Frozen Music

by Marika Cobbold

  I ignored Madox and moved on to a display of tiny baby dolls. They each came in their own little pouch and you could buy all kinds of things to go with them: cots and prams and masses of clothes. I picked out one with dark hair like me. She could be my little sister. She cost one pound, ninety-nine pence. I could get a set of clothes or a cot for the rest of my money. I hesitated; it was a big decision and I wasn’t sure. Then I saw them, a set of handbells, plump and pastel-coloured: pink, apricot, yellow and blue, lavender and turquoise. Produces a full and professional sound, the packaging declared. Full instructions and a book of easy-to-learn melodies included. I closed my eyes and imagined myself the owner of the bells. I could practise when I was alone in the house or late at night when everyone slept, standing in my bedroom, ringing my bells. If my parents woke up they would think they were in heaven.

  ‘Come on, Esther.’ Madox sounded bored. ‘What will it be?’

  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. ‘I like those,’ I said, pointing at the bells.

  Madox picked the cardboard and cellophane box down off the shelf, frowning at them. What was wrong? Were they too expensive? I hadn’t seen the price. I looked up at his face, waiting for his frown to clear.

  ‘Aren’t you a bit old for that kind of thing? You’ve got a proper instrument at home. Still.’ He handed me the box. ‘It’s your money. Don’t let me interfere.’

  I didn’t look at the handbells as I returned them to the shelf. ‘I was just thinking,’ I said quickly, feeling myself turn pink. ‘That’s really what I want.’ I grabbed a box of plastic shapes. ‘You make patterns,’ I explained.

  ‘I told you,’ Madox said, already on his way over to the till. ‘It’s your money.’

  Back home, Audrey glanced at the box with its illustration on the lid of two children, a boy and a girl, both dressed in bright sleeveless pullovers and engrossed in the task of drawing geometric patterns with the help of the plastic shapes. ‘Stencils, very nice, darling.’ She turned to Madox. ‘Now what shall we do about dinner? In or out? Out, I think. I can’t bear the thought of cooking. Why Janet has to insist on visiting her mother every weekend I’ll never know. The old dear can’t remember a thing anyway. “Janet,” I said. “Go once a month and just say see you next week as usual. She’ll never know the difference.”’

  I wandered upstairs and put the box of stencils away, unopened, in the cupboard of my dresser. Then I lay down on my bed, clutching Pigotty, the vast red cloth pig my grandmother Billings had given me at Christmas, to my chest. ‘He’s a prince among pigs,’ my grandmother had said and she was right. Pigotty had teats for a start, little brass buttons running down his striped grey-and-white belly – Audrey had said that that should have told me that he was a she, but I said that it just made him an even more exceptional he. And he was such a sensible pig. He never worried about his weight, for a start, and he had the most even temper of anyone I had ever met. Right now he agreed with me that the pastel-coloured handbells would have been wonderful. ‘But it’s not a catastrophe,’ he went on in his calm voice. ‘When you’re grown up and are a psychiatrist you can buy as many handbells as you like and play them all night if you wish.’ Then, because he was such a sensible and intelligent pig, he added, ‘Although I suspect that by that time you might prefer something like an electric guitar. Now would you care for a drink? Coke or lemonade?’

  ‘It’s a good report.’ Bertil Stendal gave his son one of his pale smiles and passed the piece of paper to his wife. ‘Fours in most things, but a three in music. Still, five in art and maths.’ Bertil turned to Linus again. ‘Taking after your stepmother, are you? Anyway, well done.’ He allowed a well-shaped hand to rest briefly on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, well done, Linus,’ Olivia echoed. But as she looked at her stepson she wondered whom exactly he did take after. Allegedly he looked like his dead mother, the woman whose presence she still felt so clearly in the house on the island and even here, in the large high-ceilinged flat. (Only the other day she could have sworn she heard the keys of the grand piano being pressed, but when she went to check in the library there was no one there.) ‘Typical second wife syndrome,’ she had written to Audrey Fisher in her last letter. The photographs she had seen of Astrid showed a thin young woman, fair and fragile-looking, and with a lost look in her large eyes. It was that look especially that Olivia had seen far too often echoed in Linus’s eyes. Those who had known Astrid spoke of her gentleness and her talent. She could have done something with her life, they said, if only… Maybe she was uncharitable, but Olivia couldn’t help feeling that had Astrid lived until she was a hundred she would still not have done very much more than drifted. In that way Linus was not at all like her. In fact, he never stopped working, especially if you counted the hours he put into those cartoon drawings of his. Now, at thirteen, Linus was tall, taller already than Olivia, slim and ethereal looking like his mother, but inside, Olivia suspected, he still felt like the plump little boy she had first met five years ago. So what had the boy got of his father? A talent for drawing. An abiding interest in his surroundings. But if Bertil was a stern Olympian looking down on the world from a plane of unquestioned success with a serenity which it seemed only his son could shake, Linus seemed to live mostly on a small planet of his own, far away from them all. There, in this other place, he constructed his increasingly complex models, drew and listened to music. According to his teachers he was a model pupil, when, as one of them put it at the last parent-teacher meeting, ‘he chooses to grace us with his presence’.

