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The White Shepherd

Page 24

by Annie Dalton


  Isadora said, ‘I’ve got some news of my own. Not quite as lovely as Tansy’s.’ She paused for maximum effect. ‘I’m going to get a lodger, possibly two!’

  Tansy’s eyes widened. ‘Wow, a big change then. How come?’

  ‘I’ve agreed a compromise with my son,’ Isadora explained. ‘Gabriel’s been on at me for months to move into something more affordable. He says my house is suffering from appalling neglect, which is true, and that it’s becoming too much for me to manage, which is also true. But I told him, “Gabriel, this house holds a lot of sacred memories, including memories of your childhood.” I said, “I know you didn’t enjoy your childhood very much, darling, and I haven’t been the kind of cake-baking mother that you’d have preferred. But this is my home, and I’m not ready to leave. I may never be ready.” And then Nicky, his wife, who, up until now, I have never really taken to, said, “Why don’t you get lodgers? You could put the money towards doing up your house, and I think you’d enjoy having young people around you again.”’

  ‘Hey, good for Nicky!’ Tansy said.

  ‘Indeed.’ Isadora’s expression became slightly mischievous. ‘Did I mention that I received some beautiful flowers from a very attractive man?’ She gestured to an autumnal bouquet in a simple glass vase. ‘They actually arrived in the vase! Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?’

  ‘Were they from Etienne?’ Anna still remembered the obviously enamoured Frenchman at the launch.

  Isadora shook her head. ‘No, they were from Jake to thank me for my hospitality. That man has such lovely manners.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Anna said a little wistfully. Jake hadn’t mentioned his intention to send Isadora flowers. But that was typically Jake, she thought.

  ‘Lucky Anna,’ Tansy teased. ‘She’s got two yummy men after her!’

  ‘In your fertile imagination, maybe!’ Anna said.

  The phone rang, and Isadora went to take the call.

  ‘Seriously, though, how are you?’ Tansy asked Anna. ‘I’ve been worrying about you since we came back from London. You were giving me all this great advice, but it felt like you were almost—’ She abruptly changed what she’d been going to say. ‘I don’t know,’ she said anxiously. ‘You just didn’t seem right.’

  ‘I’m fine!’ Anna reassured her. ‘I was just tired from driving, and since then I’ve had a lot of things to sort out.’

  Tansy isn’t criticizing you, she told herself, even as her heart rate sped up. She’s being a friend. Friends monitored your expressions and tone of voice. They scrutinized your behaviour to make sure you were on track; that you were OK, that you were acting normal. With the sensation of inner doors and windows protectively slamming shut, she added, ‘And I’m really looking forward to us going to the ballet.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The weather was suddenly unmistakably autumnal. A cutting east wind went right through Anna’s flimsy evening dress, making her shiver as Kit guided her through the waiting crowd towards the round temple-like structure of the Sheldonian. Her black shawl embroidered with silver thread looked perfect with her understated black dress, but a coat would have been kinder to her kidneys, she thought.

  Despite having grown up in Oxford Anna could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d actually been inside the Sheldonian Theatre where the memorial Huw had organized to celebrate Laurie Swanson’s life and work was to be held.

  The last time she’d been this close to its doors it had been in morning sunshine with Jake. ‘Christopher Wren built this?’ he’d said. ‘The same guy who built St Paul’s Cathedral? He had quite a thing for verdigris domes, didn’t he!’ In the middle of their discussion of theatres in the round (Jake had been to the reconstructed Globe Theatre in Southwark and been blown away), Anna had turned round and surprised a group of Korean visitors in high-end travel-wear, listening with apparent fascination to her tour-guide spiel.

  Tonight this same space was lit by the electric lights streaming from the windows on all three storeys of the Sheldonian as it steadily filled with excited fans and paparazzi.

  It had rained earlier, leaving a watery sheen on the ancient pavement. The tremendous outpouring of light from inside the theatre picked up and intensified this slight shimmer, making it seem as if the guests were walking along some kind of celestial pathway, while the fans and members of the press, hungry for a glimpse of Gisela Van Holden or other luminaries of the music world, looked on from the sidelines.

