by Sara Seale
“I was only teasing, Sarah,” he said gently.
“I should hope so! You don’t want to go putting those sort of ideas into Kathy’s head.”
“I could wish the gentleman really was a paralytic old dodderer,” he said with wry humor.
Sarah caught him by the shoulders and shook him.
“Joe Kavanagh, what’s got into you?” she demanded. “Of course Flint thinks she’s lovely. “What man wouldn’t? If you marry Kathy you’ll have to get used to that.”
“Yes, I know. Actually, it didn’t strike me that he was particularly interested in her.”
“Then what are you fussing about?”
He sighed.
“I don’t know. I thought the way she spoke to him—”
“You thought she might become interested in him? For shame on you, Joe, and you not seeing that Kathy has the finest manners of us all and would make any man welcome. As for anything else—why, he’d never do for Kathy, a cold, stuck-up Englishman with a tongue on him like a razor.”
He laughed.
“No more he would. What were you going to say when you began ‘I wish,’ Sarah?”
She kicked a bucket out of the way and shut the stable door.
“I was going to say I wished I had been nicer to him, for I thought tonight that he was troubled, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure he wasn’t being British and superior about Kathy’s playing.”
He looked at her with surprise.
“What fresh notion is this?” he asked. “I thought he was polite and quite complimentary.”
She reached up and gave the lobe of his ear a sharp tug. “Sometimes I can understand why she won’t make up her mind about you, Joe dear,” she said. “Ah, well, I don’t doubt we’re both wrong. I’ll race you back to the house, only you must give me a start.”
Up in the nursery Adrian heard them as they raced across the lawn, shouting and laughing. He felt the old bitterness and frustration returning to plague him and give him a sleepless night. Not again would he allow himself to be dragged out of the quiet, unemotional world he had so carefully built for himself.
Sarah’s young voice came clearly to him from the terrace. “Oh, Joe, look! A falling star! We must wish. Take my hand and wish for what you want most in all the world.”
Adrian shut his window quietly and drew the curtains.
CHAPTER FIVE
With the advent of October came days of wet weather. Adrian, listening to the rain at night, felt relieved that Sarah was sleeping in the house again, and then wondered impatiently why he should care one way or the other, but she had begun to worry him in a vague, unexplained fashion. The supper trays were heavy, and she frequently forgot things, necessitating another journey to the kitchen, and once he caught her depositing a scuttle of coal and turf outside his door.
“Can’t someone else do that?” he said, frowning down at her.
“Well, Nolan’s supposed to, but he doesn’t like coming into the house, and Mary has the downstair rooms to see to,” she replied. “I always do Miss Dearlove’s, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t do yours, too.”
“Well, in future, please leave the scuttle in the hall and I’ll fetch it myself.” He sounded brusque and annoyed, and she said austerely:
“It’s part of the service you’re paying for. Lodgers don’t carry their own coal.”
He picked up the scuttle and dumped it in the nursery and shut the door on her. Stubborn, exasperating little creature! He would leave at the end of the month.
Kathy did not carry coal or trays, but she made various excuses to visit him. She would ask in her soft voice if he needed anything, or proffer the loan of a book, standing just inside his door and gazing at him with shy, enquiring eyes. It was impossible to snub her, she was too gentle, and she never stayed long, but he could see that she was eager to talk and did not understand his reluctance to discuss music with her.
“None of the family know anything about music, you see,” she told him a little wistfully. “And Joe—well, Joe recognizes what I play, but he doesn’t really appreciate.” Once she enquired about a recording of a Beethoven sonata which he had been listening to earlier in the afternoon, and, to please her, he played the record again for her.
“That was lovely,” she said on a soft little sigh. “Who was it playing?”
He did not immediately answer, and she took the disc off the turntable to read the label.
“Adrian Flint,” she said. “I believe—” She broke off and looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you Adrian Flint?” she asked slowly. “I never connected—I mean, we never knew your Christian name. “That’s why your face was vaguely familiar. I once heard you play in Dublin, years ago, when I was still at school. Oh, Mr. Flint, how exciting that it should turn out to be you!”
He took the record from her and put it back in its folder with hands that shook a little. This was the very last thing he had wanted to happen and he cursed himself for the careless revelation which could so easily have been avoided. “It’s of no great importance,” he replied brusquely.
“But it is to me,” she said. “Here in the west, they’ve hardly even heard of Schnabel or Moiseiwitsch. You can’t think how exciting it is for me, not only to know a great pianist but to have one here under my own roof.”
“Very flattering, but quite misplaced,” he said in a hard voice. “I haven’t given a recital for nearly two years.”
She looked rebuffed for a moment, then she said:
“Of course—you’ve been ill. If—if you want to use our piano—to keep in practice, I mean—we can always manage it so that you won’t be disturbed.”
The coldness was back in his face and he glanced at his watch with deliberation.
“Thank you, Miss Riordan, but I won’t need your piano. I have other work to attend to.” He spoke abruptly, and Kathy, feeling herself dismissed, backed a little uncertainly to the door.
