The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘He’s sounding more like Peer Gynt with every sentence you utter. How did he manage with no job?’

  ‘He was forced to earn some money to fund his alcohol consumption by giving private piano lessons. That’s how he met my mother. And sadly, not a lot has changed in the past thirty years since then. He’s still a drunk, broke, an ageing lothario and completely unreliable.’

  ‘What a waste of his talent,’ I sighed.

  ‘Yes, tragic. So there we are. The potted story of my father’s life.’

  ‘But what does he do up here all day now?’ I asked as we climbed higher and higher into the hills.

  ‘I couldn’t really tell you, other than that he still takes the odd pupil, then promptly spends the money he earns from it on whisky. Felix is getting old, although that’s not to say that he’s lost his charm. Ally, I know it sounds inappropriate given why we’re going to see him, but I’m worried he might hit on you.’

  ‘I’m sure I can cope, Thom,’ I said with a grim smile.

  ‘I’m sure you can. I just feel . . . protective of you. And I’m starting to wonder why I’m even putting you through this. Maybe I should go and see him alone and explain the background first?’

  I could feel the tension emanating from Thom and sought to ease it. ‘At present, your father is absolutely nothing to me. He’s a stranger. We’re . . . you’re taking a wild guess at what might or might not be. And if it is or it isn’t, it won’t be painful for me, I promise.’

  ‘I hope not, Ally, I really do,’ he said, slowing the car down and parking it close against a pine-tree-clad slope. ‘We’re here.’

  As I followed Thom up the rough overgrown steps that apparently led to some form of habitation, I understood that this was a far more painful event for him than it was for me. Whatever lay at the top of the steps, I’d still had a father who had loved and cherished me all the way though my childhood. And I certainly wasn’t looking for or needing another.

  At the crest of the hill, the steps began to lead downwards and I saw a small wooden cabin nestled in a clearing amongst the trees. It reminded me of the witch’s house in the story of Hansel and Gretel.

  Standing in front of the door, Thom squeezed my hand. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ I said.

  I watched him hesitate before he knocked. Then we waited for a response. ‘I know he’s in, because I saw his moped at the bottom of the hill,’ Thom muttered as he knocked again. ‘Sadly, he can’t even afford a car these days and besides, he’s been stopped so many times by the police in the past, he seems to think a bike’s a more invisible mode of transport. God, he’s so stupid!’

  Eventually, we heard the sound of footsteps inside and a voice said something in Norwegian as the front door opened. Thom translated for me. ‘He’s expecting a pupil and thinks we’re them.’

  A figure appeared and I stared into the bright blue eyes of Thom’s father. If I’d been expecting a raddled old man with a bulbous whisky nose and a body that had been broken after years of alcohol abuse, then I’d been wrong. The man standing on the doorstep was barefooted and wearing a pair of jeans with a large rip at the knee and a T-shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it for days. I’d already worked out that he must be in his late sixties, yet he only had a smattering of grey in his hair, and few telltale lines of age on his face. If I’d seen him on the street, I would have thought him at least a decade younger than he was.

  ‘Hello, Felix, how are you?’ said Thom.

  He blinked at us in obvious surprise. ‘I’m fine. What are you doing here?’

  ‘We came for a visit. Long time, no see, et cetera. This is Ally.’

  ‘New girlfriend, hey?’ His eyes alighted on me and I felt him appraise me physically. ‘Pretty.’

  ‘No, Felix, she’s not my girlfriend. Can we come in?’

  ‘I . . . the housekeeper hasn’t been in recently, so it’s a mess, but yes, please do.’

  I’d understood none of the preceding conversation of course, as they’d spoken in Norwegian.

  ‘Does he speak English?’ I whispered as I followed Thom inside. ‘Or French?’