  ‘Are you telling me my son is playing truant?’ Bertil had asked.

  The teacher had smiled. ‘Not physically, but there are times when his mind most definitely is. He gets his grades by returning just in the nick of time.’ What could you do with a boy like that? Olivia looked at the child, dressed right then in shocking-pink corduroy trousers and a wine-red shirt and black knitted tie, clothes he had insisted on choosing himself. He might be tall and thin these days, but his hair still curled when damp and his cheeks still turned bright pink at the drop of a hat. They had now, with pleasure at the praise received from his father. Bertil made some jokey reference to the brains of the family and as Linus’s cheeks turned an even deeper colour, Olivia braced herself for the inevitable high-pitched, abandoned laugh. There it was, rising like pollen in the air, irritating her husband’s finely tuned sensibilities, making him frown and sigh.

  ‘Here,’ he said, picking out his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Buy yourself something nice. One of those plane model kits maybe?’ He handed Linus five crisp ten-kronor notes. Bertil’s banknotes were never anything other than crisp and sometimes Olivia imagined her husband staying up late, starching them in the privacy of his study.

  Back in his room, Linus put the money in his brown leather wallet. He had stopped building those prefabricated model kits ages ago, but obviously Bertil had not noticed. Still, Linus knew exactly what he was going to spend the money on. He grabbed his red woollen hat and pressed it down on his head (he had convinced himself that by wearing it almost all the time – he even slept with it on at night – he would finally flatten those curls once and for all). On the Avenue he lifted his face to the sun, squinting up at the pea-green leaves of the limes. At the kiosk by the Park Avenue Hotel he paused, wondering if he should buy himself an ice-cream. He decided against it and walked on down the wide street until he reached the stationer’s. Inside the large shop he aimed for the display in the middle of the room where the notebooks were: bound ones, soft ones, patterned ones and blank ones. He looked through them for a good ten minutes, carefully turning each one around in his long-fingered hands that were so like his father’s, looking inside at the paper, sniffing it. Finally he made his decision.

  His notebook was bound in marbled gold and tan, with a tan imitation leather spine, and each page was edged with gold. The pages were plain and quite thin, and as he stood waiting at the till, his fingers itched to begin to fill the book
with his cartoons. Once out of the shop he walked so fast he did not even see Ulf and Stig, his friends from school. The two boys were ambling down the Avenue in the opposite direction, on their way to the sports fields.

  Ulf, his football tucked under his left arm, reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Linus’s blue sweater. ‘Want to kick around?’ he asked.

  Startled, because in his mind he had been far away, Linus narrowed his eyes to focus. ‘Hi, guys.’ He shifted from foot to foot and burst into one of his high-pitched giggles. ‘I didn’t see you there. I didn’t see you at all. But I have to go home.’

  Ulf shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK.’ And he bounced the ball on the pavement before kicking a pass at Stig. An elderly woman, wearing a long woollen coat in spite of the spring sunshine, almost fell over it and stopped for a moment to remonstrate. ‘Sorry,’ Ulf muttered, then he pulled a face and the three boys doubled up with laughter as the woman went on her disgruntled way.