“Well, any time you should want the piano—” she said awkwardly.
He nodded and gave her a brief smile.
“Thanks, but the matter won’t arise while I’m here. Good night.”
She ran downstairs to tell the others. Despite Adrian’s chilling response, she was excited by her discovery and eager to impart the news at once.
“What do you think?” she cried, bursting into the snug. “A. G. Flint is the Adrian Flint. Isn’t it exciting?”
Sarah, flat on her stomach by the fire, looked up with a grin.
“Never heard of him,” she said. “What is he? A film, star or a cat-burglar or something?”
“Oh, Sarah! But you wouldn’t know, of course. He’s a well-known pianist. I always told you he reminded me of someone. I heard him play in Dublin years ago. I believe I’ve still got the program.”
Kathy started rummaging in the old attaché case in which she still kept the treasures relating to her schooldays.
Danny said: “Cripes! I thought musicians had long hair.”
Aunt Em remarked: “Well, I would never have guessed!”
Sarah rubbed her nose and said: “I thought he really knew about music.”
“Here it is,” cried Kathy. “Look, you see it was the photograph that was familiar, because we sat too far away to see him very clearly.”
They crowded round her to examine the program which bore the usual letterpress on the cover and an excellent photograph of Adrian in profile. Sarah studied it thoughtfully. He looked a good deal younger, she supposed, but there was another difference, too; the coldness in the face was not so apparent and the mouth had a certain sweetness which it entirely lacked now.
“Was he good?” she asked, frowning.
“He was marvellous. Very quiet, but with terrific power. They printed some of the notices inside. Listen! A young pianist of great ability ... a pianist with a great career before him ... destined to take his place with the highest in his profession ... brilliant technique ... powerful interpretation ...’ They’re all the same—London,
Paris, New York, Philadelphia...”
“Um, he must be good,” said Sarah. “Let me see the rest.”
“Think of us not knowing when he answered the advertisement and imagining he was a doddery old man!”
“Well, dear, we’d have been none the wiser if he had signed his full name,” pointed out Aunt Em, but she looked at Kathy with indulgent fondness. She had seldom seen her so animated.
“I would,” the girl replied. “Miss Dearlove, you would have known, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, of course I’ve heard of him. One reads the notices though one doesn’t, always attend concerts,” said Miss Dearlove with the air of one who kept up with all the arts.
“Not one of them mentions tenderness,” said Sarah slowly, and they turned to look at her, Kathy puzzled, her aunt with a flicker of understanding.
“What do you mean?” Kathy asked. “I think they’re wonderful notices.”
“They all say the same thing. Power, brilliance, technical ability—one even talks about a ruthless interpretation, but not one of them mentions feeling.”
There was a silence, then Miss Dearlove said approvingly:
“Quite a shrewd little critic, dear child. You are so right, of course. Feeling ... sympathy ... one cannot rise to the heights without it. That does not surprise me at all about Mr. Flint. He is not simpatica—I felt it at once.”
“He’s been ill, don’t forget,” said Kathy quickly. “He told me he hasn’t given a recital for nearly two years.”
“I seem to remember there was something in the papers about that time,” Miss Dearlove said. “Miss Pringle would remember—she has a remarkable memory for newspaper snippets. I must write and ask her.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to ask Mr. Flint?” enquired Aunt Em.
“No,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “I don’t think it would, and anyhow it’s nothing to do with us.”
But Miss Dearlove thought it had something to do with her. She waylaid Adrian at the earliest opportunity and told him archly that now they had surprised his little secret, he must, he simply must give them all a little treat one evening.
“I’m sorry, Miss Dearlove, I no longer play,” he replied impassively.
“Oh, dear, have I been guilty of a breach of etiquette?” she said playfully. “You artists who command such large fees ... I suppose I shouldn’t ask...”
“I gave a good many concerts for charity without fees,” he said equably.
“Of course, I remember now. You did very good work for churches and for other charities. Was it the strain of that which caused your breakdown?”
“No.”
“And when do you hope to resume your career?”
“Miss Dearlove,” he replied in a biting voice, “I cannot conceive that I or my affairs can be of the slightest interest to you, but in case they are, I must tell you that I haven’t the slightest intention of discussing the subject with you or anyone else. Perhaps you will kindly make that clear to everybody.”
“Well!” said Miss Dearlove as he turned on his heel and left her, and she hurried away to find more sympathetic ears.
“So rude!” she burst out to Aunt Em. “So unnecessarily rude! Success must have gone to his head, as Miss Pringle would say. He has developed a most impossible conceit of himself.”
“I would not have said he struck me as a conceited man,” Aunt Em remarked mildly.
Miss Dearlove gave her a look of contempt.
“But then you, dear Miss Emma, are such a self-effacing person,” she said with slight acidity. “Personally, I think someone should correct him for his manners. It’s not very pleasant to stay in a house where one is gratuitously insulted when one makes a gesture of friendliness. I must say that I’ve always considered it’s one’s—er—hostess’s duty to see that her guests are happy.”
“I’m not at all reluctant to speak to Mr. Flint about his behavior,” said Sarah cheerfully. “But perhaps I should speak to you about yours first.”