  At last Anna and Kit were able to join the slow procession of guests making their way into the theatre. Self-consciously aware of Kit’s arm linked through hers, she whispered, ‘I feel like a bloody character from Jane Austen.’

  ‘Which character am I, then?’ he asked at once, and Anna hissed:

  ‘I didn’t say I knew which bloody character!’

  Inside the doors Sara and Huw were greeting guests as they arrived. Sara was nodding and smiling, playing the part of the loyal wife with a glittering intensity that suggested she’d taken something to help her through the evening. She looked even thinner than she’d been at the launch, and the cosmetic concealer she’d used didn’t adequately conceal the dark lines under her eyes. It was weirdly fascinating seeing Sara perform her part, knowing what Anna now knew.

  When it was their turn to file past the Trahernes, Anna saw Sara’s social smile falter, then, blanking Kit, she shot Anna a look so hostile that it registered almost as a physical slap.

  ‘What did I do?’ she whispered to Kit when they were out of earshot.

  ‘I told you, she’s a bitch,’ he whispered back. ‘Just ignore her. Come on, let’s find our seats.’

  As Anna had explained to Jake, the Sheldonian Theatre was originally designed as a venue for graduation and other academic ceremonies. Graduations had previously been held in a local church, but by the mid 1600s these ceremonies had become increasingly raucous affairs so the then Vice Chancellor had proposed the theatre as a secular alternative.

  Looking up at the glowing ceiling frescos with their flying angels and cherubs, Anna decided that the word ‘secular’ had been interpreted a little differently in those days. The Sheldonian, with its encircling galleries, emanated a timeless solemnity, giving her the shivery feeling she had occasionally felt in lovely Italian churches.

  Anna was secretly impressed to find that she and Kit were sitting in the VIP area directly opposite the raised stage where Gisela Van Holden was going to perform. Behind the stage the members of the orchestra had already taken their seats. Anna felt the familiar tingle of excitement as they began to tune their instruments.

  Kit discreetly pointed out some well-known stars of the Royal Opera House and someone from Milan’s La Scala. Then an elderly woman behind them recognized Kit, leaning over to talk to him in a drawl so upper class that it was almost a self-parody. How many different Oxfords there were, Anna thought, invisibly contained inside each other like Russian dolls; but this was the first time she’d found herself entering this particular rarefied city within a city.

  Kit gave Anna an apologetic glance as the elderly lady continued to hold him captive. ‘Friend of my mother’s,’ he whispered.

  The theatre was steadily filling. Anna glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Isadora. Eventually, she spotted her several seats away, talking to a man with snow-white hair and an immense silvery beard. Isadora was wearing something black with flowing sleeves. Anna could see her garnet earrings swinging as she gestured. Anna tentatively raised a hand in greeting, but Isadora didn’t see. Instead of completing her wave, Anna reached up to touch the new pendant at her throat. Its metal had felt chilly against her skin when Kit first fastened it around her neck, but her body heat had gradually warmed it.

  He’d produced the small box when he came to pick her up. ‘I’ve bought you something,’ he’d said, and Anna’s heart had given an unpleasant flutter. Anna disliked all surprises, but she had a particular dislike of surprise presents, especially when the giver was waiting f
or her delighted reaction.

  ‘What is it?’ she’d said suspiciously.

  ‘A mouse trap,’ he’d teased at once. ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ he’d added quickly. ‘All the jewellers had sold out of mouse traps, so I got you something nice instead. Well, I hope it’s nice.’

  Kit had seemed uncharacte‌ristically anxious as she opened the box. He’d watched her unfold the layers of white tissue paper, then smiled with relief as she’d exclaimed over the exquisite little silver bee suspended from its chain.

  ‘I saw it and immediately thought of your magical childhood among your grandmother’s beehives, and I couldn’t resist,’ he’d told her.

  It was one of the loveliest and certainly one of the silliest things anyone had ever given her, and she was more touched than she knew how to say. She knew that Kit was an experienced flirt. But he made her feel so … She searched for the right words to express the sensations she experienced whenever she was with Kit Tulliver; cherished, she thought. He made her feel feminine and desirable. It was a deeply seductive feeling.

  Kit turned back to Anna and caught her fingering the little bee. He smiled. ‘You really like it? You’re not just being polite?’

