But then everything piled in. All the questions. What, where, how, why? They all came into my mind all jumbled up amidst lots of laughing and tears from all of us.
‘I went to Dad’s’ she said, her voice something between a sniff and sob. ‘But halfway there, I remembered he was away. So I went to Jon’s. But then he wasn’t there.’ She sniffed louder.
‘I’m here now, Mollie.’ Jon was just behind me. Next thing, he put his arms round her and me and squeezed us both tight. ‘I’ll always be here.’
His words went round and round in my head. Better than any applause, than any present. When we finally could bear to let go of each other, I was able to take in who was there and where we were.
‘I’d walked all over the place by then,’ said Mollie, ‘and then I remembered Uncle Charles was staying here.’
Charles sat, wrapped in a hotel dressing gown, on a red velvet sofa next to my mum. He looked both pleased and embarrassed. ‘I can’t imagine what they thought at reception,’ he said. ‘A child asking for her granddad in the middle of the night.’
It was a funny but appalling thought. The two policemen shuffled. I thanked them for all their help, shaking their hands like a mad thing, but they were so relieved at such a happy outcome they didn’t seem to mind at all. Mollie thanked them nicely without my prompting and I started to cry all over again.
It was quite a lot later that Mollie, Jon and I got back to the flat. The staff at the hotel offered us a nightcap and Mollie, the chocolate milkshake of her dreams. It came with a wiggly straw and a choice of umbrella and she chose turquoise over pink. My little girl was growing up.
Quite when they decided it, I wasn’t sure, but Mum looked very coy when I said we were going. I’m sure it wasn’t merely curiosity about the Clarence’s bedroom décor that prompted her to stay.
Mollie was asleep on her feet.
‘I should go,’ said Jon. He hovered at the door.
‘Oh, please don’t go,’ I said. ‘Wait while I put Mollie to bed.’
He smiled then, the sort that made my toes curl with deliciousness. Even more so when he lifted my chin and kissed me.
‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘What I said earlier. It’s not true.’ He kissed me again, then drew back. ‘We’re a family. Aren’t we? Say we are, my lovely Lisa.’
Slowly, I nodded but then as he bent to kiss me again, I found my voice. ‘We are. Yes, we are.’
‘Hallelujah,’ yawned Mollie, as she leaned against me. ‘At long last.’
I didn’t even insist she cleaned her teeth that night.
‘Did you really think it was a fantastic stunt?’ I said, over Coco Pops the next morning.
Jon laughed. ‘I did. At least, until your Fabrizio failed to produce more than a squeak. But I was amazed. You were so against it. What was it you said? Terrible, horrible idea.’
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘I’m so embarrassed about that. I spent much too long looking at that frontispiece and ended up with a head full of demons.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘It was.’ We sipped coffee in the rare quiet of a morning without Mollie singing at the top of her voice. She was still asleep, not surprisingly. I could hardly bear to look anywhere but at Jon. It was as if he was all new somehow, this handsome man I could touch, could kiss whenever I wanted to. I reached forward and put my hand on his.
‘You know something?’
‘What?’
‘You look awesome in that vest.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You were a much better Fabrizio than Jonah.’
‘Phew. That’s good to hear. I was afraid the sexy princess might go off me.’ He put down his coffee and caught hold of my hand in both of his. ‘I really wrote it for you, Lisa. I wanted you to see I could write something substantial. Not exactly an opera, I know. But more than a jingle.’
God. How dumb I’d been. How utterly, utterly stupid.
‘I had the idea when you started the coaching at Mollie’s school. I thought, why not? It doesn’t have to be gruesome. Stories can have happy and sad endings and it’s not as if I’m some academic searching for “The Truth”.’ He frowned as he stressed the words. ‘They were really good too.’ His expression softened at the memory. ‘Well, Mollie was.’
I laughed, in spite of everything. ‘You saved the day. Poor Jonah, I wonder if he will get over it.’
