Variations on a Haunting Theme

by Alan Millard

  ‘I’m sure he would and I know that particular piece meant a lot to you. I remember you telling me how he played it for you when you stayed with him.’

  ‘Yes it did. I’ve since bought a recording of the whole work played by Glen Gould. You must hear it sometime.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that. Why don’t you come round for dinner one evening? How about next week? I’m free most nights.’

  This was going better than I’d expected. ‘I’d love to,’ I said.

  ‘Shall we say next Tuesday around seven?’

  ‘Excellent. I shall look forward to it’

  ‘And so shall I,’ she said, smiling as though she meant it. I wanted to give her a hug and a kiss but we shook hands and went our separate ways.

  The next few days passed all too slowly. I told them at the club about our chance meeting and her invitation. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ said Arthur predictably. Knowing more about him I knew for certain that Priscilla would have been perfectly safe with him. Whether she would be with me or not I wasn’t so sure. Time would tell.

  At exactly seven o’clock on the following Tuesday I rang the doorbell. As soon as Priscilla appeared I handed her a bunch of freesias. I remember Wendy telling me that freesias were her favourites because of their scent and armed with this information I’d called at the florists earlier in the day and picked out a dozen white, cream, pink, red and orange stems hoping Priscilla would like them. I watched as she took and smelled them. ‘These are beautiful,’ she said. ‘Freesias are my favourite flowers. Thank you.’ She gave me a light peck on the cheek which for someone who’d almost forgotten the feel of a woman’s touch was intensely thrilling brief as it was. I stood for a moment admiring her. The dowdy clothes and schoolmarm appearance had disappeared. She was wearing a bright red, knee-length dress. A silver cross on a gold chain dangled just above the low neckline revealing a generous glimpse of cleavage. Her hair released from its bun hung loosely down to her shoulders and made her look less severe. Despite her years or perhaps because of them she looked extremely appealing. She blushed to see me gazing at her. ‘Well, we can’t stand here all day, come in,’ she said, still smiling. ‘You know where the dining room is. I’ll just put these in a vase and join you.’

  She disappeared into the kitchen. After hanging up my coat I went straight to the dining room. Everything for the meal was laid out on a white embroidered tablecloth. A red rose in a small silver pot and a red candle in its holder provided the centrepiece. Glancing down at the ringed napkins and gold-rimmed side plates I was reminded of how the Bidgood’s table might have looked on Howard’s first visit to his new home and how different it was from the bare oak table in that dark, cavernous room where Howard and I had eaten.

  I sat next to the cat sprawled out on the chair beside mine. It lifted its eyelids and closed them again, disdainful but seemingly unperturbed by my presence. Getting up from my chair I walked across to the French windows and peered out at the garden where a pink cherry tree in full blossom blazed against the darkening sky. Priscilla reappeared from the kitchen and placed the vase of freesias on top of the display cabinet. She swept the cat from her chair as she had before and sat down. I came back from the window and sat next to her. ‘Did you bring the recording?’ she asked.

  ‘I did, it’s in my coat pocket.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll eat first and then go into the piano room and listen to it. I hope you like seafood. You aren’t allergic prawns or anything are you? I’ve done a creamy fish pie. Will that be all right?’

  ‘It sounds delicious.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go and get it.’

  We ate the meal and talked naturally. She told me about her piano pupils and the work she was doing with the school children for their spring concert. I told her about my life in retirement and my friends at the club. She laughed when I gave her an account of Howard’s observations on them and how accurate they had been. I wanted her to know about Wendy, all we did together and how much I’d missed her after she died. I also wanted to ask her about her own life, her family, her childhood and whether or not she had ever been in any relationships but there’d be time for that later. I hoped this would be the first of many more meetings. Where they might lead I wasn’t sure but enjoying her company as much I did I was open to all possibilities.

  The piano room was less cluttered than Howard had described it. Two lounge chairs were placed facing an open fire still glowing with incandescent coals. She shovelled a few more lumps from the scuttle on to the fire and settled in one of the chairs. ‘I know it’s spring,’ she said, ‘but it still gets chilly in the evenings. I thought a fire would make the place more cheerful. If you feel too warm let me know. Shall we listen to the music?’

  I would rather have talked for longer but suggested we could listen to the Aria and a few variations. After the third variation I asked if she’d care to play me something herself.

  ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to hear?’

  I remembered the shop at Sherborne. ‘Do you know any Beethoven?’

  ‘I do. Would you like something fast and lively or slow and gentle?’

  ‘Whatever you choose.’

  ‘Then perhaps a little of both. I’ll play you the slow movement from the Pathetique sonata which has a lively middle section.’

  As soon as she started playing I immediately recognised the tune though I’d no idea from where unless it was Classic FM. Listening to Howard had been a wonderful experience but watching Pricilla’s delicate fingers work their magic was even more enchanting. She returned to her chair when she’d finished.

  A framed photo of an elderly couple stood on the mantelshelf above the tiled surrounds of the fireplace. The mantelshelf was nothing like the heavy oak beam over Howard’s inglenook but the fire brought back memories and so did the photograph. I pointed to it and asked who the people were in the photo.