  ‘I love it,’ she told him, ‘but you shouldn’t buy me presents.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Kit lightly touched one of her diamond ear studs. ‘These are beautiful. You were wearing those the first time I saw you.’

  ‘They were my grandmother’s.’ Despite the chaotic circumstances of their first meeting, Kit had noticed every little thing about her, Anna thought, even her earrings. She felt her cheeks colour, but was distracted by the sight of Isadora waving wildly from her seat.

  Moments later, Anna spotted another familiar face in the crowd. It took her another moment to identify Laurie’s Macmillan nurse, Paulette, under her spectacular hat. She had done Laurie proud, dressing in the kind of splendour that Anna suspected she normally reserved for church. She seemed to have come alone and looked a little lost and nervous.

  Though there was no obvious signal that Anna could see, she felt an expectant stillness descend on the audience. ‘They’re starting,’ Kit murmured.

  Huw walked out on to the platform, a slight, fair-haired figure wearing formal black tie, and made a short speech in his beautiful resonant voice. Thanking everyone for coming, he explained that this was to be a joyous yet at the same time solemn celebration of the life of Laurie Swanson, the world-famous composer who was also Huw’s much-loved friend from his boyhood. He described how they had first met at the Dragon School where Laurie had been a boarder from the age of eight years old and how he had seemed isolated and forlorn. Huw knew that Laurie’s father worked in the Far East and so Laurie only saw his parents in the long summer holidays. A kindly teacher had taken him home for Christmas, but for other holidays he had to stay on in the boarding house with the few other children who had nowhere else to go.

  ‘Like most seven year olds I had little life experience but extremely sound instincts. I instinctively felt that Laurie was not loved, or even liked, by his parents, and this distressed me more than words could say. However, my father, the poet Owen Traherne, saw that I was upset about something, and he sat me down and made me tell him what was wrong. After I’d told him of Laurie’s situation, my father suggested he should come and stay with us for half term. This visit turned out to be the first of many. In his own family, Laurie had always been an outsider, but with us his particular brand of sensitivity and intelligence was not only recognized but also actively enjoyed and encouraged. Laurie quickly became an honorary member of the Trahernes, staying over at weekends and included on family holidays. I like to think that my family played a part in Laurie’s eventual, though tragically all too brief, flowering as one of this country’s most talented composers in recent years.’

  Clearly emotional, Huw seemed to breathe deeply to compose himself before he went on. ‘As some of you know, we have the honour to have Gisela Van Holden with us this evening to play for us. Since she literally has a car waiting outside to take her to the airport, I don’t intend to hold up proceedings with my boyhood anecdotes. Ladies and gentlemen, Gisela Van Holden!’ Holding out his hand, Huw smilingly invited her on to the stage.

  Carrying her cello, her long blonde hair pulled back from her face, Gisela Van Holden was even more beautiful than her photographs. Like Huw she was visibly emotional as she explained regretfully that she had to be on a plane to Buenos Aires in four and a half hours. She apologized for dashing in and out, but said she had needed to be here to celebrate the life of a shy, almost reclusive man who nevertheless had had the divine fire of genius in his soul and whose music she had loved and revered for many years. ‘The piece I am going to play is the first one of Laurie Swanson’s compositions I ever heard. It is called “The Lost Shapes of Water”.’

  To Anna’s shame, she hadn’t yet listened to any of Laurie’s compositions, afraid that it would be the kind of dissonant postmodern music that her grandfather disparagingly referred to as ‘post-tune’. She had liked Laurie so much that it would seem like a betrayal if she disliked his work. But his cello piece had a haunting recurring melody which pierced her to the heart. The audience listened with rapt attention, and when Gisela Van Holden finally lifted her bow, tenderly stilling the strings of her cello, there was a moment of absolute silence before the thunderous applause.

  After Gisela Van Holden had taken her bow and run off stage to her waiting car, a succession of composers, conductors and musicians came on stage to sing or play or talk about Laurie and his work. One of the street children he had taught in Brazil, now a professional violinist in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, described how Laurie, and the music project Laurie had actively championed, had saved him from a life of deprivation in the favela.

