by Deryn Lake
“Longing to live here and when I do I have nightmares,” she muttered.
But it hadn’t really been a nightmare. In its way, the dream had had a haunting kind of beauty. Sidonie stared at the alarm clock, much as she had done much earlier that day. It was half past eight in the evening and still light. Thinking that this inability to sleep was getting ridiculous, she heaved herself out of bed.
In the bathroom she caught sight of her face in the mirror left by the previous owner. Her eyes, so full of hazel flecks that they appeared almost golden, had dark shadows under them, and her hair hung limply like the coat of a sickly fox. Her skin, too, had lost its normally healthy look and was pallid and drawn.
“Not a pretty sight!” Sidonie remarked to her reflection, which grimaced back.
After a long bath she went into the bedroom again and, going to the window, looked over in the direction of Holland House. The garden wall obscured the view completely and even though she tried standing on a chair, Sidonie still found it impossible to get a glimpse of the place.
“I wonder if it has been restored,” she said to the cat, who had curled up on the end of the bed and was fast asleep. “I’ll have a look at that tomorrow. But meanwhile some sleeping pills. I’m getting an undisturbed night tonight if it kills me.”
This decided, she read and listened to the radio until eleven and then took the capsules, used mainly when she was on tour and found it difficult to sleep in overheated hotel rooms. Within ten minutes she was unconscious and this time not a single dream came to disturb her.
*
The first morning in her new home went well. Sidonie had got up at seven after a good night’s sleep and started to tackle the packing cases, then at midday had gone to do the weekend shopping. Having put this away she had had a snack lunch and left the flat to explore the neighbourhood, heading almost automatically towards Holland Park.
The rain of the previous day had stopped in the night and the sun was out again, enhancing the colours of the many lovely flowers in the Dutch and Iris gardens. But as it was Saturday there were people everywhere, a fact which Sidonie rather resented as she made her way up Holland Walk staring in the direction of the house and giving a slight exclamation of surprise as it came clearly into her line of vision. For where in her dream had stood a beautiful and magnificent mansion now only the ground floor and arcades remained, with the exception of the east wing which had been more fully restored. A German bomb had cruelly done what four hundred years could not and brought the great house to its knees.
Following the sign ‘To Holland Park Theatre’ Sidonie turned into Nightwalk, which ran in front of the building, though slightly distant from it, and then stopped short. From this angle it was almost impossible to see the place as a flight of steps and a brick wall obscured the view.
“Damn,” said Sidonie and climbed upwards.
What had once been the entrance to Holland House was now obviously used as the theatre, the archway, windows and steps serving as the backdrop, the space in front which had been the courtyard, the auditorium. Longing to get closer, Sidonie pressed closely to the iron-railinged gates which had been set between the Inigo Jones stone portals, now as close as goal posts. And then she saw that the only thing stopping her from going in was a small portable sign saying ‘No Entry’ standing to the left of the gate. Pushing it to one side and trying to look as if she were acting with the necessary authorisation, Sidonie stepped into the courtyard.
Close to, the house looked even sadder, crumbling and neglected, only the east wing remotely resembling the stately edifice Sidonie had seen in her dream. Smiling at a pair of workmen who stared at her curiously, she approached for a better look.
The cloistered arcades threw pools of purplish shadow where once must have walked bewigged and fashionably dressed people longing for a little shade. Sidonie could imagine the click of high heels, the swish of hoops as they paraded the length and breadth of the arched walkways taking the air without being exposed to the elements.
‘Useful for rainy days too,’ she thought — and then she saw the door. It stood in the arcade of the east wing and looked very much to Sidonie as if it could have been original. Not knowing why she had suddenly changed into such a lawless individual her hand was out to push it before she could stop herself and she watched as to her enormous surprise it slowly swung open.
