The Song of Hartgrove Hall

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘Hello, how can I help you today? Are you here for lunch or a round of golf?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could tell me the number of Mr Jack Fox-Talbot’s condominium?’

  Her smile drooped at the corners. ‘Is he expecting you, sir? We have to be mindful of our residents’ privacy.’

  ‘It’s a surprise. For great old uncle Jack,’ chirped Robin. ‘We’ve come all the way from England.’

  She looked at Robin and then the smile grew perkier once again. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s his birthday, you see,’ I said, shamelessly building on Robin’s line.

  ‘Is it now? Goodness. Mr F-T is a dark horse. Shame on him.’

  ‘So you know him?’

  ‘Of course! Everyone loves Mr F-T. A genuine English gentleman,’ she said, rhyming ‘genuine’ with ‘wine’. She said it in the faintly patronising way that the young adopt when referring to the charms of the old – but I knew that if she’d known him forty years ago, she would have swooned with the rest of them.

  ‘I can call up to his apartment for you. What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Oh, but that would spoil the surprise.’

  I hadn’t come all this way to speak to Jack for the first time over a blasted intercom, with this woman eavesdropping on the whole thing.

  ‘You sound just like him,’ she said with a giggle. ‘I love the English accent. Adorable.’

  I winced.

  ‘I’m his brother. I expect we must sound alike.’

  ‘Well, in that case. If you’re his brother, I suppose it wouldn’t be bending the rules too much to say that Mr F-T is often on the putting green before his lunch. I always book him a table in the terrace restaurant for twelve-thirty.’ Her face brightened. ‘Would you like me to change the booking to three people?’

  ‘Why not,’ I said, supposing that if Jack sent us packing, a larger luncheon table than necessary was unlikely to be his greatest concern.

  Robin and I left the refrigerated cool of reception, and descended into the midday heat. The air was full of the hum of bees and golf carts. I wondered why on earth Jack had chosen such a place. Its hygienic soul unnerved me. It struck me as an unlikely spot to visit in order to seek forgiveness.

  I was sweating beneath my lightweight, non-iron travel shirt and, as I stroked my chin, I noticed I’d missed a patch shaving. I glanced down at Robin, relieved once again at his presence. My legs trembled and I suspected that, without him, I might have slunk off, still ashamed after all these years. Instead, I nodded, took a breath and said, ‘Righto, can you spy the putting green, old sport? Ah, yes, there it is.’

  We ambled over. Two men in improbably coloured socks hit balls, while a bosomy woman with a whiskery chin called encouragement. The group resonated with placid contentment.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We’re looking for Mr Fox-Talbot.’

  ‘Oh, Mr F-T?’ said the woman with an alert enthusiasm – his appeal apparently had not diminished for the older gal. ‘He’s popped inside to the little boys’ room.’

  I shuddered at the description while I thanked her.

  ‘Are you here to visit with F-T?’ asked the woman, removing her sunglasses.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Because old F-T doesn’t get many visitors now. Not since, you know, Pam passed.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed, not knowing at all.

  ‘And who’s this little man?’ she asked, peering at Robin, a blob of coral lipstick on her teeth.

  ‘My name is Robin Bennet.’

  The men in the candy-coloured socks putted happily, ignoring us. Jack would appear any moment. He probably wouldn’t hit me – he was over eighty – but beyond that I really had no idea what to expect. My heart began to do its awful thumpity-crash thing, and I tried to take slow breaths. It wouldn’t be the thing at all to die right here on the lurid grass and abandon Robin in this strange, sanitised place. My eyelids started to sweat. I blinked, and then, through a gauze of heat and apprehension, I saw him. Jack Fox-Talbot emerging from the gents, buttoning up his fly.

  —

  We sat in the air-conditioned café, drinking lemonade and not talking, Robin poised between us like a very short vicar whose presence ensured an outward display of civility. Every thirty seconds, or so it seemed, another pal stopped by to shake Jack’s hand and wish him a good morning. His blond hair was now a perfect snowy white and, to my envy, he appeared not to have lost any of it. His carriage was as upright as ever. He was as handsome at eighty-plus as he’d been at twenty-five and he had a light, pleasant tan, not the walnut furniture-polish sheen that I observed on others our age. He sported a dubious jazzy pink shirt but on him it succeeded in looking daring and dapper. The heat apparently did not faze him.

  He did not look at me, and I sensed that he kept the well-wishers chatting for longer than necessary. Another lavender couple tottered off, chuckling improbably. Everyone here seemed to have been marinated in happiness. It was most disconcerting.

  ‘You were just passing Longboat Key, then?’ he said.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You might have called to let me know you were coming.’

  ‘I didn’t have your number.’

  ‘You could have written.’

  ‘I could have but I didn’t.’

  Letters might be ignored.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘A Christmas card you sent to Edie. I found it only a few months ago.’

  He glanced at me and then looked away, visibly discomfited for the first time. ‘I was sorry to hear—’

  ‘You could have written.’

  ‘I could have but I didn’t.’