  Listening to so many impassioned accolades, Anna felt a growing awe. She hadn’t realized how far-reaching the impact of Laurie’s life and work had been. How terrible then, she thought, that Laurie’s love for Owen had eventually led him to deny his music to the world.

  Towards the end of the concert, Huw came back to the platform to tell the audience about the song they were about to hear and which he said was especially dear to his heart. ‘I chose this piece to end the concert, firstly because I love Laurie’s exquisite setting, but also because the words are from a poem that my father wrote when he was just starting out as a young idealistic poet and, I suppose, just starting to come to terms with the loss and suffering that life inevitably brings to our door. It’s called “The Tree of Sorrows”.’

  Anna felt her breath catch. She heard herself ask Laurie, ‘What’s your favourite poem by Owen Traherne?’ and his unhesitating answer, ‘“The Tree of Sorrows”.’

  A statuesque young black soprano came on stage. She waited composedly for the sweeping opening chords of Laurie’s music, drew a breath that made her bosom swell like a songbird’s and began to sing. Her voice, like the music, was exquisitely beautiful, and Anna thought she recognized, here and there, broken phrases from Purcell’s ‘Dido’s Lament’. But Owen Traherne’s words left a bitter taste. The final verse described a man stealthily leaving the warmth of his sweetheart’s bed not to meet with another lover, as you might expect, but to stand transfixed by the flickering shadows cast by an ominous tree. ‘Only one tortured shadow is mine, and so I choose it again and again as the feverish world turns and turns.’

  Laurie himself had expressed surprise at the poem’s inclusion in the anthology of love poems, she remembered, commenting drily that it wasn’t ‘the kind people read at weddings’. Damn right, she thought. Despite its sorrows, Laurie’s life had been about love: his love of Owen (however undeserving, Anna thought), his love of music, his love of dogs and the natural world. Though he had made what Anna considered unwise choices, there was nothing doomed about Laurie Swanson. He had chosen love and he had paid a price, but even in the last days of his illness, she didn’t think Laurie had ever seen himself as a victim of fate. So why, out
of all Owen Traherne’s work, had this darkly fatalistic poem been his favourite?

  Anna’s face must have reflected her confusion because Kit whispered, ‘Are you OK?’

  She nodded, but he took her hand and held it for a moment, and his simple gesture of comfort brought her close to tears.

  The soprano left the stage to enthusiastic applause, and Huw returned to bring things to a close. He told them smilingly of a fund that had been set up for promising young musicians at the Royal Academy of Music in London and which would be known as the Laurie Swanson Memorial Scholarship Fund. ‘Please give generously,’ he urged, ‘so we can ensure that Laurie’s legacy goes on.’

  ‘I’ll meet you by the door,’ Anna told Kit as the audience began to leave their seats. He looked puzzled, and she explained, ‘I’ve seen someone I need to talk to.’

  Anna had spent years of her life second-guessing herself, wishing she’d reached out to people, but rarely following it through. She didn’t want to be that Anna any more. She pushed her way through the crowd and found five-foot nothing Paulette clinging on to her hat and in imminent danger of being crushed. ‘Hi, Paulette,’ Anna said breathlessly. ‘I hoped I’d catch you!’

  Paulette’s face broke into a beaming smile. ‘You came to see Mr Swanson that night. How is your beautiful dog?’

  ‘Still beautiful,’ Anna said. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Laurie.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I was so shocked. I didn’t see it coming at all.’ Paulette’s voice became more emphatically Jamaican.

  Caught up in the throng of people trying to leave the theatre, she and Paulette kept being pushed into each other’s personal space. At one point the diminutive but top-heavy Paulette was forced up against Anna. ‘Sorry about my boobs, darling!’ she said with a laugh. ‘My husband says the Almighty designed the lions and the tigers. He designed the moon and the sun – and then he made Paulette, the Munchkin! That poor, poor man,’ she added, her smile fading, and after a moment’s confusion, Anna realized she’d returned to Laurie. ‘Maybe it all suddenly got on top of him, darling?’ Paulette said sadly. ‘Liver cancer is not a nice way to die. Maybe he just couldn’t take any more pain and loneliness and needed to go back to his everlasting home?’

 

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