Trio

by Sue Gee

  The music was dancing – absurdly, defiantly – out across the room. How could they do it? How could they play like this?

  He heard that shocking, echoing, unmistakable shot, saw himself running like the wind down the corridor to the hall, heard the bedroom door upstairs flung open, and the first wild question.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Stay there!’

  He went on running, out through the porch, the dog behind him, turning on the terrace, with its drone of bees, racing to the pele tower, wrenching the oak door open wide and almost fainting. Then the dog ran in, and he had to haul him back.

  And he saw them all gathered in the kitchen, after the funeral in the little church at Hepplewick: another Heslop gone, and gone most terribly, so terribly that he could not be buried within the churchyard walls. The mourners had left – the Embletons, the Liddells, the villagers, the Barrows. Now, in the cool shady kitchen, it was just the three of them again, with the woman who had been their governess so long ago, in a time that had meant so much; and with Steven himself, who was now an irrevocable part of it all.

  Emily Renner poured fresh tea with a hand that shook. It was Diana who broke the exhausted silence, leaning ashen across the table, her hands outstretched before her.

  ‘Music is the only thing that matters.’

  A little movement in his row of chairs. Steven looked up, and saw Priscilla Embleton approaching carefully. He made to rise, but she put a finger to her lips, and sat quietly down: not next to him, but at the discreet distance of another couple of chairs. She gave him a fleeting little smile, then turned to watch the Trio. As he looked for a moment at her profile – that sensitive fine nose, those delicate bones, a face in which he could see both Frank and Diana – he saw how pale she was, too; and, slender as she was, how much weight she too had lost in the wake of Heslop’s death.

  Today she was wearing a pale blue cardigan and pearls: both looked so lovely against her soft fair hair, but he remembered the jet-black linen she had worn at the funeral, the hat with its little veil, the way she had wept and wept in the closing hymn.

  Had she wept more, perhaps, than you might expect from someone outside the family? A good friend, yes. Someone who went back decades, yes. But still.

  As the mourners had made that bleak progress through the churchyard, following the coffin out through the gate, down the lane, and round to the field at the back, he had had Margot’s arm in his, and been aware only of her desolate vulnerability. But as they stood round the rough field grave he had looked across once to the other side, and seen that weeping go silently on and on, the agonised struggle not to draw attention to it. He had seen Embleton’s heavy arm go round her shoulders and her perceptible withdrawal. Then Margot, beside him, was sobbing her heart out, and he turned back to her, holding her tight, and Priscilla Embleton was forgotten.

  But now, glancing again at that delicately pretty profile, Steven remembered all of this, and, as he had done so many times since meeting this little group of people, allowed himself to speculate.

  ‘All right, let’s take a break.’ The Haydn was over. Across the room, George lowered his bow and let the violin rest in his lap. He looked over to Steven, saw Priscilla, and gave her a fleeting smile. ‘How did that sound?’

  ‘Good.’ Steven cleared his throat. ‘Really lovely.’ The acoustic must surely be unchanged from previous years – but perhaps, fraught as this rehearsal might become, George had only ­directed him to sit at the back to keep him at a distance.

  ‘Well done,’ said Priscilla. ‘Well done, all of you.’ She got to her feet. ‘I expect you’d like some tea.’

  ‘That would be wonderful. Thank you.’

  Instruments were laid down, and they followed her out and into a small sunny sitting room across the hall. Tea things were laid on a tray with a lacy cloth, there were trimmed sandwiches, a cake.

  ‘I’ll get the teapot, Mummy.’

  ‘No, darling, you sit down and rest.’

  ‘Is Daddy joining us?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’ll be here for the concert, of course.’

  Diana sank on to a sofa. ‘I used to do my homework in here,’ she said, as Priscilla’s heels went clicking away across the hall. ‘Before we went away to school, I mean.’

  ‘And much good it did you,’ said George, crossing to an armchair.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You two,’ said Margot, sitting down next to Steven on the other small sofa. He could feel them all doing their best to keep things light, the old teasing and banter.