‘Oh, probably. Especially if you do it again.’
‘But really, I should have told you beforehand. It was stupid and selfish of me not to. We could have worked on it together. Wouldn’t that have been nice?’
‘Yes, but it was nice anyway, Lisa. Don’t beat yourself up about what wasn’t.’
How lovely he was.
‘I did think,’ I said, ‘that Mollie might burst keeping it a secret. I hadn’t a clue what was going on. You didn’t tell me what you were doing and were being all vague. Then there was the frontispiece. Did I imagine it? God, it felt so malevolent, I don’t know, Jon. There were loads of times when I should have said things and didn’t.’
‘What things?’
‘About Duncan for one and Daniela—’
‘Daniela?’
I told him about the escape from Costa, how cross I was, how jealous.
‘Why on earth were you jealous?’ he said, with exactly the right tone of incredulity. ‘She was entirely wrapped up in herself and not in the least bit funny. God, and she went on about singing at La Scala. How she’d come here because of some feckless bloke.’
‘Is that what she said?’ I snorted, piggily. Who knew?
‘Yes, she … why? Didn’t she?’
‘She told me,’ I said. ‘She told me she’d auditioned for La Scala but not got in. That’s why she came here and why she went back so quickly when they wanted her again.’
‘Oh,’ said Jon, and he nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
‘Mmm …’ I said. ‘Well, she lied to one or us. Either way, even if I had got it all wrong, she did almost break us up.’
In fact, I thought, but didn’t say, she was the earthquake. We’d had fire, water and air but right at the beginning, when we first met together to sing the Gesualdo, that was the moment when everything began to shake. I couldn’t have been more thankful that she’d gone.
‘And this Duncan bloke?’ Jon poured us both another coffee. ‘What’s the story with him? Holiday fling?’
‘No! Please, don’t even go there.’ I gave him a resume of the Naples trip. ‘But why he’s here I don’t know yet. He’s brought something for me to see. Oh shit! What’s the time?’ I leaned sideways so that I could see the oven clock behind Jon. ‘Mum said we’re all meeting at the museum this morning.’
‘Oh yes? In that case, I’d better come along too.’
When it looked as if we were going to be shockingly late, we rushed about like mad things. Mollie was persuaded into clothes and began a campaign to be allowed a hot chocolate at the Clarence. It involved talking of almost nothing else.
‘Damn,’ I said, when we’d shut the door. ‘Forgot the music.’
‘Music?’
‘Yeah, the Gesualdo. It’s got to go back. And the sooner the better.’ I went back for it. Of course, it wasn’t where I thought it was, but why was I not surprised? As far as I was concerned, Mum or Mollie had emptied my music case and put the copies halfway down the pile under the coffee table. I wasn’t going entertain any other possibility. It was going, and that was bloody well that.
The entire population of Exeter seemed to be crammed into the museum but in the cafe, Mum and Mollie, Duncan and his lovely wife – hooray – had nabbed one of the big tables.
After the intros and congrats and a few sips of our chosen coffees, Duncan opened his briefcase and took out a folder.
‘This is for you,’ he said, handing to me. ‘We found it in Rome,’ he said. ‘Celia will tell you, we can’t walk past an antiquarian book shop these days.’
Celia nodded; I got the impression she was equally keen.
‘Why, thank you,’ I said, not knowing what it was.
We all gasped when I laid the frontispiece on the table. Strange: the reaction was almost the same as when we’d first seen the one fronting Gesualdo’s madrigal, but this one was entirely different. Madrigal a cinque voci. The composer was Luca Marenzio.
‘Duncan,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s wonderful. Thank you.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said.
‘It really is,’ agreed Celia. What a lovely couple.
‘Oh, cool,’ said Mollie, pointing at the little row of singers. ‘See the way the music they’re holding is a mini version of the whole thing.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Duncan, ‘that this is by the same engraver as yours. What was his name?’
