of the world outside and with a sense of heightened importance, allowing visitors brief glimpses of its organized, focused routines.

  They found the ward, and asked at the desk for Saeed. His bed was in a bay of four; his parents were sitting either side, his brother standing by their mother, who wore a black headscarf. Saeed was propped up against pillows, his face swollen and bruised, a dressing over his forehead and one eyebrow; he looked like a caricature of himself. Hilly felt a wrench of regret for the spoiling of his flawless good looks; she heard Reuben’s sharp intake of breath, and knew that he was close to tears. But Saeed’s father was standing, coming towards them, holding out a hand. ‘You are Reuben? And—?’

  ‘Hilly,’ said Hilly.