  Then: ‘We three,’ said Diana quietly. She looked across at Steven. ‘And you are our fourth, now Frank’s gone.’

  He shook his head. ‘I could never replace him. And anyway­—’ he swallowed. ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘We can only hope for that,’ said George, and closed his eyes, all banter gone as he leaned back in the chair.

  Steven looked at him, so pale and drawn, and so much older. He took Margot’s hand, and she leaned against him.

  And if Frank returns, he thought, feeling the lightness of that dark head on his shoulder, as if even her hair had lost weight; if he returns and finds us together – what might he feel, and do? Had he never considered that this might happen?

  Light footsteps came back across the hall. Priscilla appeared with a tray: an elaborate old teapot, a silver jug of water. George was instantly on his feet.

  ‘Let me.’

  She flashed him a smile as he took it, such a heavy thing, and set it carefully down.

  And they sat taking tea, talking quietly, comfortingly, of nothing very much – ‘You must rest, your rooms are all ready, there’s lots of hot water for baths,’ – looking out now and then at the parkland, the deer, the avenue of beech where in a few hours the first cars would come slowly up to the house.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.’ A little pause. ‘It is of the greatest consolation to us all to have you here for the annual summer concert at Great Whitton.’

  George, in evening dress, stood before the audience. The Lindsays, the Raeburns, the Gills. His parents. Lots of people Steven didn’t know. Behind him the sun was sinking, and low shafts of light streamed dustily into the room, already lit everywhere by candles: on the grand piano, at which Margot sat motionless in black; in sconces, on stands on either side of the podium, and on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Our performance this year is dedicated to two people,’ George went on, and from his seat in the second row Steven could see that he was trembling from head to foot. ‘First, we dedicate it to the absent son of this house, Frank Embleton – gone, as I think most of you know, to fight for the Republican cause in Spain.’ His voice shook, as he looked out over their heads. ‘The Battle of the Ebro has begun. I need hardly say that we all hope fervently for a Republican victory, and for his safe return.’

  A movement in the front row, an angry clearing of a throat. Steven saw Charles Embleton lean forward, as if he wanted to speak, and at once, with a tiny glinting flash of diamond ring, Priscilla’s restraining hand was on his arm. George glanced towards them, then out to the whole audience once more.

  ‘Secondly, we dedicate this concert, with the deepest respect and affection, to the memory of Thomas Heslop.’

  At the piano, Margot sat so still, and gazed so intently at the score, that you might think she would never move again. At the cello, Diana’s lovely face was quite without expression. Like someone in court, Steven thought suddenly, though he had never been in court. Like someone about to be sentenced. To a lifetime of remorse? He glanced towards Priscilla, and saw her gazing up at George unreadably.

  There was no more he could say, and he did not say it, only: ‘Thank you all again for being here. We begin with Haydn, master of the piano trio.’

  A silence, a cough here and there, one or two rustles of programmes. George turned
, and went over to his chair. Steven saw his knees tremble as he sat down, saw the struggle for control, the force with which he pressed his feet to the floor. Then he picked up his bow, drew a breath. Diana, her mass of fair hair and black satin dress lit by sun and candlelight, lifted the bow of the cello. Margot rested her hands on the keys. A glance – we have known one another for ever; we can do this, even now – ran with quicksilver speed between them. They began to play.

  ‘I will have my say.’ In the middle of the crowded hall, Charles Embleton was holding forth to a knot of people. Drinks were going round on trays: Grace and Nellie Barrow, co-opted for the evening, were doing their very best. But where there would usually be a roar of interval talk and laughter, the atmosphere was subdued – how, with such a concert dedication, such knowledge of recent events, could it be anything else? Lovely though the Haydn had been, marvellous though these young musicians were – that was the tenor of things.

  But Embleton spoke at top volume, and even on the other side of the hall you could hear him.