  ‘Probably, I’ll ask him.’ Thom explained my linguistic disability and Felix nodded, instantly switching to French.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. You live in France?’ he asked as he led us through to a large but chaotically untidy sitting room, littered with teetering piles of tattered books and newspapers, used coffee cups, and random pieces of clothing discarded carelessly on various pieces of furniture.

  ‘No, Geneva,’ I explained.

  ‘Switzerland . . . I went there once for a piano competition. It’s a very . . . organised country. You are Swiss?’ he asked as he indicated that we should sit down.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, surreptitiously pushing an old sweater and a squashed trilby hat to one side to make room for me and Thom on the battered leather sofa.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame, for I was hoping we could discuss Paris, where I misspent my youth,’ he said with a hoarse chuckle.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Although I do know the city quite well.’

  ‘Not as well as I do, mademoiselle, I assure you. But that is another story.’ Felix winked, and I didn’t know whether to shudder or giggle.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I responded demurely.

  ‘Could we speak in English, please?’ said Thom abruptly. ‘Then we can all understand.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’ asked Felix, switching languages as he’d been asked to.

  ‘In a nutshell, Ally is searching for answers,’ said Thom.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Her true heritage.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Ally was adopted as a baby, and her adoptive father died a few weeks ago and passed on some information that would help her find her biological family. If she wanted to,’ Thom added. ‘She was given the biography of Jens and Anna Halvorsen, written by your great-grandfather, as one of the clues. So I thought you might be able to help her.’

  I saw Felix’s eyes flicker over me again. He cleared his throat, before reaching for a pouch of tobacco and some papers and rolling a cigarette. ‘How exactly do you think I can help?’

  ‘Well, Ally and I have discovered that we’re both the same age. And . . .’ – I watched Thom having an inner struggle with himself before he continued – ‘I wondered if there was any woman you’d known . . . as a girlfriend, perhaps . . . that . . . well, had a baby girl around the same time as Mum had me?’

  At this, Felix let out a bark of laughter and lit up his cigarette.

  ‘Felix, it’s not a laughing matter, please.’

  I reached for Thom’s hand and squeezed it, trying to keep him calm.

  ‘Sorry, I know it isn’t.’ Felix recovered himself. ‘And Ally, is that short for Alison?’

  ‘Alcyone, actually.’

  ‘One of The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades,’ he remarked.

  ‘Correct. I was named after her.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ he reverted to French suddenly and I wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate ploy to irritate Thom or not. ‘Well, Alcyone, sadly I know of no further offspring of mine. But if you wish me to call all my former girlfriends and ask if they, unbeknown to me, begat a baby girl thirty years ago, then I’d be happy to do so.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Thom whispered to me.

  ‘Nothing important. So Felix,’ I continued in fast French, ‘don’t blame Thom for asking difficult questions. I always thought that this was a wild goose chase. Your son is a very good person and he was only trying help me. I know your relationship has been difficult in the past, but you should be proud of him. Now, we won’t take up any more of your time.’ I stood up, feeling I’d had enough of his patronising manner. ‘Come on, Thom,’ I said, reverting to English again.

  Thom stood up too and I saw the pain in his eyes. ‘God, Felix, you really are a piece of work,’ he commented.

  ‘What have I done?’ Felix p
rotested with a shrug.

  ‘I knew it was a waste of time,’ Thom muttered angrily as we walked quickly to the door to let ourselves out then started to make our way back up the steps.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Felix.

  ‘Forgive me, Ally, it was a shock. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Havnekontoret hotel,’ I said tersely.

  ‘Okay. Bye then.’

  I ignored him and hurried to catch up with Thom.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ally, it was a stupid idea,’ he said as he unlocked the car door and climbed inside.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ I comforted him. ‘Thank you for trying. Now, why don’t we go back to your house and I’ll make you a calming cup of coffee?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, as he reversed and we drove off at a pace, the small engine of the Renault roaring like an enraged lion at the unnecessary force of Thom’s foot on the pedal.

