Trio

by Sue Gee

  Don’t cry, dearest Di, I’m as sure as I can be that I’ll be back. Until then, look after Mother, keep close to George and Margot, with whom you play so wonderfully, and try not to think too badly of me . . .

  She stood at her bedroom window, looking out over the Great Whitton parkland towards the lake, the boating house, the island. She saw picnics and parties and lots of people. She saw herself leaning back on a cushion as Frank rowed out across the water, ducks quacking quietly in the reeds. She heard him talk, on and on, when it was just the two of them – home from school, home from Oxford, all through the holidays from Kirkhoughton.

  ‘Why would you want to teach there?’

  What answer had he given? When had she ever listened? When had she ever thought about him at all, really, and what he was trying to say? He was just always there, laughing and clever and kind and beloved.

  Now he wasn’t. Now she wondered if anyone had ever meant as much.

  And what have I done with my life? she asked herself, pulling her silky dressing gown closer in the cool morning air. I’ve played the cello, that’s all. Is that enough?

  It’s what makes me real, that’s all I know.

  She turned from the window, and went to run her bath. Sitting on the old cane chair beside it, watching the steam begin to rise, she saw, as she saw every day, and sometimes every hour, Barrow haring over the grass, and George falling into her arms, sending her and Margot thudding to the ground as the swing tore loose and flung him away. He was white, deathly white, he was bruised and winded, but he was alive.

  I know it will be hard, but I’m acting as I believe I must, and I pray that you’ll understand. Please understand too that although I cannot return your feelings in the way that I know you would wish, I love and admire you, as my oldest and my dearest friend . . .

  George lay on his bed in the room of his childhood, and the creeper stirred at the window. He could hear his mother, getting lunch in the kitchen, the clatter of plates, the pulling out of a tray from the wooden rack. He could hear, just, the music of the Coquet, babbling over the great flat stones of the river bed, through the little village and out towards the Tyne. Those sounds, this shady house, this room: they were a part of him, like the picture books, the bricks and trains and soldiers of his boyhood: gradually, over the years, packed away, put into labelled boxes, put up in the loft.

  ‘One day you’ll have children, darling. We’ll keep them safe till then.’

  Gradually, the room had filled with other things.

  More than any other composer, Beethoven deserves to be called the Shakespeare of music, for he reaches to the heights and plumbs the depths of the human spirit as no other composer has done . . .

  The books, the scores, the gramophone records: they were part of the texture of his adult life, always here, like his parents, always waiting: on his return from London in the holidays, his return from a concert or party.

  They were a part of him, but they were not what had made him who he was.

  What had made him – what, inextricably intertwined with music, had given his whole life meaning – was a laughing fair-haired boy, running like the wind down the lawn of another house altogether, where an only child had been sent to make friends, and have lessons with others, and had fallen in love. Lying now beneath the leaded window, watching the creeper brush gently against the pane, he saw himself panting, a shrimp of a boy, catching up at last with a boy of his own age, but taller, stronger, cleverer, turning from the edge of the ha-ha to smile – oh, that smile – and fling his arm around him.

  ‘We’ve beaten the girls! Race you back.’

  Pelting up the endless lawn again, leaping on to the swing.

  ‘Push! Push me harder!’

  He saw the cricket ball hurled towards the wicket, batted out in an arc through the summer air, and he saw the rainy afternoons indoors, Miss Renner at the piano, all of them marching round the room. He saw Margot slide on to the piano stool, her feet barely touching the floor, and pick out a tune, her face intent and happy, and Diana dancing across the rugs, while he and Frank sprawled on the floor side by side, marshalling their troops.

  ‘Well done, that’s a good idea.’

  He was alight with love.

  And he saw, when all of this came to an end, the two of them sent off to prep school, crammed into the railway carriage, pressing their faces to the sooty glass to wave at their waving parents. His mother was weeping, and trying to pretend she wasn’t: he swallowed hard, and an arm went round him.

  ‘We’ll be all right.’

  Lessons were harder. Life was harder. Then he had his first lessons on the violin. A revelation. But up in the dark of the dorm, a musical shrimp of a boy could get bullied, and was.

  ‘Stop that!’

  All through his childhood, and boyhood, Frank had been there, his friend and protector. He was at the centre of everything, always, admired by everyone: dorm captain, cricket captain, first eleven and head boy – there would always be people like this, in every generation, and Frank was one of them, at prep school and public school, shining.

  And then it was time to part. Off to Oxford. Off to the Royal College.

  Footsteps were moving through the hall below; he could smell soup. As his mother climbed the stairs with a chinking tray, George shifted his bruised and aching body, and saw the great plume of steam begin to gather as the train pulled out for London, and Frank, with all the others, waving and still waving from the platform, wishing him well.

  ‘You’re gifted, you’re really good. You’re going to be such a success!’

  He saw himself standing in the middle of his fourth-floor student room in Kensington, looking out at the Albert Hall, sick with longing.

  ‘You’ll meet lots of girls, my darling – you must bring them home!’