  ‘The Republicans are backed by the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union! Is that what my muddle-headed son is after – a European country run by Communists? The sooner Franco beats the hell out of them the better.’

  ‘Charles, please—’ Beside him, Priscilla was flushing.

  ‘Please what?’ He knocked back his glass, took another as Nellie Barrow came by. ‘You think I’m a cold unfeeling bastard—’

  ‘Charles!’

  The Raeburns began to look away, but on he went.

  ‘I love my son as much as any father, but if he comes back as a member of the Communist Party I’ll cut him off without a penny. “We fervently hope for a Republican victory.”’ He mimicked George’s light voice quite horribly. ‘Like hell we do. Bloody pansy.’

  Priscilla turned on her heel and walked with trembling speed across the hall.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ she said to George, who was standing very still with the others. Beside him, his mother was biting her lip. ‘He’s drunk, take no notice at all.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He gave a tight little smile. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter!’’ Diana was on the verge of tears. ‘How can he? In the middle of the concert, when we’re all trying so hard—’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m so sorry. Be brave, darling, be brave all of you.’ Priscilla flashed a shaky smile around the group. ‘Your introduction was so good, George. Really. Thank you. And that was such a wonderful first half – we’re all so looking forward to the Beethoven, aren’t we Steven?’ She was almost babbling.

  But before he could murmur agreement, Diana said furiously, ‘You’re the one who’s been brave all these years, Mummy. I can see now exactly why you wanted to—’

  ‘Ssh! Stop it!’ And then, with sudden relief at a distraction, Priscilla said quickly, ‘Look, here’s Miss Renner! She’ll help you all stiffen up.’ And she gave a tearful little laugh, putting out a hand. ‘Hello, Emily, how very good to see you.’

  Emily Renner, too, was thin and pale, but she looked handsome as ever in a long summer gown and her features softened as she approached them all.

  ‘That was marvellous. Well done, all of you – I don’t think I’ve ever heard you play so well.’

  ‘Coming from you, Miss Renner—’ George gave a little bow, and for a second his old playfulness was there once more, and everyone laughed.

  ‘Where’s Nanny?’ asked Margot suddenly. ‘She said she could come on the bus.’

  They looked across the crowd of guests, and through the evening dress, the gowns and pearls and prettiness, saw a stout elderly figure in grey, talking in Nanny fashion to a stiff tall man with a stick.

  ‘Dunn,’ said Steven, in astonishment, and Margot said, ‘Mr Dunn!’ and Priscilla said ‘Who?’ and everyone laughed again.

  ‘I’d forgotten I’d even asked him.’ Steven shook his head. ‘How could I?’

  ‘With everything that’s happened,’ said Emily Renner, ‘I should think anyone could forget anything at any time.’

  ‘Miss Renner, I do believe you’re mellowing,’ said George, and then Steven said he must go and bring him over.

  ‘Bring Nanny, too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And as Margot began to tell the others who Dunn was – ‘Another history master at Kirkhoughton, wounded at the Somme, rather difficult, but somehow I like him,’ – he made his way through the throng, hearing Embleton roar drunkenly on but thinking, with a rush of affection for all of them – Priscilla, the Trio, Miss Renner, even Nanny, who had been so unswervingly at the Hall since that terrible afternoon: We’ll get through this, I know we will.

  ‘David.’ He stood before him, held out his hand. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  Dunn nodded, shook his hand. ‘Good of you to suggest it, Coulter.’

  ‘We’ve had such a nice talk,’ said Nanny, and Steven almost kissed her. ‘Glad you came, too,’ he said.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my duck.’

  He did kiss her then. ‘Come and join the others.’

  And as Dunn came limping alongside, and Margot waved to them all, he saw Emily Renner glance across from the group, and give a little nod of recognition. Of course – she’d seen Dunn once before, after the school Christmas concert. But they hadn’t met properly, she hadn’t known his background. As Margot fell into Nanny’s warm embrace, Steven made the introductions.

