Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  For the rest of the afternoon Harry remained in her mind. He’d looked fit; older of course, like her, but really quite distinguished and handsome. And he played as well as ever. When she had slipped into the marquee to listen he and Tricia had been playing a selection from the old musical Bless the Bride. That show had been all the rage when they’d first married. The hit song ‘This Is My Lovely Day’ had been a special favourite of theirs. As she worked, in spite of herself, she found herself humming it.

  *

  The wedding reception went without a hitch. Everyone enjoyed the music and some of the guests even asked Elaine if the musicians would be available for other functions. It gave her quite a buzz to be able to tell them that the violinist was her daughter and only playing as a special favour.

  When the marquee was being cleared in preparation for the evening dance she went in search of Tricia, hoping to catch her before she left for home. She found her alone and freshening up in a bedroom on the first floor that had been set aside for staff.

  ‘Darling, I’m glad I caught you before you left. The music was lovely. Everyone enjoyed it so much.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. We enjoyed playing. It was fun.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Gran’s invited us back for dinner,’ Tricia told her as she applied a little lip gloss. Suddenly she could contain herself no longer. ‘Mum,’ she said, looking at her mother through the mirror, ‘did the pianist look familiar to you?’

  Elaine frowned. ‘No, Should he?’

  Tricia took a deep breath. ‘I was hoping you might have recognised him. Mum, his name is Harry — Harry Wendover.’

  Elaine stared at her daughter. ‘Wendover? But that’s...’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t possibly mean what I think you mean?’

  Tricia laughed delightedly. ‘Yes! Isn’t it the most exciting thing? And to think I’d known him for ages and never guessed. I only knew him as Harry, you see. It wasn’t until I...’ She broke off, her smile fading as she caught the look on her mother’s white face. ‘What is it, Mum? I know it’s a surprise but...’

  ‘What are you thinking of, Tricia? You can’t walk into Gran’s house with him just like that. It could be an awful shock for her after all these years.’

  But Tricia was shaking her head. ‘Gran is stronger than that. I’ve always had the impression that she’d love to see him again.’ She looked hard at her mother. ‘Are you sure you didn’t recognise him?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’ Elaine’s voice was sharp with annoyance. ‘I was only eleven years old the last time I saw him. That’s a lifetime ago.’

  ‘But don’t you want to see him again?’ Tricia’s heart was sinking. It wasn’t going at all as she’d visualised.

  ‘No, I don’t’ Elaine stood up. ‘Have you said anything to him?’

  ‘No. It was going to be a — a surprise.’

  Elaine snorted. ‘That’s the under-statement of the year. If you take my advice you’ll get him on the first train for London as quickly as you can and say nothing to Gran about it. You can take my car. Alison will give me a lift home.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. But I thought you’d be pleased too. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tricia, but you really should have spoken to me about it first. You don’t understand how Gran and I feel. It isn’t easy to forgive or forget the way he walked out and left us.’

  Elaine felt shocked and upset. Not only by the sudden reappearance of her father and the prospect of meeting him again, but by the depth of her own resentment. She had a sudden and vivid recollection of herself as a desperately unhappy teenager — of the letter she had written to her father, to which he had never even bothered to reply.

  ‘Get him out of here, Tricia,’ she said shakily. ‘I don’t want to see him. I won’t!’

  *

  There was a lump in Tricia’s throat as she dropped Harry off at the station. Her mother didn’t seem to have worried that she might be upset by the sudden announcement last night that Paul Kingston wasn’t her father. Perhaps she hadn’t stopped to imagine the impact that news like that would have. The notion that there was a man out there somewhere who wasn’t even aware that he had a daughter made her ache in a strange, restless way. They could pass each other in the street without even knowing. For almost twenty years she had been Patricia Kingston. Now suddenly she didn’t know who she was — didn’t even know her real name.

  Fortunately she hadn’t had time to tell Harry about her grandmother’s invitation, so she was saved the embarrassment of thinking up an excuse. As she stopped the car on the station forecourt, he looked anxiously at her.

  ‘Tricia, are you all right? You’re very quiet.’

  She shook her head, forcing a smile. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Harry. Thanks for coming today. I’ll give you a ring when I get back to London.’ As she drove back to her grandmother’s house her heart was full and heavy. She’d looked forward so much to introducing Harry and then standing back to watch the reaction. She might have known it would blow up in her face. Maybe she just hadn’t thought it through properly.

  She drove her mother’s car into the drive and got out, but she hadn’t reached the front door when it opened and her grandmother stepped out into the porch.

  ‘I saw you arrive.’ She looked agitated. ‘Where is he?’

  Tricia stared at her. ‘Who?’

  ‘Harry. I invited you both back here for a meal.’

  ‘I know — but I — Mum didn’t want — I took him straight to the station.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Grace’s face drained of colour. ‘Has he gone then?’ Tricia shook her head. ‘I left him waiting. The train wasn’t due for another ten minutes. He might not have...’

  Grace was already getting into the car. ‘Come on. If we hurry we might catch him,’ she urged. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Tricia. What you don’t realise is that the man you call Harry is your grandfather.’