She stepped into the coolness of a paved passageway and experienced a horrible moment as something like a black spiral seemed to whirl towards her. But it was gone as quickly as it came and Sidonie put the mirage down to a moment’s faintness brought on by the fact she was now flagrantly trespassing. Despite feeling weak, despite the fact that she could be caught at any moment, Sidonie looked round her curiously.
Whoever had restored the east wing had done a brilliant job for not only was the interior absolutely authentic looking, it was also furnished with period pieces. Furthermore, a great and antique staircase leading off a larger hall into which she had now wandered, was hung with beautiful Georgian mirrors that appeared to be worth a fortune.
‘It’s been done as a museum,’ Sidonie concluded, and wondered that the place wasn’t swarming with tourists on a Saturday afternoon in high summer. But there was nobody about and she made her way slowly up the stairs, looking at all the lovely things that lay casually around for anyone to steal.
At the top of the flight a passageway led off to the right, then turned left, and as Sidonie followed it she saw that it was lit by candles, most of them attached to mirrors which reflected their light.
“What is this place?” she said out loud, and then stopped at a door on her right, the temptation to look at the room beyond, utterly overwhelming. Very gently she pushed it open and stared inside.
It was a bedroom, a fire burning in the grate and the whole thing done as if it were a reconstruction of a Georgian room. Sidonie gazed at the draped bed, the rosewood furniture and at the girl who sat with her back to her looking into the dressing-table mirror.
She was like something from a Joshua Reynolds painting, her gown loose, flowing and beribboned, her dark hair hanging to her shoulders. For a moment or two she wasn’t aware of Sidonie’s presence and then she looked at her in the glass.
Sidonie saw the girl’s eyes, shining and deep as the sea, and a lovely startled mouth, before she took to her heels and ran, down the staircase, across the two halls and out through the door into the daylight, knowing that she had for the first time in her life undoubtedly seen a ghost.
Afterwards, of course, when she was once more in the harmonious atmosphere of the Garden Flat, Sidonie took herself to task for being an utter fool. What she had obviously seen was an actress from the Holland Park Theatre in one of the dressing rooms which also doubled as a props room, hence the period furniture, all made no doubt in a theatrical workshop somewhere.
“I’m a fool,” she said to the cat, who arched his back and purred, hoping for food. He had settled in well and was already using the flap which led out into the garden. “I think you’ll definitely like it here,” Sidonie went on, stroking him. “But there’s still the problem of the neighbours to overcome.”
The cat cocked an ear.
“Yes, I know. I should try and see them tonight. It’s not easy living above a musician and I’ve got to explain about the noise.”
The cat appeared to nod, not relishing it much himself when Sidonie was preparing for a concert.
“I ought not to let this silly fright I had put me off. I’ll call on them in the next half-hour. Promise.”
The cat lost interest and went downstairs.
The bedroom was by now looking quite presentable, makeshift curtains at the windows and all Sidonie’s things out on the dressing table. She sat down before the mirror, making herself ready to go calling and thought of that other creature, so intensely beautiful yet with such a look of another age.
“Costume and make-up,” Sidonie said very firmly, and then started to apply her own.
It was an in
teresting face she worked on, quite bony and pointed. She had been told once that she had a passionate mouth and Sidonie supposed she probably had. Except when she was extremely depressed it curved upwards and this, added to the wide setting of her eyes, gave her an amused look. But without doubt it was her hair which was her best feature. She was called Foxy in certain musical circles, as that was the nearest her fellow musicians could get to describing her mane, for it had many shades in it, though nothing of ginger or copper. It was a true deep red.
Sidonie applied lipstick for the finishing touch, a deep strawberry which suited her. She was not of the school of thought that believed certain colours were prohibited to auburn heads, and wore exactly what she liked.
“Will I do?” she said to the cat, who had come in again. He yawned and went straight to the kitchen. “Thanks for the compliment!” Sidonie called to his vanishing tail and stuck her tongue out, thinking that if anybody could see her they would think she was quite mad.
“Oh well,” she said as she went out of her front door and started up the main staircase. “That’s what comes of living alone.”