  An omnibus rumbled along Exhibition Road. In the middle of his room, with its narrow bed and grimy window, he said aloud: ‘I have to face it. This is who I am.’ Then he pulled on his coat, and picked up his violin, and went down to walk to his class.

  His mother was coming along the landing.

  ‘Here we are!’ An innocent anxious face at the bedroom door. ‘Feeling better, darling?’

  All my life I have had such a burning hatred of injustice and inequality . . . Orwell opened my eyes to action . . . He’s not just a writer, he lives out his beliefs. He’s prepared to wash dishes, to sleep in a filthy doss house. He’s prepared to fight. Read him! And if you read Homage to Catalonia – I know you caught sight of it, Steven, but I had to hide it from you that day, or tell you everything – then you will ask yourself why, when it’s almost all over, I should leave now – but I have to. One last battle, and who knows if it might not turn the tide . . . I have to play my part. Please tell the boys that I care for them so much . . .

  The timeless life of the moor went on: the slow-moving sheep beneath that enormous sky; the cries of lark and lapwing, the scent of the sun-warmed heather.

  On these clear high days you could see right out towards the distant town, make out the tower of St Peter’s, make out the school.

  It was almost the end of term.

  ‘I must ask you to serve as Acting Head of Department.’ The pipe smoke in Straughan’s office had never been thicker. ‘I take it you’re prepared to do that, Mr Coulter.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘There won’t be a great deal to do now, of course. As for next term – I shall have to think. There’ll be a great deal then. We shall have to see.’

  What they had to see was whether Frank Embleton would be back: slamming the door of the little red sports car, striding across the playground with his bag, greeting them all with that smile.

  ‘Sir! Sir! Sir, what was it like, in Spain?’

  What it was like in Spain was hunger and filth and endless boredom before the battle. It was not
enough weapons, and those they had, old and rusty; frostbite at night, unspeakable mud after rain. It was lice, and rats in the trenches; blood in the trenches, body parts scattered, the battle raging. It was mules bounding shrieking away from the bursts of shrapnel, men stumbling with stretchers over the ravaged ground. ‘Out of the way! Move!’ It was fighting in the streets of Barcelona, slogans scrawled on bombed-out buildings, red flags flying high – Obreros a la Victoria! It was factions, and inter-factions; treachery, betrayal and torture. You died in a trench, or a god-forsaken dressing station, or screaming in a prison cell.

  Or, like Orwell, you survived. You were wounded, you were in agony, but survived to tell the tale. He had told the tale.

  This war, in which I played so ineffectual a part, has left me with memories that are mostly evil, and yet I do not wish that I had missed it . . .

  Dusk was falling once more. Steven, reading outside the kitchen door, got up, and went inside. Once again, he lit the lamp, and the small plain room was illuminated, the little flame burning bright. It shone on the dresser, and the rows of cups and plates; on the smoky old range and the saucepans on the shelf above. It shone on the bookcase, where the letters he had written to Margaret last summer were still tucked away, and on her coat, still hanging on its hook by the door, just in case she came back, and needed it.

  Everything was just the same, and everything looked completely different. The letters from Margot were heaped up on the table, the letter from Frank was propped against a pile of textbooks. Eighteen months ago, neither of these people had meant a thing: Frank had been a respected colleague, Margot barely a name. Margaret had died, and that had been all he could think of. Now—

  Now his whole life had changed – Frank had seen to that. He had introduced him to music, and another world; he had introduced him – how deliberately? – to another woman. Now both filled his mind with love and apprehension. What could he do for them? What lay ahead?

  In came the moths, making blindly for the flame. He sat down at the table, while his supper heated, and picked up the book again. That fist smashing into the foreground of the cover, those bombed-out buildings, looked outlandish in this quiet place. He turned the pages, re-read Orwell’s last lines, written of the journey home, puffing at last on the train through southern England.

  Down here it was still the England I had known in my childhood: the railway cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate, the slow-moving streams . . . and then the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the red buses, the blue policemen – all sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England, from which I sometimes fear that we shall never wake till we are jerked out of it by the roar of bombs.

  I have always loved you . . . There are some things one can’t have, and you are mine . . .

  Do you remember our only kiss? Oh, how I wanted you. I want you still . . .

  She sat at the piano, and she tried to play. In three weeks time they’d be playing the summer concert at Great Whitton, and never had they been more under-rehearsed. But George wouldn’t think of cancelling.

  ‘Of course I’ll be better, of course I will.’ And then, not looking at her: ‘He’d want us to do it, you know he would.’ He walked stiffly across the room and lowered himself into the wing chair, wincing.

  ‘You shouldn’t be cycling.’

  ‘Yes I should. But what about you, poor Margot? I sent you both flying – are you still hurt?’

  ‘It’s easing.’ She ran her fingers over the keys. ‘Just my right arm, a little.’

  ‘Let Mr History Teacher kiss it better.’

  She turned on the stool and looked at him.

  ‘George – you don’t have to be flippant and silly.’