  By the time Linus reached home, Bertil and Olivia had gone out. He remembered them telling him they were off somewhere for the day, but where they said they were going he had forgotten. He was pleased to have the place to himself. He could keep his woollen hat on, for a start, without having to have an argument about it (last time the subject came up he had declared that he would convert to Judaism if that was the only way he was going to be allowed to keep a hat on inside, but Bertil had threatened to call the rabbi, who was his friend, and tell him that Linus’s motives for conversion were less than pure).

  Linus went into the kitchen and made himself a chocolate milkshake and three large sandwiches, two with cheese and one with smoked sausage. He sat at the table thinking about his book and once he had finished eating he washed his plate and cup, and wiped the green oilcloth that covered the table. Then, at last, he was ready to start work.

  Seated at his desk, he opened the first page of the notebook and wrote: My Life as It Ought to Be: A Young Boy’s Wonderful Adventures (in pictures).

  In the summer I got a puppy, a little West Highland called Laurence, after Laurence Olivier. I had wanted to call him Jumble after William Brown’s dog in the Just William stories, but Audrey got her way. I often heard people complain that these days children got their way far too much; well, all I can say is that they had not met Audrey. No matter, both Audrey and Madox had assured me that Laurence was mostly my dog, almost entirely, in fact. The only problem was to convince Laurence. I loved him. I had wanted a dog for as long as I could remember, a big dog who would be my best friend and who went on adventures with me. What kind of adventures I had not decided, but they invariably involved a well-filled picnic basket and a dog on whose powerful head I could rest my hand. Now Laurence was small, and if I tried to rest my hand on his neck we’d both most probably collapse on the floor, but he was my dog, almost. Right now, out here on the wide lawn he was making a huge fuss over Granny Billings who didn’t even like dogs. Deep inside me a little seed of resentment sprouted a green leaf of jealousy. Why, when I loved Laurence so much, did he seem to love almost everyone better than me?

  ‘Come here, boy?’ I bent down and slapped my knees, encouraging my puppy towards me. Laurence, who was busy flirting with Granny Billings’s left leg, turned his head for a second before rolling over on his back and wriggling wildly, his eyes, their whites showing, fixed on the adored object of Granny Billings.

  ‘Come on, boy!’ I tried, humiliation making my cheeks hot.

  ‘Oh, do give up, Esther.’ Audrey sipped her iced coffee in the dappled shade of the large beech tree. ‘Why don’t you run along and wash your hands. Lunch will be soon.’

  I washed my hands in the china basin in the little bedroom that was mine during my visits to the country. Through the open window I could hear my mother telling Laurence not to be a pest. Pigotty in my arms, I sat back in the small wicker armchair and picked up my book, resting it on Pigotty’s ample back. Why couldn’t Laurence be more like Joey, the dog in the book? Joey loved his owner, a girl called Georgie, and never left her side. In fact, he had been repeatedly punished by Georgie’s unsympathetic aunt, with whom they lived, for refusing to leave his place by Georgie’s bedroom door at night to sleep downstairs in the scullery where he was supposed to. In the mornings Georgie was woken by Joey’s rough tongue licking her face and all day long they played together in the fields. I craned my neck to look out of the open window to the garden below. There was Laurence standing on his hind legs, trying in vain to impress Audrey. Letting her hand drop, she absentmindedly scratched Laurence’s head and Laurence, beside himself with excitement, got down on all fours spinning round and round, chasing his tail. I turned back to my book, Laurence’s excited yelps ringing in my ears.

  Joey’s devotion to his owner was matched by Georgie’s faithfulness to him. Georgie did not need other friends and she despised toys. What would she want with toys when she had Joey? No, Georgie wanted no one but Joey.

  I read that last line over and over again, Pigotty clutched to my stomach. There it was. How could I expect poor Laurence to be my best friend when I was so faithless. I had quite a few friends, usually, and I most certainly did not despise toys. I looked down and there was Pigotty. I clutched him tight to my chest, rubbing my cheek against the rough red cotton of his back. Pigotty was uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘Esther! Lunchtime!’ Audrey called.

  I hardly slept that night, lying curled up with Pigotty at my centre like a large red cherry in a bun. In his basket in the corner of the room Laurence yelped in his sleep. I rose at six while the house was still asleep and got dressed. Downstairs in the kitchen I fed Laurence his morning meal of warm milk and Weetabix, putting a couple of spoonfuls in my own mouth before placing the bowl on the floor. I could barely bring myself to look at him, let alone stroke him, and my stomach was churning at the thought of what had to be done.