  I studied him, this dashing stranger, and wondered whether I was really here to ask his absolution. I wanted the forgiveness of the man I’d wronged, not this handsome car salesman with gleaming teeth. I searched him for some sign of the man he used to be; the quick laugh, the playful charm. He stared back, unsmiling.

  ‘Another lemonade?’ we both asked Robin, who shook his head.

  ‘I’ve had four.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, best to stop then.’ Clearly I’d not been paying proper attention.

  We retreated once more into silence.

  ‘You were married?’ I asked after a while.

  ‘To Pam. She passed around the same time as Edie.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He opened his wallet and showed me a snapshot with some pride. ‘She was a real doll. A super girl.’

  The photograph showed a stout blonde woman in a sunhat on the golf course. She grinned at the camera, revealing a pleasant, warm smile and a splendid set of choppers. These Americans certainly knew how to do teeth. She looked frumpy and kind. Not the type to break his heart and run off with another man.

  ‘She was a ladies’ captain here. Magnificent golfer. Well, she was magnificent at most things she tried her hand at. A real good sort.’

  The elegant shoulders sagged, just for a second, and I caught a glimpse of tenderness beneath the poise.

  ‘She left me a list of her friends that I should marry, if I got too lonely.’ He glanced uneasily over his shoulder. ‘It’s the only drawback about this place. Lots of widows on the prowl. You have to watch it. Better look out for yourself. If one of them sets her baseball cap at you, you’ll find yourself beside the pool, a piña colada in one hand while she rubs sunscreen onto your moles. You won’t ever leave.’

  I laughed for the first time, glad that he hadn’t entirely lost his sense of humour.

  Robin, however, looked concerned. ‘I don’t want to live here, Grandpa.’

  ‘It’s all right, darling. Uncle Jack is only being silly.’

  Jack wiggled his ears and Robin relaxed. Jack glanced at his watch.

  ‘It’s nearly twelve-thirty. I’m going to hav
e some lunch. Thanks for stopping by.’

  He stood without inviting us to join him and I thought, well, that’s it then. I’ve seen him and that’s all there is to it. There was neither forgiveness nor reconciliation. But how could one reconcile with a stranger? I would have preferred anger to this bland indifference.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announced Robin suddenly.

  Jack hesitated. His eagerness to be rid of us warred with his inbred politeness.

  ‘Would you both like to join me?’

  We traipsed back to the clubhouse, where the smiling receptionist greeted us with hearty enthusiasm.

  ‘You found your brother! Happy birthday, Mr F-T.’

  He stared at her for a moment, bewildered. I recognised his look – the sudden fear that one has lost one’s marbles – and I took pity.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ I said quietly. ‘We had to tell her that. Only way she’d tell us where you were.’

  He smiled at the woman. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, Tabitha. Most kind. Twenty-one again.’ He raised his linen sunhat.

  She snorted with laughter as though it was the first time she’d heard the joke. ‘You have a nice time, now, Mr F-T.’

  We walked into the dining room, a fern-infested marble palace, with white driftwood walls and photographs everywhere of sunsets and the Y-tails of breaching whales. Framed signs, declaring banalities such as ‘Don’t worry, be happy!’ and ‘Tomorrow’s another day!’, shouted their drivel from the walls. The doors were thrown open to the outside and bright rays shone inside without being permitted to warm the room above pleasantly temperate. A single sunflower had been placed on every table, like a child’s drawing of the sun. The place reeked of cheerfulness.

  A further parade of perky pensioners trundled past our table to talk to Jack, until I could bear it no longer.

  ‘For God’s sake. What’s wrong with everyone? Are they cracked or simple? Why are they all so bloody happy? It’s perfectly awful.’

  Jack looked at me in surprise. ‘They’re content. How could anyone not be, here? We’re all retired. We have enough money. No responsibility. It’s a life of sunshine and ease. Golf and chicken dinners and blackcurrant martinis. What more could anyone want?’

  A good deal, I wanted to say, but then I thought of the large empty house in Dorset that, no matter how much money I spent on heating, was never quite warm enough. Unless Robin came to visit, there were days when I spoke to no one. The winter lasted longer each year. Outside in the blue Florida afternoon the breeze made the fronds of a palm rustle like wrapping paper. It was seductive, I’d give him that.

  We sipped our colourful drinks through straws, and ate fish, french fries and ice cream. The food on offer was like a children’s menu with a better wine list.

  We chatted uneasily. No, Jack had never had children. They’d not been lucky in that regard. Pam had had a series of small dogs; the last one died only last year. The Lotus Club had been very generous in bending the no-pet rule for them but after General was put to sleep, Jack had decided against another.

  ‘You called your dog “General”?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘It had a horrible temper. Barked orders at everyone.’

  He caught my eye, and I saw the twitch of a smile. Perhaps there was a little of the old Jack in there after all, a hint of wickedness concealed beneath that sleek white hair.

  Robin pointed to a piano in the corner of the room, half hidden by yet more ferns.

  ‘Look, Grandpa! Can I play?’

  ‘It’s not an ordinary piano, Robin. It’s a pianola. It plays itself,’ said Jack. ‘We can ask the waitress to turn it on, if you like.’

  Robin stared at him blankly as Jack called to the waitress.