  ‘David Dunn. My colleague at Kirkhoughton.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Dunn nodded stiffly at each of them in turn.

  ‘And this is Miss Emily Renner.’

  She held out her hand, and he took it, with an awkward smile. There was a general pause.

  ‘But surely it must be time for the second half,’ said Priscilla suddenly. ‘Someone must ring the bell. Oh, dear, perhaps I should. Where is it, does anyone know?’

  Dusk was falling.

  Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh . . .

  As Steven took his seat once more, the little song which Margot’s mother had used to sing to her as a child came into his mind, unbidden. There were so many new things he associated with her now.

  Shadows of the evening steal across the sky . . .

  They were stealing now, beyond the long sash windows. Birds beat by.

  The Trio had taken their places. The candles burned brightly in the fading light.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ As George stood once more before the audience, Steven saw how studiously he avoided glancing towards Embelton’s glowering presence in the front row. And now there was no beloved face for George to search for in the audience, as he had done so intensely in the past.

  ‘It has been said that Beethoven, more than any other composer, deserves to be called the Shakespeare of music,’ he went on quietly, ‘for he explores human spirit as no other composer has ever done. We conclude this evening’s concert with his Piano Trio No. 1 in D major, Opus 70, Ghost.’ He made a little bow; he walked back to his seat.

  There fell the deepest hush. Steven knew that many of the audience would be thinking: How could they choose this? Isn’t it asking too much of everyone – and especially of the players – to know that such a title adorns this piece? Isn’t it unbearable? He knew that they had made their choice weeks ago, long before Frank’s departure and Thomas Heslop’s death. But still – they might have reconsidered.

  Not one of them had wanted to. Staying at the Hall these last weeks, he had heard the discussions. And with George’s quiet invocation now of the composer’s grandeur, he knew they had been right.

  There were three movements, the programme told him. His real concern now was whether, on first hearing, untutored as he was, it might be possible for him to understand any of them. To like this music, even.

  But then the bows were lifted, there came that mercurial glance
, and after a fierce little opening flourish a tune began of such mesmerising beauty that all doubt was swept away.

  So light, just a handful of notes, it ran from gently calling cello to swiftly responding violin: Diana to George, back again from George to Diana, and at once, on the piano, came Margot, echoing. And now the three players were bound to one another, in an intricate, interweaving conversation – Hear me . . . I hear you! – repeating, leaving, embroidering and returning, over and over, to that lovely phrase.

  The room was absolutely quiet. Not a cough, not a turning of a programme page. Beyond the windows the sky was darkening; in here the candlelight was more intense, the playing still more vibrant, until came another great flourish, and silence.

  There was a pause, filled with anticipation. Then the slow movement, the largo, began.

  It was dreamy, tentative, mysterious. It was almost ­other-worldly, the violin soon so soft it was almost whispering. Steven knew that everyone in the room – George, Margot, Diana, every member of the audience – must have their own vision before them now of what this ethereal music meant, of whom they were thinking, and as he began, so astonishingly, to cry, his own past welled up like water.

  Who was he thinking of?

  Not Frank, risking his life for all he believed in; not a sheet-white boy lying gasping on a row of chairs; not a broken man blowing his brains out.

  Remember me . . .

  Oh, my love . . .

  He saw her bent over her book, he saw her look up as he came into the room, and put out her hand, her eyes alight. He saw her beside him, walking over the moor, singing into the wind, the wind in her hair, and he felt her reach for him as he climbed into bed beside her, naked and warm.

  I was real, darling . . .

  He saw the bright specks of blood on the little quilt as she sat sewing in the sun while he dug the garden or sawed in the shed, the door wide open to the summer air; he felt her lean on his arm as they went slowly indoors; he heard her coughing, saw her grow pale and thin, the shadows under her eyes growing deeper, until she could only lie in their high iron bed, and all they could do together was hold hands and watch the starry sky.