She had seen from the bells in the entrance that the house was divided into four separate apartments, hers being the largest and, no doubt, by far the most expensive. Immediately above her in Flat One lived someone called O’Neill, in Flat Two was a Parker and in the attic flat, which Sidonie noticed with a certain amusement had been renamed the Penthouse, were Mr and Mrs Rupert Carruthers-Greene.
‘Them first,’ she thought.
There was no reply to her ring and Sidonie dropped through a note she had already written.
“Dear Neighbour,” it said, “I have just moved into the Garden Flat and thought perhaps I should warn you that I am a professional musician specialising in early keyboard instruments. Because of this I am obliged to practise for several hours a day but I do confine this to working hours, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. in my case. Very occasionally, when I am preparing for a concert, I might continue until eight in the evening but would advise you of this in advance. I do hope that my playing will not inconvenience you in any way but if you do have any problems please do not hesitate to let me know. Yours sincerely, Sidonie Brooks.”
The door to Flat Two was opened after a slight pause during which a player self-consciously belting out Vivaldi was turned down. There was also a scuffling as if clutter were being thrown about. Then came the rattle of a chain, the turning of a key and there stood Parker.
“Yes?” she said.
Sidonie cleared her throat. “Good evening. My name is Sidonie Brooks and I’m your new neighbour. I moved into the Garden Flat yesterday.”
There was a flashing smile revealing a set of rather small teeth.
“Oh, do come in. I heard someone arriving. Mr Beevor, he was the previous owner, recently gave a little drinks party and broke the news that he was going. We’re all very friendly in this house, you know. I’m Janet Parker by the by, generally known as Jannie.” She giggled in a way which suggested she thought she had a silvery laugh. “You must excuse the mess, the flat’s a tip. I usually tackle it at weekends but it’s been so fine I’ve been in Holland Park nearly all day. Now, what would you like to drink — G and T or dry white wine? Or sherry perhaps?”
“Wine please.”
Jannie pushed several old copies of the Guardian out of an armchair and onto the floor. “Do sit down. I’ll get the bottle.”
She whirled into the kitchen in a flurry of ethnic skirt, leaving Sidonie a few moments to look around. The room was large with two big windows overlooking Phillimore Gardens and was furnished with several old chairs and a sofa. A portable CD and tape player, still playing Vivaldi, stood on an old sideboard nestling next to a man’s head sculpted in bronze. Sidonie thought it quite the most repellent thing she had ever seen.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Jannie, returning with a tray. “One of my girls did that. I’m a social worker, you know. It’s so draining I simply can’t tell you, but rewarding of course. I took them to a concert at the Festival Hall recently. Do you know, some of them had never been into a concert hall before, let alone listened to Mozart.”
“Did they enjoy it?”
Jannie meditatively rubbed her head. “One or two, I think one or two.”
She paused to take a sip and Sidonie studied her curiously. Her new neighbour was small with tiny scuttling hands and feet that flew about like birds. It seemed quite impossible for her to sit still for more than a moment.
“In a way it’s about music I came to see you,” Sidonie said cautiously.
“Oh yes?”
“I’m a musician, you see, and have to practise for quite a while every day. I promise you that I only play during working hours. If you’re out, it shouldn’t be a nuisance.”
Jannie’s eyes lit up and she stroked the crown of her head with enthusiasm. “A musician? What instrument?”
“Early keyboard, mostly harpsichord.”
“Gosh, how marvellous. What did you say the name was?”
“Sidonie Brooks.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard you at the Wigmore Hall. Oh what a thrill. I shan’t mind a bit.” Her minute hands flew up in excitement. “Play on, give me excess of it.” She took a gulp of wine. “I must tell my friends you’re here. We’re all into the arts and I know they’ll be dying to meet you. If it’s all right with you I’d like to arrange a little get-together.”