  ‘They’re my parents, both dead’ she said. ‘I like to keep the memory of them.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s strange to think that before photography was invented people who couldn’t afford portraits had nothing to remember faces by.’

  ‘Yes, we’re lucky. I only wish I’d recorded their voices. I’d love to hear the sound of them speaking again. Voices are so easily forgotten.’

  The photograph presented me with the perfect opportunity to mention Howard’s collection. I hesitated uncertain of how much to say but something about her openness and willingness to listen encouraged me to talk. ‘Howard had several photos,’ I said, ‘and he told me all about the people they portrayed.’

  ‘Really? How very intriguing! Tell me more.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. We’ve all evening and I’d like to know more about Howard. He was such a brilliant pupil and yet so secretive about himself. Whose photos were they?’

  ‘They were pictures of people he’d known through his work and each one had an interesting tale to tell. Do you really want to hear?’

  She said she did and so I gave her shortened versions of each of their stories beginning with Marcus Blake. She listened with interest and showed no signs becoming restless or bored. I told her how Howard had linked each tale with one of the Goldberg variations and knowing them as well as she did she understood the associations. When I finished with Howard’s story and how he’d predicted the day of his death she looked saddened and reached out placing her hand on my arm but said nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been talking too much.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me. It must have been very distressing for you. Have you spoken about it to others?’

  ‘No, but I had to tell someone and you seemed closer to Howard than anyone else.’

  She gave me a quizzical look. ‘Have you ever wondered why Howard chose you to hear these stories?’


  ‘Not really. I think he trusted me. I’m sure he’d have told anyone prepared to listen. ’

  ‘And you’ve never wondered why you were the one he chose?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought I was the only person gullible enough to believe him.’

  Priscilla sighed. ‘I know it sounds silly. It’s just that he involved you in a web of disturbing events that ended in his death. I only hope everything he told you died with him if you see what I mean.’

  ‘You aren’t suggesting something might happen to me are you?’

  She looked confused. ‘I don’t know what I’m suggesting. I’m probably just being silly.’ She dropped the subject and offered me a cup of coffee. I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought and Priscilla was beginning to look tired. ‘I’d better be going,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to see you again. You’d be welcome to come to me for a meal or if the weather’s fine we could go for walk.’

  ‘A walk sounds good. Give me a ring and we’ll arrange something. Here, let me give you my telephone number.’ She wrote it down on a scrap of paper and gave it to me. ‘Ring soon and take care.’

  The last words were said with a worrying emphasis. Could she really think that because Howard had involved me in his weird tales I was in some kind of danger myself? I dismissed the idea but walked home feeling depressed, not because I was bothered about her concerns for me but because I’d talked too much and listened too little. Why hadn’t I asked her more about herself and her parents? I was angry with myself for being so self-centred and inconsiderate. But all that could change. She seemed keen to meet again and I relished the thought of taking her out for a walk on a sunny, spring day. I would ring her soon to arrange a time and be careful not to repeat the mistake of talking about myself. In bed that night I fell asleep with Beethoven’s Pathetique ringing in my head.

  Throughout the following week I paid attention to the weather forecasts and outlook. The second weekend in May sounded particularly good with fine weather and the promise of unusually high temperatures for the time of year. Remembering Priscilla’s misgivings concerning Howard’s need to involve me in his bizarre tales my choice of Ninesprings as the ideal place for a walk would prove to be a mistake. It hadn’t occurred at the time to think she’d associate the place with Simon and Matthew. To me it was a popular beauty spot which in May would be bursting with life. I pictured the rhododendron flowers in full bloom and the fresh green foliage its best. With this in mind I telephoned during the week and arranged to meet on the following Sunday.

  I picked her up and drove to the car park where the old town station once stood. From there we took the path built over the old Taunton line which skirted the bottom of Summerhouse Hill and led to Ninesprings.

  ‘You aren’t expecting me to climb the hill are you?’ she said.

  ‘No, those days are long over though I often raced up as a boy.’ We reminisced about the old days. I told her how my friends and I would stand on the bridge and wait to be smothered in smoke as the steam train passed underneath. Afterwards we’d race up the hill to the hollow tree on top. From there we’d cross the field to the summerhouse and dare each other to go inside though none of us did.

  ‘So where are we going now?’ she asked.

  When I mentioned Ninesprings she looked uncertain. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a beautiful spot.’

  ‘It seems ghoulish to me especially after, well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of Matthew are you?’ Until that point I can honestly say that Matthew was the last person on my mind. ‘That was years ago,’ I said, ‘and I’m not going to let the past spoil the present. I’m with you and it’s a glorious day. What happened to Matthew has nothing to do with us.’