“Well!” Miss Dearlove sounded affronted, and Aunt Em looked at Sarah quickly over her spectacles, then continued darning. The child was not in one of her rages and she was seldom rude.
“It’s only to say that I think it would be better if you let Mr. Flint alone, Miss Dearlove,” Sarah went on mildly. “He did make it so very clear that he wanted complete solitude, and he’s the sort of man who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Well!” exclaimed Miss Dearlove again. “So you’re telling me to my face I’m a fool now, are you?”
“It was a figure of speech,” said Sarah hurriedly. “I meant that some people won’t put up with well-meaning interference. They don’t realize it isn’t only idle curiosity, so I think if you just ignore Mr. Flint in future it won’t be necessary for me to speak to him, if you see what I mean.”
“I see only too well, and I think it is probably time I made a change. I can always finish my time at the Miss Kellys’, you know,” said Miss Dearlove, and, very red in the face, swept out of the room.
“Oh, dear!” said Sarah., “Now I’ve made things far worse.”
Her aunt shook her head.
“I’m afraid she’s right, dear,” she said. “You haven’t the experience for a boarding house.”
Miss Dearlove was on her dignity with everyone for the next day or so, but it was difficult to put the Riordans in their places for they simply did not notice they were in disfavor. Aunt Em with her vagueness of mind had probably forgotten the whole matter, and Sarah continued to behave with that happy indifference to anything which did not directly concern Dun Rury.
Miss Dearlove admitted to herself that the charm of an Irish household was beginning to wear thin. But Kathy could still charm her. They read poetry together and when the girl looked at her with respectful eyes and invited her opinions she remembered again that she was Daisy Dearlove searching for local color, that Irish behavior was quaint, and anything odd or distasteful that occurred was simply typical. By the evening of the second day she had unbent sufficiently to take part in a game of rummy, and afterwards showed her forgiveness by asking Kathy to play some traditional airs for her.
Adrian, reading in his room above, heard the music and frowned irritably. There was something nostalgic and a little melancholy, he thought, about listening to a piano when it was muffled by walls or distance. Just so had he listened as a small boy to his mother’s piano after a dinner party, and felt lonely and excluded. The tunes had always been the current popular songs and waltzes of the time. They did not move in a musical circle, and he could still remember his father’s horror at his only son’s choice as a career.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know where you get this nonsense from! Not from my side of the family; no artistic twaddle ever cropped up there.”
The Flints had been sporting squires for generations, with sons destined automatically for the Army, or, in extreme cases, politics. Adrian remembered the outcry when he had announced his intention of leaving Oxford to go instead to Parish and Munich to study the piano seriously. They had given in, of course, He had had sufficient money of his own to make him independent and had been backed by the exceptionally brilliant music master of his public school. But they had never understood, and even when years later his name was established as one of the coming pianists in the country, they still shook their heads and said they could not account for it. His father was dead now, leaving him a very comfortable income, and his mother, who had married again, still lived in the big rambling house in Wiltshire where he had spent so many lonely, unfulfilled holidays. He seldom saw her.
Kathy had broken into the gay lilting refrain of The Spanish Lady, and presently an unexpected voice joined in. He put down his book and went over to the open window and leaned out, trying to catch the words.
“As I walked down through Dublin City
At the hour of twelve of the night,
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candlelight...”
Her voice was true and clear and possessed a spontaneity that her fingers lacked. He remembered that she had told him that her mother had sung a little, and smiled. It would have been better to have concentrated on the lesser gift, he thought, for, although untrained, she still sang better than she played.
They all joined in the last refrain, ending with a great deal of laughter, and Adrian closed the window and returned to his book.
He had been at Dun Rury three weeks now, and had still not made up his mind if he would stop on or not. In many ways the place suited him, and he had for so long been indifferent to his surroundings that the minor inconveniences which had annoyed him at first had ceased to worry him, and only Kathy’s piano pupils proved a real source of irritation. Nobody bothered about him, and since their last unfortunate passage of arms, even Miss Dearlove had kept out of his way. But he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his work.
Sometimes he met Kathy or Sarah when he took his morning stroll. Sarah would shout “Hullo” and disappear on some errand. She always seemed to be dancing or running between the house and the stables, he thought with amusement, and came to watch for the leap across the ha-ha which heralded her comings and goings. But Kathy was always disposed to linger, turning and walking at his side, asking tentative advice about her pupils, her eyes mutely enquiring if she was in the way. She seemed to have little to do, and he found her desire for his company pleasant and a little touching.
“That’s right, keep him sweet, darling,” Sarah exhorted her sister, noting with approval the gentleness in his voice when he spoke to Kathy. “His month’s up at the end of this week, and we can’t afford to lose him.”
To Adrian himself, she said when she took up his supper tray.
“Do you think you will stop on with us another month, Mr. Flint?”
“Why?” he asked, looking up from his book. “Is my room wanted?”
She thought she detected the usual edge to his voice, and replied repressively:
“No, only if you go we shall have to advertise again.”