  ‘Yes I do.’ And then a shadow passed over his face: just for a moment, but she saw it, and he saw that she had. ‘I have to,’ he said quietly. ‘You saw how I really am. If I let my guard down again – I’m done for.’ He gave her a look, then, which tore at her. ‘Help me get through.’ And the look was gone. ‘Now then—’ He clapped his hands, and winced horribly. ‘How about tea?’

  That was a week ago, and tomorrow afternoon was a full rehearsal for the first time. She turned the page of the score. The piano part of the Ghost was such a gentle thing at first, but then it became impassioned. She went back to the beginning, checked the fingering, went through the second page for what felt like the twentieth time. Oh, so beautiful.

  Don’t misunderstand me, darling: I’m not going to Spain to try to forget you – I’m going because I must. Ask Steven: I’ve told him to read a book which means so much to me . . . Perhaps you’ll read it one day . . .

  She tried again, running over the keyboard, trying to concentrate. What a blessed gift was practice: focus your mind and forget all else. For years it had sustained her.

  But in some ways your not loving me makes it easier. There are so many things I want to do with my life, but – well, if I lose it, I might not care too much . . .

  She fumbled, and stumbled, and gave up, weeping.

  5

  Each of them, in their different ways, was struggling to come to terms with it all, to hold on to what they had. What they had was mostly each other.

  ‘Mummy? Where are you going?’

  Walking quietly over the great tiled hall with her suitcase, Priscilla Embleton froze.

  ‘Darling. I thought you were out.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Don’t you have a rehearsal?’

  ‘It’s tomorrow.’ Diana closed the front door behind her. ‘I’ve just been for a walk.’

  ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘Nothing’s like me any more. What are you doing with that suitcase?’

  ‘Oh, darling. I’m just—’ What was she just doing? Leaving a marriage of thirty-one years. At last. She dropped the suitcase, dropped down to the foot of the stairs, and told her.

  ‘You can’t.’ Diana was scarlet. ‘You can’t! Oh, Mummy, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here – I’d go mad without you.’ She flung out her hands.

  ‘Sssh, darling, sssh!’

  ‘I can’t sssh! And listen! There’s the concert – it’s here!’ Her voice was rising wildly. ‘You know it’s here, and we’re doing it for Frank, George says we must – you’ve got to be with us, you’ve got to.’

  ‘Darling, come here.’ Priscilla held out her arms, and Diana ran into them. Side by side on the broad shallow stair they rocked one another, holding tight.

  ‘Please don’t go, Mummy, please.’ And then: ‘Suppose he came back, and you weren’t here?’

  Priscilla was silent. Distantly, there came the sound of a car driving slowly up from the gates. She shut her eyes.

  ‘I was hoping—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry – but please stay. Look at me, look at me! I’ll look after you, promise.’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ She opened her eyes upon her lovely, frivolous daughter. ‘When have you ever—’

  Diana looked back at her, steady for once. ‘I’ve looked after Margot. We’ve looked after each other, always. And also—’ She gazed at her. ‘I’ve just saved a life, remember? Well, me and Margot saved him.’

  ‘Margot and I,’ Priscilla said automatically, stroking her hand. ‘Miss Renner would be shocked.’

  The car was approaching the house, in a spray of gravel.

  ‘There are more important things to be shocked about now,’ said Diana. ‘I feel – oh, Mummy – I feel so shaken, don’t you?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  And then, as the car pulled up outside, she got to her feet, and picked up her pretty suitcase, and slowly re-climbed the stairs.


  Almost the end of term. Letters between him and Margot flew back and forth.

  My love, I’m so very sorry, I think of you all the time . . .

  Oh, Steven! If we hadn’t got there, if Barrow hadn’t got there – I can hardly bear to think of it . . .

  They still hadn’t met.

  I just can’t face coming in to give classes, pretending to the boys that all is well . . .

  And although Straughan had said there wasn’t much for Steven to do, there was. Cover Frank’s classes for one thing.

  ‘Miss Aickman? Can I have a word?’

  She pulled out a file labelled Substitute Teachers, ran down the list of names: retired teachers, working as examiners, invigilators, substitutes in a crisis. They were elderly men, and the boys were liable to rag about. He had to keep an ear out.

  ‘Quiet, boys! What do you think you’re doing, when Mr Pringle has kindly come in all the way from Hexham?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sorry, Mr Coulter.’

  ‘Sir, when’s Mr Embleton coming back?’

  Straughan had decided not to tell them, or not to tell them yet. Mr Embleton was unwell, it was unfortunate, but he knew the boys would do their best in his absence.

  ‘He’ll be back when he can,’ said Steven, addressing the dusty blackboard. ‘He sends you his warmest good wishes.’

  Sometimes Dunn took a class, irritably forsaking a free period; sometimes he did so himself. With the exams over, he let the lower school relax a bit: quizzes and things. With Frank on his mind almost all the time it was a relief to whizz round a class, firing questions, have a laugh all together at wild guesses. At the end of the Upper Fifth there was always an exodus: those boys who’d done poorly in School Certificate, or failed it, didn’t come back in the autumn.