  She gave me a doubtful look. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, ‘but I hope you’re right.’ There were several people around enjoying the spring weather and as we joined them her mood lightened. We entered Ninesprings and wandered up and down through the maze of paths. As I’d hoped the rhododendron flowers were in full bloom. When we reached the grotto beside the lake I took Priscilla’s hand and was about to lead her inside to make a wish. Her refusal was sharp. ‘No,’ she said, ‘and you’re not to go in either.’

  I released her hand and we walked back to the car. She was silent and self-absorbed. I tried to jolly her up but without success. When I dropped her off at her house she invited me in for coffee. I followed her into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and reached for a jar from the shelf. ‘Is instant all right?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ I said, remembering low long Howard’s percolator had taken to deliver the coffee. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You could get two mugs from the cabinet. They’re on the left hand side. The spoons are in the middle drawer.’ She took a carton of milk from the fridge and placed it on the worktop. ‘The kettle shouldn’t take long to boil.’

  After the heavy atmosphere on our journey home I was starting to feel more relaxed and pleased to be in the kitchen helping out. As soon as the kettle boiled she filled the cups and asked where I’d like to sit. I chose to stay in the kitchen which felt more homely. We sat facing each other over the table. Sensing something wrong I asked what was bothering her.

  She took a deep breath. ‘If you want the truth I’ve been bothered ever since you came to dinner and told me those horrid stories. At first I thought nothing of them. I could see you needed to share them with someone and at the time I didn’t mind. But after you’d gone I couldn’t sleep. I wondered why Harold had picked on you to unburden himself. There was nothing I could do about him involving you but I wished you hadn’t involved me.’

  ‘What do you mean, involved? I wasn’t involved and neither are you. They were just stories and most of them, if they were true can easily be explained away.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. How do you account for Howard predicting the day of his death?’

  ‘Co-incidence, I don’t know. It doesn’t involve us in any way.’

  ‘But it does, can’t you see? Something dreadful happened to Howard and to everyone connected with him. And now we’re tainted, you by listening to his stories and me by hearing them from you.’

  ‘And you think something horrible is going to happen to us?’

  ‘Yes if you really want to know, I believe it’s possible.’

  I drank my coffee wishing I’d never mentioned Harold’s stories. If she honestly believed I’d imperilled her in some way I couldn’t imagine her wanting to have any kind of relationship with me. ‘Would you rather not see me again?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s too late now, isn’t it? The damage is done. But yes. I think it would be best if we kept away from each other, at least for a while.’

  I was shocked but knew there was nothing I could say to make her change her mind. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m convinced nothing will happen to you or me but if that’s what you want...’

  I made to leave hoping she’d change her mind but she didn’t. ‘It’s not what I want,’ she said, ‘it’s just how it is and I’m sorry too.’

  I drove home feeling wretched and angry. For several weeks I kept away from the club and regretted telling everyone about our dinner date. I knew from their winks and smutty remarks at the time they expected something more to come of it. All I wanted was to keep myself to myself, avoid everyone, lick my wounds and stew in my own juice. I still hoped she’d realise how silly the whole idea of our being affected by Howard had been and that she’d ring. Not wanting to miss such a call I stayed by the phone for hours each day but it rarely rang. When it did it wasn’t Priscilla. I collected the paper each day from the corner shop as soon as it opened so that our paths wouldn’t cross. I waited till late afternoon before going into town when I knew Priscilla would be at home teaching. My only mistake was having my club mates around fo
r a meal and letting them know where I lived. I wanted to avoid them. One of them was bound to call and check on me. When the bell rang a few days later it was Arthur Dawes who stood on the doorstep.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me popping round old man but we were wondering where you’ve been? Is everything all right?’

  I pretended I was pleased to see him. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘come in.’ The place was a tip. I hadn’t cleared up for ages but we found two chairs amongst the chaos.

  From the expression on Arthur’s face it was obvious that he’d noticed the mess. ‘We’ve all been worried about you old man. Even Bob asked where you were. Have you been unwell? You don’t look too good.’

  ‘No. I feel perfectly fit.’

  ‘Well you look a bit pasty. Are you sure you’re not going down with something? There’s a lot of this spring flu going around.’ I repeated I felt fine and offered to make him a cup of coffee which he declined. ‘No, I won’t stop. I can see you’re not well and I don’t want to catch whatever you’ve got.’ He laughed, unconvincingly. ‘We only wanted to know you were still up and about. We all miss you. Shall we see you at club when you’re feeling up to it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said showing him to the door. ‘Thanks for popping round. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Well get better first,’ he said. ‘I should see a doctor if I were you.’

  When he’d left I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale. Perhaps I was going down with something though I didn’t feel ill. It was probably the lack of sunshine. I needed to get out more but lacked the will. I returned to my squalor and sank in a chair next to the silent telephone. The last thing I wanted to do was think about Howard but impelled by some unaccountable urge I put on the Goldberg disc and listened to every note from beginning to end.

  Spring turned to summer but summer brought no relief. My earlier resolve to make more friends had completely vanished. I went about my daily routine as before, but gave no more than a passing nod to the people I met not wanting to hear their problems or tell them mine. I kept away from the club and was pleased after Arthur’s visit that none of the others called.