‘Salvo Carlino. The nephew of Giovanni Giacomo Carlino, the printer.’
‘Yes, that’s him. Look at the animals, the realism of the expressions on the faces of the people.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, delving into my bag. ‘I’ve got the other one here. We can put them side by side.’ I took out my old photocopy, that was rather crumpled, but I smoothed it out on the table, and we all leaned forward for a closer look.
‘Do you know which one came first?’ Sudden tears stung the corner of my eyes. There was a touching innocence to this new scene, and the thought that life could have gone so badly wrong for the artist felt almost unbearable.
Duncan shook his head. ‘ I don’t know how we could ever know for sure, but I’d say this one was the earlier.’ He tapped his forefinger on the one depicting the choir. ‘Didn’t you tell me that Gesualdo got ensconced with witchcraft in his later life and was very insane by the time he died?
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Although what’s true and what’s rumour, who knows? I hope it turned out well for Signor Carlino.’ I stirred the froth on my cappuccino. There was no doubt in my mind they were by the same person. The endearing little vocal ensemble singing under the tree had such expressive faces, all so happy and joyful. The other one still made me shudder, but it was strange seeing the two engravings together.
The others chatted away while I kept stirring my coffee. I could hear them, the noise of the coffee machine making more cappuccinos and the clink of my spoon against the cup, but somehow I seemed to zone out of the present. It became shadowy and distant. I knew what it was. The gruesome frontispiece was pulling me in. But this time something was different.
‘Oh, I see!’ I said, rather more loudly that I meant. They all looked at me, and so did the family on the next table. I waved an apology. Everyone must have thought I was mad, because I began gabbling and laughing all at the same time. ‘It’s still,’ I said, jabbing at the scene from Hell. ‘It’s all still. It isn’t moving any more! Look!’ I clutched hold of Jon’s hand. He was the only one that knew what I was talking about. ‘Do you see?’
We all held our breath. Certainly Mum and Mollie looked worried. Duncan and Celia more bemused.
But then Jon said the best three words in the world apart from, I love you, which he’d said to me only a couple of hours earlier.
‘You’re right, Lisa.’ And he nodded and began to laugh when he saw the others’ faces. ‘She’s absolutely right. I only wish I’d realised it sooner.’
He put his arm round me and kissed me, a big smackeroo on the lips. Mollie, always able to express her feelings, clapped and cheered.
‘These two fontispieces belong together,’ I said. ‘If they’re together, everything will be fine. I’ll donate this to the museum, and you never know, maybe they might even put them on display. Is that okay, Duncan?’
‘It sounds like a splendid idea to me.’
‘Yay,’ said Mollie, punching her fists in the air. ‘Result!’
‘I do wish,’ I said, after finally managing a mouthful of coffee, ‘that we knew how the Gesualdo madrigal turned up here.’
‘Musicians have always travelled,’ Jon said. ‘Look at John Dowland. He went as far as Ferrara. How do we know he didn’t meet Gesualdo and bring a copy back to England himself?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘And then Exeter?’
‘Renaissance fax machine,’ said Jon. ‘Had Leonardo invented it by then?’
We all laughed, although I made a mental note to give Mollie a history lesson in case she argued with Miss Price.
‘Oh, I know,’ Jon said, sitting up smartly and knocking the table so that all the cups rattled in their saucers. ‘It could easily have been Edward Gibbons. You know, the Cathedral Choirmaster, brother of Orlando. He went to London often enough. I reckon John Dowland gave it Orlando Gibbons who then gave it to Edward. There. End of story.’
After a lot of surmising of this and that, we decided that was as near the truth as we were ever going to get. The frontispiece was hardly the sort of gift you’d be pleased with, although Gesualdo’s madrigal might well have been.
‘Oh, well,’ I said. ‘That’ll have to do. There’s so much we can’t know.’