  Tricia looked at her grandmother as she hurriedly fastened her seat belt. ‘You knew!’

  ‘Yes. I saw the two of you rehearsing when I came to collect the florist’s stuff. That’s when I telephoned with the invitation to bring him home.’

  A grin spread over Tricia’s face as she began to back out of the drive. Gran knew all the time. Knew and, unlike her mother, actually wanted to see him again. She glanced at her watch. The train was already a minute overdue. Unless it was running late they wouldn’t catch him. As she pressed her foot down on the accelerator she was saying a silent prayer under her breath.

  *

  As they drove on to the station forecourt the hands of the clock stood at six fifty-five. Tricia looked apologetically at her grandmother.

  ‘I’m horribly afraid we must be too late, Gran,’ she said. ‘But you go and see. I’ll wait here for you.’

  Grace got out of the car and hurried into the booking hall. She could see that the platform was still full of people. Maybe the train hadn’t gone yet after all. She bought a platform ticket and asked the ticket collector.

  ‘Running ten minutes late, madam,’ he told her. ‘Due any minute now.’

  On the platform she searched the crowds for him without success. Maybe he was in the buffet. She made her way towards it. Then she saw him turning away from the newsagent’s stand, and evening paper in his hand as he paused to put away his change.

  She stopped in her tracks, suddenly at a loss. Till now she hadn’t thought what she would do or say, but now that the moment was here she found she hadn’t any idea how to approach him. Suppose she had aged beyond recognition? Suppose he didn’t know her?

  The public address system bleeped and a voice announced that the train arriving on platform two was the six forty-eight for London. Apologies were made for delay and inconvenience. The crowds around her surged forward, jostling and pushing; bumping her legs with bags and suitcases. She lost sight of Harry and panicked. Then she saw him again and let the crowds carry her forward
towards him as he waited. It was as the train drew to a stop that she found herself close enough to touch his sleeve.

  ‘Harry?’

  He turned and looked at her, frowning a little. Then his face cleared. ‘Grace?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ As she looked up at him there was only one thing to say; ‘Please, Harry, don’t go.’

  They stood there while the other passengers pushed impatiently past them to climb on to the crowded train; stood looking at each other as the doors banged and the guard blew his whistle. Then as the train began to pull out of the station, Harry held out his hand and Grace put her own into it.

  In the station forecourt the car was empty. Tricia had gone, leaving a note under the windscreen wiper. It read: ‘Two’s company. See you later, Gran. Good luck. Tricia.’ Grace passed it to Harry.

  ‘Maybe this will explain.’

  He read it and looked at her, a smile spreading over his face. ‘I might have known. God, I might have known,’ was all he said. But his eyes said more — much more.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m glad to see that your holiday has refreshed you. ‘Max Crichton laid down his baton. ‘We’ll take a lunch break now and assemble again at two-thirty. Then we’ll tackle the Brahms.’

  Terry Holtby turned in he chair and raised and eyebrow at his sister. ‘Coming across the road for a burger?’

  Eunice nodded eagerly. ‘You bet. I’ll just get my coat. See you in ten minutes.’ She looked at Tricia. ‘Coming?’

  Tricia smiled. ‘Yes, please. I’m starving — didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.’

  The girls put away their instruments and started to leave, but as they passed the rostrum Max glanced up and said: ‘Miss Kingston, I’d like a word with you. Would you mind staying behind?’

  Tricia looked at Eunice. ‘You go on. I’ll catch up with you later.’ Eunice pulled a face and lowered her voice. ‘Hello, what have you been up to then? He doesn’t look best pleased.’

  Max clearly had no intention of speaking until they were alone and Tricia felt conspicuous, standing waiting for him while the other members of the orchestra filed past. Finally, when they were alone, she looked up enquiringly.

  ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  He’d been studying a score. He closed it with a snap and stepped down from the rostrum. ‘Come with me,’ he said shortly.

  Puzzled, she followed him to the small bare dressing room he used backstage. Beckoning her inside he closed the door. ‘Sit down.’ he indicated a chair in the corner. Apprehensively she did as he said. Reaching into his briefcase he brought out a pocket tape recorder and switched it on. Immediately the room was filled with the sound of Vivaldi. She was listening to her own demo tape. Flushing scarlet, she looked at him.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He switched it off. ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain.’ She shrugged and lifted her chin defiantly. ‘It’s a demo tape. We thought it might be a way of getting heard.’

  ‘And who is “we”?’

  ‘A friend and I.’ She cleared her throat. ‘How — how did you come to have it?’

  ‘An agent sent it to me. Obviously she was unaware that it had been made by a member of my own orchestra.’ He glowered at her. ‘You are aware that you are under contract — and that your contract precludes this kind of thing?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of it, no.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you go home and read it — all of it. And don’t let me catch you doing anything like this again. At least, not while you are with the NWYO.’

  ‘No.’ It was a long time since she’d been spoken to so arbitrarily. She stood up, her face red. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No, it is not all,’ he thundered. ‘I’m still waiting for an apology.’