Sidonie finished her drink and stood up smiling. “You are very kind. Look, I’d love to stay chatting but unfortunately I’ve got to visit the flat below.”
“Ah, the dashing Dr O’Neill.” Jannie laughed tinklingly. “Very dishy, as they say. Full of bedside charm.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Jannie’s manner changed again. “It’s a pity you must go. But please do call again, soon.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” Sidonie answered, and swiftly made her escape.
There was music coming from behind the front door of Flat One as well, this time what sounded like a CD of Callas singing Norma. Accompanying “Casta Diva”, Sidonie was rather amused to hear, was a male voice joining in an octave lower. It stopped abruptly as Sidonie rang the bell and after a moment or two a man in an apron answered the door, a tall energetic creature with a mass of black curling hair.
“Good evening,” he said. “And what can I do for you?”
“Dr O’Neill?” asked Sidonie, holding out her hand.
“Yes. And you must be my new neighbour. I saw you this morning from the balcony. Not spying I assure you, but interested.”
He was as Irish as they come with that soft lovely lilt associated with the deep south.
“May I come in?”
“Please do. Would you like a drink? I was just going to have one myself.”
“I’ve already had some wine with Miss Parker but, yes, I’d love one.”
“Good. By the way she’s a Ms and resolutely so if you know what I mean. Will it be gin this time?”
“Sure, but it will,” answered Sidonie, meaning no offence.
He took none. “Do you like my accent? I always swore when I left Ireland that I would be more Irish than the Irish.”
“And quite right too. I can never understand these people who go to America or Australia and come back with a twang.”
O’Neill handed her a large glass. “Well cheers, Miss … er … Mrs …”
“I can hardly say Ms after your last remark. I’m Sidonie Brooks, a Mrs once but thankfully no longer.”
“As bad as that, eh?”
“As bad as that.”
“Well I’m Finnan, as in haddock. I’m a consultant at St Mary’s so your practising won’t disturb me. I’m out most of the day and don’t usually get back till about seven.”
Sidonie stared at him. “How did you know I was calling about that?”
“Well I come from the land of the leprechauns and have second sight. But actually I was working at
home yesterday and saw the harpsichord going in. It’s a handsome one, surely.”
“I bought it at auction in Ireland about a year ago. It’s eighteenth century and actually has the original owner’s initials carved beneath the name board. S.L. I often wonder who he or she was.”
“The auctioneers didn’t have its history?”
“Only a recent one. All they could tell me was that the instrument came from a house near Dublin.”
“What a coincidence.” Finnan downed his drink. “Talking of the Irish, we have a reputation for being hospitable. Will you be staying for supper? I’m just knocking something up and there’s plenty for two.”
Sidonie hesitated. “I was going to have an early night.”
“I would hate to ruin your beauty sleep but on the other hand I’d appreciate company.”
What was it about an Irish voice, Sidonie wondered, that made everything it said sound so utterly charming.
“When it comes to willpower,” she answered, “mine’s nonexistent. I’d love to stay.”
“Then come into the kitchen. You can talk to me there.”
“May I see over your flat? I’m so interested to find out how the original house must have looked.”
“Let me just get this thing in the oven and then I’ll give you the guided tour.”
It was a very beautiful apartment, spacious and light, with a wonderful bay window in the living room which had two French doors leading onto a large creeper-covered balcony. Stepping onto it, Sidonie exclaimed delightedly.
“You’ve done this beautifully. It’s like a little garden.”
There were tubs and troughs everywhere, all bursting with flowers; even an old hip bath had been painted white and filled with crisp red geraniums. On the shady part of the balcony, where the wisteria grew thickest, Finnan had put a lounger, while on the sunny side he had two iron chairs and a small table.
“Would you like to eat out here? I often do.”
“What a wonderful idea. Yes, please.”
He went back to the kitchen and Sidonie leaned over the rail and looked down. Her terrace, directly below, was hidden but there was a good view of the lawn and flowerbeds.