  Three hours later we were about to leave for London. Audrey had already put our bags in the boot of the Rover and now she was calling for me to come downstairs. I could just hear her voice, a faint, angry flutter in the dusty air of Granny Billings’s attic. I was sitting in an old armchair, hugging Pigotty tight. Now I got down from the chair, Pigotty still in my arms. ‘It’ll be lovely,’ I whispered in his striped cloth ear. ‘Just like a holiday.’ Gently, I lowered him into the old wicker shopping basket I had found on top of a trunk. ‘A real holiday, just for you.’ I opened the white chipped cupboard that stood in a corner of the room, the basket with Pigotty in my hand. On the top shelf of the cupboard lay a battered Panama hat. I put the basket down and standing on tiptoe, grabbed the hat from the shelf and placed it on Pigotty’s head. It was a real holiday hat. Next I put the basket with Pigotty on the floor of the cupboard. ‘Bye.’ I tried to smile. ‘Bye Pigotty.’ I covered the basket with an emerald-coloured silk throw, which had been draped across an old chair.

  ‘Esther, where are you?’ Audrey’s voice was coming closer. It sounded annoyed.

  ‘Got to go,’ I whispered, but then, instead of closing the door, I tore the throw off Pigotty and picked him up in my arms. Tears streaming down my face I sank down on the floor, hugging him close. ‘Oh, Pigotty, I’ll miss you so much.’

  ‘Esther, wherever you are, come this minute or your father will hear about it.’

  I scrambled up from the floor and put Pigotty back in the basket. I straightened his hat, but I could not bring myself to cover him up completely with the throw so I just placed it gently around him, trying to pretend he was right in the middle of a soft green field. Then I closed the door.

  I thought I would never get the picture of his plump red face, his smiling, trusting face topped by that stupid hat, out of my mind. Laurence was unmoved by the sacrifice and continued to love everyone who crossed his path with equal and abandoned fickleness.

  ‘Whatever happened to that large pig you used to carry around?’ Madox asked me months later. It was Christmas time and no doubt the big ham just delivered to the door had put him in mind of
Pigotty. I frowned at my feet, feigning indifference. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Don’t know, darling, not dunno.’ Audrey entered the drawing-room with an armful of gilded fir cones. It was Madox’s turn to frown.

  ‘I made this at school.’ I shoved the red-and-green Father Christmas in front of her as she stood arranging the fir cones in a large blue china bowl. ‘If you pull the string between his legs his arms and legs move up and down, look.’

  ‘Lovely, darling,’ Audrey singsonged, but I could tell she was still looking at her arrangement of fir cones.

  ‘You didn’t look.’

  ‘Esther, don’t be a bore.’

  ‘It’s very nice, Esther.’ Madox had got out of his chair and picked up the Father Christmas. ‘Where shall we hang it? In the window?’

  Now Audrey looked up. ‘Maybe not in here. It’s lovely, but I’ve got the drawing-room all gold and blue this Christmas. What about the kitchen? Or your bedroom, Esther, then you’ll be the lucky one.’

  Did all parents assume their children were stupid or was it just mine? ‘Actually, it was a present for you,’ I muttered, stomping off feeling utterly humiliated, the unwanted Father Christmas dangling from my hand.

  On Christmas Day itself even Madox and I ended up colour co-ordinated. I was wearing a brand-new sapphire-blue dress, to match my eyes, Audrey said, but I knew it was actually to match the drawing-room decorations. I got quite worried when I peeped inside the dining-room and saw the green-and-gold colour scheme there; would I be forced to spend the entire Christmas in the drawing-room? Just to be on the safe side I tied a green ribbon in my hair. Madox was wearing a gold silk cravat. ‘She didn’t try to tell you it matches your eyes, did she?’ I asked sourly. We both knew there was no stopping Audrey once she was in the grip of some new fad, interior design being the one for the moment. I fervently prayed that she would be gripped by cake baking, like Arabella Felix’s mother. Mrs Felix baked a cake every day for Arabella’s tea: chocolate, Victoria sponge, lemon sponge, coffee and walnut. I liked the chocolate best.