  ‘Penny, my darling, would you mind awfully turning on the pianola for my young friend? He’s never seen one before.’ He smiled at Robin. ‘Who would you most like to hear play?’

  ‘Rachmaninov.’

  Jack chuckled and shook his head. ‘Don’t think they’ll have him. Put it on Scott Joplin, would you, Penny?’

  A second later, the pianola started to churn out ragtime tunes, the keys rippling beneath ghostly hands.

  Robin gazed at it in a mixture of wonderment and horror.

  ‘Famous pianists record themselves playing onto discs, and then the pianola plays them,’ I said. ‘It’s like a record player but with a piano instead of speakers.’

  ‘It’s creepy,’ said Robin.

  ‘It is a bit,’ I agreed.

  ‘I like it,’ said Jack with a touch of defiance. ‘I can sit here with my cold glass of something-something and listen to a great musician on a Friday lunchtime.’

  ‘It’s not a musician,’ said Robin. ‘It’s a ghost.’

  ‘Or an echo,’ I agreed. ‘A great musician plays the same piece differently every time. He can’t play it in the identical way ever again, even if he wished to. Here, the music is trapped, forced to come out precisely the same. The exact nuance and expression.’

  ‘Good God, you’re just as much of a musical snob as you always were,’ said Jack, snappish.

  ‘And you’re just as much of a philistine,’ I said with a smile.

  As he chuckled good-humouredly at the insult, I was relieved to have another glimpse, however watery, of the old Jack.

  ‘Look here, why don’t you record something, Robin?’ he asked. ‘Then I can listen to you when you’ve gone back home.’

  ‘He’s a splendid pianist,’ I said.

  Robin frowned. ‘I don’t want to be a ghost.’

  ‘Every recording is a ghost in a way, Robin,’ I said. ‘You like it when we record you at home so you can listen to your practice. This isn’t very different.’

  ‘I suppose so. All right.’

  In ten minutes the instruction book had been found, and Robin was seated at the pianola, an impromptu crowd of eager retirees huddled around him.

  ‘Does he want some sheet music?’ asked an elderly lady in shorts that revealed a tube map of varicose veins. ‘I’m sure my granddaughter left some behind in my condo. I can run and get it.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but he doesn’t need any. He keeps it all in his head,’ I said.

  Usually I was circumspect about Robin’s remarkable gifts, until I came face to face with other grandparents, when to my chagrin I found it almost impossible not to brag just a bit.

  He sat at the keyboard and played a few scales and then without a pause began to play a Mozart sonata in D major. The retired stockbrokers and real-estate agents, the housewives and lawyers, all listened, glancing around at one another, their mouths a series of surprised Os. This was a place of routine, where nothing out of the ordinary happened, where the menu always had the chicken and the sky was always the perfect colour-match shade of blue, and although every now and again a resident was carried out, never to return, even that was only to be expected. Genuine, goodness-gracious surprises were a precious rarity and here was four feet and two and a half inches of utter surprise and brilliance, sitting in the clubhouse restaurant in his sandals, a dab of tomato ketchup on his chin.

  I felt a hand on my arm, and realised that Jack was squeezing me.

  ‘Good God, Fox. Good God. He’s a marvel.’

  A second later, it occurred to me that this was the first time Jack had uttered my name.

  —

  Afterwards we strolled through the perfect gardens, which stretched down towards the golf course. Jack grilled Robin about his piano practice and he chattered back eagerly – there was nothing he liked better, if he wasn’t actually playing.

  ‘Five hours every day! I’m surprised you have time to sleep and eat.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t shower.’

  ‘Washing is extremely overrated.’

  Robin studied Jack with clear approval.

  A pelican so
ared above the palms, its vast wingspan an echo of something prehistoric. Even the long grass was all precisely the same length, as though it had been strimmed with a ruler. An enormous butterfly landed on a brightly coloured bush and posed there, preening at its own beauty.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Robin in some excitement, pointing towards a blue pool near a manicured green. ‘A crocodile.’

  A long brownish shape rested on the edge, a monster lurking in paradise, still as death and just as sinister. The butterfly fluttered beside its eye but it remained motionless, unblinking.

  ‘Ah, an alligator,’ said Jack. ‘A rather large one. Perhaps we should take the long way round.’

  ‘Are there many of them?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes. The club allows them to stay here until they’re about five feet or so. Then they’re carted off on a tour bus to the Everglades. It seems a bit unfair. Our little slice of Eden is built over their swamp.’

  I glanced back at the alligator hunkered beside the pool, and the landscaped gardens seemed to shimmer as though they were a mirage. Beneath the layer of watered lawns peppered with sprinkler spouts, I sensed the ripple and ooze of the swamp. This manufactured paradise was only a thin layer; underneath the taut grass and the plastic pools, the wild and ancient shuddered and groaned. If there was old music here, it had been driven to the edges. Songs would seep out of the swamp in the dark.

  We walked back to the car park, Robin running ahead, neither Jack nor I saying much. I paused beneath a cupola of sky-blue jacquemontia.

  ‘Jack, why don’t you come home for a visit? Come and see the old place once more?’

  He frowned and looked away. For a second he looked old.