‘But that means we can make something up instead,’ Mollie said. ‘Like Jon did. Then we can have a happy ending.’
‘But you have to watch making stuff up, Mollie,’ Jon said. ‘If it’s about what’s going on now, then the best thing is to make sure everyone knows what’s happening.’ He put his hand on my knee and squeezed.
‘Yes.’ I laughed. ‘Otherwise, it’s very easy to jump to a whole lot of wrong conclusions.’ Then with my super-strong piano player’s hands, I squeezed his knee and to everyone’s surprise, he swore rather loudly.
‘I think,’ said Duncan, ‘we should make a move, so those poor people can rest their legs.’ The queue to get into the cafe extended beyond the door. ‘Do you think it would be a good idea to visit your excellent looking Cathedral now?’ He put his arm round Celia’s shoulders. ‘We’re rather hoping that as it’s so crowded in here, it might be quieter there.’
Mollie wasn’t keen on the Cathedral. I could tell by the way she sagged around the knees when we all stood up. Mum was meeting Charles in the Royal Clarence for lunch, but in a fit of selflessness, she suggested she took Mollie with her.
Duncan was right. There weren’t many people in the Cathedral. But he was also wrong; it certainly wasn’t quiet. A choir was rehearsing the Monteverdi Vespers.
‘Written in 1610,’ said Jon. ‘How very appropriate.’
Duncan and Celia sat down to listen, but Jon draped his arm round my shoulder and we wandered down the side aisle. There was no memorial to Edward Gibbons, only a list of the organists’ name and dates.
I looked at the surrounding plaques. All musicians, and some I knew, but I was disappointed not to find Orlando’s brother.
‘There’s probably stuff about him in the Cathedral Library,’ Jon said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I expect there is.’ I gestured at the memorials. ‘Pity these aren’t like the displays in the museum where you can press the button and up comes an information screen.’
‘Mmm, shame,’ said Jon. ‘Tell you what, you can press my button later if you like. I do a great display … oof.’
Well, I had to shut him up somehow.
Postscript
A few weeks later, I got a message from Lorraine to call in at the museum.
‘Do you remember,’ she said, tracing her finger down the front of a small wooden chest of drawers, ‘asking me whether anything else had turned up with the manuscript?’
I felt a little pang of excitement. ‘Yes, I do. Have you found something?’
‘Some things, actually. I thought you should see them.’ She opened a drawer. ‘Here we are.’
She placed three plastic bags, similar to the sort used for coinage, on her desk, then removed from each a small wooden carving. Small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. A kitten and two swans.
‘They’re sweet, aren’t they? And look, see what happens with the two swans?’ She slotted them together, necks entwined and laid them on the desk. ‘There.’
‘
Oh, how amazing. They’re beautiful,’ I whispered, ‘and by the same man, aren’t they?’
‘We certainly think so.’
‘He must have come here himself then.’
Lorraine shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But I suppose it’s possible.’
As I walked home, head burrowed in my hood out of the rain, I began to make up my own end to the story. In it Salvo Carlino fled from the wicked Prince who had accused him of murdering the Princess in order to exonerate himself. Hmm… not bad. But too simple.
Then, I thought, that maybe the wicked Prince had his eye on Salvo’s wife and they both had to escape. Yes, I liked that version better. It had love interest and explained the little swans. I imagined Mrs Carlino as being rather like Silvia Albana. When I reached the bottom of the road, she was wearing my lovely dove grey dress. And by the time I put the key in the door, I didn’t have to hope that they lived happily ever after because I knew, as the rain from my coat puddled on the mat, that they did.
Yes, a good resolution. That’s what was needed. Just like at the end of a good madrigal. Even those by the mysterious, mad murderer, Don Carlo Gesualdo, now considered works of genius. After the hey-nonny-nonnies, fa-la-laa’s, the passion and the tears, when it comes to the end, there is always a harmonious resolution.
THE END
Secret of the Song Page 31