  Back at Froskehuset, Thom disappeared for a while, clearly wanting to be alone. I understood now how deep the pain of the past went for him. Felix’s rejection had left an ugly festering scar which, having met Felix, I doubted could ever be healed. I sat on the sofa, passing the time by looking through the old handwritten sheet music of the piano concerto that Jens Halvorsen had written, which was placed in an untidy stack on the table in front of me. And as I idly scanned the first page, I noticed some numbers written in small lettering in the bottom right-hand corner. My brain did its best to fumble back to my schoolgirl lessons, and I took out a pen and translated the numbers in the back page of my diary.

  ‘Well, of course!’ I said out loud with a whoop of triumph. This might cheer Thom up, I thought.

  ‘Okay?’ I said when Thom eventually reappeared.

  ‘Yup.’ He sat down next to me.

  ‘I’m so sorry you’re upset, Thom.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I introduced you to him. Why did I expect him to be any different? Nothing and nobody changes, Ally, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, but listen, Thom,’ I interrupted him, ‘sorry to change the subject but I think I’ve just discovered something very exciting.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you just assumed that this concerto was the work of your great-great-grandfather, Jens?’

  ‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well, what if it wasn’t?’

  ‘Ally, his name is on the front page of the original sheet music.’ Thom looked at me in confusion and pointed to it. ‘It’s sitting there in front of you. It says it was written by him.’

  ‘What if the piano concerto you found wasn’t by your great-great-grandfather Jens, but actually by your grandfather, Jens Halvorsen Jnr, more commonly known as Pip? What if this was The Hero Concerto, dedicated to Karine, which was never played? And that for reasons you explained yesterday, perhaps Horst put it away in the attic, because he couldn’t even bear to hear it again after what had happened to his son and daughter-in-law?’

  My thoughts hung in the air and I waited for Thom to catch them.

  ‘Carry on, Ally. I’m listening.’

  ‘I know you said that the concerto sounded Norwegian, and yes, it has influences certainly. And I’m no music historian, so don’t quote me, but the music you played me yesterday just didn’t fit with what was coming out of the early twentieth century. I heard strains of Rachmaninoff and, more importantly, Stravinsky in there too. And he wasn’t composing his seminal works until the 1920s and 30s, well after the first Jens Halvorsen died.’

  There was another pause, and I watched Thom as he thought about what I’d said.

  ‘You’re right, Ally. I suppose I just assumed it was the first Jens’ work. Old sheets of music are just old to me, whether they’ve been around for eighty or ninety or a hundred years. I found so much sheet music up there in the attic that was definitely by the first Jens Halvorsen, I just presumed the concerto was by him too. And it doesn’t call itself The Hero Concerto, does it? You know, the more I think about it, the more I have a feeling you might be right,’ Thom agreed.

  ‘You told me that the whole official orchestral score was almost certainly blown away when the theatre was bombed. This,’ I said, pointing to the sheets, ‘was probably Pip’s original piano music, written before he’d even decided on a name for it.’

  ‘My great-great-grandfather’s works up to this one were far more romantic and derivative. This has fire, passion . . . It’s different from anything else I’ve heard that he wrote. My God, Ally.’ Thom gave a weak smile. ‘We started with your mystery and it now looks as if we’re dealing with mine.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there’s irrefutable proof,’ I pronounced and even I could hear a smugness to my tone.

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes, look.’ I pointed out the small letters inked at the bottom right-hand corner of the page.

  ‘MCMXXXIX.’ I read the letters out loud.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Did you do Latin at school?’ I asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I did, and those letters stand for numbers.’

  ‘Yes, even I know that much. But what do these represent?’

  ‘The year 1939.’

  Thom was silent as he digested what it meant. ‘So, this was my grandfather’s composition.’

  ‘From the date on it, it must have been, yes.’

  ‘I . . . don’t know what to say.’

  ‘No, neither do I. Especially after what you told me yesterday.’