  ‘Oh — yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ She moistened her lips and glanced up at him. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. ‘Er — did you listen to the tape right through?’

  He paused. ‘And if I had...?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Nothing really — I just wondered what you thought of it.’

  His dark eyes narrowed and for a moment he looked as though he might explode with anger, then he drew up another chair and sat astride it facing her, his face on a level with hers.

  ‘I’d intended to spare you that,’ he told her. ‘But seeing that you have the barefaced effrontery to ask, I’ll tell you. I thought it was quite the most audacious, presumptuous, arrogant piece of playing that I’ve ever had the misfortune to listen to.’ He registered her discomfort with obvious satisfaction. ‘And if I were continuing as conductor of this orchestra, I would certainly be tempted to dismiss you.’ He waited for this to sink in, then went on: ‘However, as I shall be leaving shortly, I have decided to let you off with a warning.’

  Dismayed, she stared at him. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I leave at the end of the year.’

  ‘But why?’ She looked at him with enormous blue eyes. ‘Why are you leaving? Have you had a better offer?’

  He blinked, slightly taken aback by her directness. ‘If it’s any of your business — which it isn’t — I do happen to have had several very good offers, but I’ve made no decision as yet,’ he said. ‘The reason I’m leaving the orchestra is very simple. By then end of this year, I shall have reached the age limit.’

  ‘I see. I’ll miss you,’ she said simply.

  His eyebrows rose a fraction, then he picked up the tape recorder. ‘Quite clearly you weren’t thinking of that when you made this.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to leave the orchestra.’

  ‘What did you intend then?’

  ‘I just wanted to be heard,’ she said. ‘No one can hear me playing with all the rest of the orchestra and I want to be a soloist. But if you think my playing is as bad as that, maybe it’s just as well that no one else heard it.’ She rose to go, her shoulders drooping a little. Her confidence had taken a battering, and the news that Max would be leaving had shaken her too, even more than she would have anticipated.

  ‘Wait,’ he commanded. ‘Did I say you could go?’

  She turned to look at him. His eyes were dark and intense as he glared at her.

  ‘I’m sorry. I did apologise. Is there something else you wanted to say to me?’

  ‘Are you going to give up just like that?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me I should do?’

  ‘I don’t try to tell people things. If I thought you should give up, I’d leave you in no doubt.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘Then what...?’

  ‘If you’re really hell bent on becoming a concert artist, you’ll need to work hard at it. You’ll have to find yourself a professor — a good one.’

  ‘Yes. But who?’

  He stood up. ‘Me.’ He folded his arms and looked at her. ‘Can you think of anyone better?’

  ‘N-no, but...’

  ‘It won’t be easy — for either of us, so don’t think that.’

  They stood facing each other for what seemed to Tricia like a very long moment. Her heart quickened and she felt the hot colour warm her face.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she whispered.

  ‘Is the idea so repellent to you?’

  ‘Oh, n-no,’ she stammered. ‘But I thought...’

  ‘I warn you, I’ll make life hell for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’ll loathe me by the time we’ve finished.’

  Her lips twitched. ‘Would that worry you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘Then it doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘But if you can stand the pace — which I very much doubt — I’ll make a virtuoso of you. If that’s what you really want.’

  ‘You really think I have the talent?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s I who have the talent. The talent to get the best out of you. Whether you have the stamina and the resilience to le
arn, remains to be seen.’

  ‘When can we start?’ Her eyes were shining.

  ‘Don’t look so eager,’ he warned. ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘By the end of one month you’ll wish you’d taken up law, architecture, clog dancing...’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ She laughed. ‘Please, Max. When can I start?’ His stern expression softened. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning — at my place. And don’t be late.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘And, Tricia...’ She turned at the door to look at him. ‘Just for the moment, it’s between ourselves. Right?’

  She gave him her most brilliant smile. ‘You got it.’

  *

  Elaine found the ward without too much difficulty. Zoe had been admitted to Addenbrookes’s Hospital the previous day and now awaited her operation. A young nurse at the desk answered her enquiry, pointing to a bed at the far end of the ward.

  As she walked towards it, she racked her brain for what to say. How could she make normal, light conversation with a woman who knew she had cancer and faced an operation with a fifty-fifty chance of recovery, especially a woman as vital and life-loving as Zoe? When Red had telephoned to tell her that Zoe had been admitted he had sounded devastated.

  ‘The surgeon has promised to do what he can,’ he told her. ‘I’m praying it’ll be curable, but there’s nothing any of us can do now but wait and hope.’

  The words echoed in her head as she walked the length of the ward. But when she reached the end bed she found Zoe sitting up and looking quite cheerful. Her long hair was neatly coiled and she wore an incongruous frilly pink bed jacket. Elaine found it oddly touching to see her wrists bare of the silver bangles she always wore.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said, looking up from the book she was reading. ‘It’s good to see a friendly face.’

  Elaine put down the flowers she had brought and kissed Zoe’s cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’