  We both sat in silence for a while.

  ‘My God, Ally, it really is the most incredible find,’ Thom said, finally recovering his powers of speech. ‘I mean, not just because of the emotional connotations, but also the fact that it was originally due to be premiered by the Bergen Philharmonic almost seventy years ago. And because of everything I’ve told you, it never saw the light of day again.’

  ‘And Pip had dedicated it to Karine . . . his “hero” . . .’ I bit my lip as tears sprang to my eyes. The resonance in my own life wasn’t lost on me.

  I thought how they’d both been young too, just beginning their lives, when fate had cruelly intervened. And I thought then how lucky I was to live in a better time, to still be alive, and, with luck, have the privilege of caring for the child that was living inside me.

  ‘Yes.’ Thom had read my expression, and gave me a spontaneous hug. ‘Whatever we discover we are to each other, Ally, I swear, I’ll always be there for you. Promise.’

  ‘Thanks, Thom.’

  ‘Now, I’m going to take you home and then pop into the Grieg Hall to find David Stewart, the leader of the orchestra. I have to tell him the story of The Hero Concerto. And he has to help me find someone who can orchestrate it in time for the Grieg Centenary Concert. It has to be played that night. Simple as that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it does.’

  There was a message waiting for me at reception when I walked into the hotel after Thom had dropped me off. I opened it in the lift, and to my surprise, I saw it was from Felix.

  ‘Call me,’ it said. He’d left a mobile phone number.

  I would not call, of course, after his appalling behaviour earlier today. I took a shower and got into bed, mulling over the events of the day, and thought again how my heart went out to Thom.

  Thom, who’d known from the very start of his life that he had a father who knew of his existence and yet had rejected him. And I remembered nights as a teenager, when I had railed against Ma’s or Pa Salt’s authority and wished for my real parents, who I’d been sure would understand me far better.

  As I fell into sleep, I realised more than ever that my childhood had been blessed.

  43

  Before I did anything else the next morning, I called the doctor to get the results of my urine sample. As I knew it would be, the test was positive and the doctor sweetly congratulated me.

  ‘When you arrive home in Geneva, Miss D’Aplièse, you must make arrangements for maternity se
rvices,’ she added.

  ‘I will. And thank you very much.’

  I lay back on my bed, drinking weak tea, as I couldn’t stand the smell of coffee. Even though I still felt as sick as a dog, now I knew it was natural, it didn’t worry me. I made a mental note to order a pregnancy book online. I hadn’t got a clue about anything to do with having a baby, but then did any woman until it happened to her?

  I’d always been rather ambivalent about motherhood, with no strong feelings for or against. It had been one of those things that may or may not happen to me in the future. Theo and I had talked about it, of course, giggling as we came up with ridiculous names for our imaginary offspring. And discussing how the goat barn on ‘Somewhere’ would have to be large enough to house our sun-kissed brood as they enjoyed a childhood straight out of a Gerald Durrell novel. Sadly, that idyll was not to be for us. And at some point in the near future, I must decide where I wanted to have the baby. And where ‘home’ actually was.

  The telephone by my bed rang and I picked it up. Reception told me I had a call from a Mr Halvorsen. Presuming it would be Thom, I told the woman to put it through.

  ‘Bonjour, Ally. Ça va?’

  To my horror, it was Felix.

  ‘I am well, yes,’ I replied abruptly. ‘You?’

  ‘As well as my old bones will allow, yes. Are you busy?’

  ‘Why?’

  There was a pause on the line before he replied. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it over the telephone, so let me know when you’re free to see me.’

  I could hear from the timbre of his voice that whatever it was, it was serious.

  ‘In an hour or so? Here?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Okay. See you then.’

  I was sitting in reception waiting for him when he arrived, holding a scuffed motorcycle helmet in one hand. As I stood up to greet him, I wondered if the light was unkind, or whether he really had aged overnight. Today, he looked like the old man he was.