“One more thing before you go. Have you thought of a name for your new violin?”
Alexandra smiled. “Yes, her name is Nellie. I’ve named it after Mémé.”
“Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You remember I told you that she wasn’t all that fond of violin music.”
“I know, Papa. I hope that’s all right. The Maestro said if we dedicate a song to someone and play it as best we can, then that person will at least be charmed by the thought. I wanted to do that for Mémé with the whole violin.”
“Well that’s very thoughtful of you,” he said as he escorted her outside the café.
Waving goodbye, Alexandra set off for her uncle’s house with her beloved grandfather’s violin in hand. As she walked, she turned round and saw her father standing in the doorway of the café looking in her direction.
It was about a two-mile walk to her uncle and aunt’s place and Alexandra went along at her usual pace, trying not to get sentimental.
When she arrived, she went to the back door, which was the door always used by family and friends. Clara met her there.
“Please come in, dear,” she said. “Won’t you sit down? Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, Aunt Clara, I’ve already eaten. Are Owen and Uncle George at home?”
“Your Uncle George had to work today, but Owen is home. Would you like me to call him down?”
“Please. I’d like to see him.”
Owen came into the kitchen. He smirked.
“Hello, Alex. I see you have something that belongs to me.”
“This was our grandfather’s violin,” said Alexandra. “Before I give it to you, I want to play a song.”
Owen and his mother looked at each other.
“I’ve heard you’ve been making some great progress on the violin, Alexandra!” said Clara. “Please, go ahead and play a song for us. We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Owen?”
Owen scowled. Alexandra knew he didn’t like being outdone by her, but reasoned he had little choice now. She opened the case, placed the violin on her shoulder and began playing the first song that came to her mind, “Brahms’ Lullaby.” She played it twice through from beginning to end. The music resonated through the house and environs.
Clara squinted and wrinkled her nose.
Owen burst out laughing, his voice full of mockery. “That’s all? That’s it?”
“Owen! How can you say that?” said Clara. “Alexandra tried her best!”
“Mum, can’t you see how amateur she is? Ha! And you thought I was fooling you! She’s had all summer to play, and that’s all she’s done!”
Alexandra put her grandfather’s violin in its case, replaced the white cloth over the instrument and folded its corners in exactly as she had done earlier. She closed the lid and handed it all over to Owen. “I’d best be going home now.” She spun around, walked out of their kitchen, down the steps and to the sidewalk. She did not look back.
* * *
George Delmott had, in fact, been home the whole time. He changed his mind about going to the office on Saturday and, without telling his wife, took the time to do much needed painting in the guest house. When he heard the simple song being played, he thought Joseph had delivered the instrument and that Owen was playing it. He was pleased and smug that his plan had worked, and he continued happily at his tasks. After he finished, he returned to the main house where he found his wife and son already eating supper. He took his place at the head of the table.
“How was your day, dear?” asked Clara.
George ignored her question and started eating. “Did Uncle Joseph bring grandfather’s violin?” Owen produced the instrument, still in its case.
“Here it is, Father,” said the boy, beaming. “But Uncle Joseph didn’t deliver it. Alexandra did. It’s mine now and she’ll never touch it again.”
“Owen!” said his mother. “I’ve had quite enough! What’s wrong with you? It must have been very difficult for Alex to give it over. You know, she really liked that instrument.”
George was pleased that Owen was enjoying the moment and did not chastise him for his remarks. “Well, no matter. The instrument is in its rightful place and we needn’t worry any longer.”
“She was very polite, George,” said Clara. “Before she left, she even played us a cute little song. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
George Delmott stopped eating and glared at her. Then, bursting into a rage, he slammed his fist down hard on a bread plate, shattering it. Clara and Owen jumped in their seats.
“She did what?”
A look of terror spread across Clara’s face. Owen sat solidly in his chair.
“Can’t you see what she’s done?” he raged, face burning, droplets of spit shooting from his mouth. “She’s played us all for fools!”
“But George, really, it was just a simple little children’s song! What could be wrong with that?”
“Everything is wrong with that! How could you let her play? You have no idea what that violin can do in the right hands! You’ve no idea the kind of power it has and the kind trouble it can stir up for us!”
“You didn’t say there was any power in the violin, George! I thought it was only with –”
“We’re finished!” George cried. “We’re all finished!” He put his head down on the table and sobbed.
Chapter 14
Delphis Delmott’s violin sat unopened in its case, secure in the custody of George and Clara and safely stored in their wardrobe. George believed he had succeeded in achieving two of his three goals: First, to pry the family heirloom out of his brother and niece’s hands and second to stop Alexandra from directing attention away from his own family. The third and most important goal, to protect the secret he had carefully guarded these many years, still eluded and frustrated him.
George Delmott was a firm believer in the old saying – the end justifies the means. He could also see that his son was growing up to be just as conniving as he was. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing after all he thought; the world is fiercely competitive, people have to be tough in this life and one must do anything possible, legal or not, in order to survive. George hated to be outdone in his professional or personal life, and he believed this little twelve-year-old niece of his had blindsided him in the most serious way possible: through her graces and charms, thereby making her not only the greatest con artist of them all, but the greatest threat to him personally.
* * *
Remarkably, Alexandra had quite a pleasant walk home and even felt a bit of relief after giving her pépé’s violin to Owen, and pushed all negative thoughts from her mind. She liked strolling by herself as it gave her time alone to think without being distracted by the chatter of other people. On this particular walk she fixed her mind on being strong, being brave. She decided this was the perfect time to make a new start, and now she even had a lovely new violin to make that start with.
When she approached the café, she saw it was busy as usual. On nice days like these, little tables were set out under the sprawling canvass awning so that customers could sit outside. Since it was Saturday, Marcie had her day off and the new waitress, Sophie, was working while Bill was busy cooking. Joseph was running around filling in all the gaps.
“Hey where were you?” Charlie asked Alexandra from one of those tables. “We’ve missed Aydy and her fiddle! Won’t you play us a song?”
Alexandra remembered telling her father he would be her first audience on her new instrument, but of course this man seemed so insistent. “Hi, Mr. McKay!” she said, “I was in Toronto the last few days and now I’ve just returned from my aunt and uncle’s house. I’d love to play you a song, but I’m afraid there’s a name ahead of you on my dance card! Give me a minute?”
“Sure! But don’t keep us waiting!”
Alexandra entered the café and saw her father clearing a table. He saw her and spoke first. “Hi, Angel! How’d it go today?”
“Oh, Papa! It went really wel
l! It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought!” She sprang up and down on the balls of her feet several times, hands clasped behind her back. “I gave the violin to Owen! I did it!” she said, switching to twisting back and forth on her feet, her dress swirling around her legs in response to her movements.
“I’m so very proud of you, Angel!”
“Aunt Clara was there and she was really so nice to me! She’s such a sweet aunt! Papa, I only realized now how much I really miss her! But Owen, oh, he’s so sad and hurt and lonely. And Uncle George…” She stopped moving and stood still, looking down at the floor, her voice trailing off.
“What about Uncle George?”
“Oh I didn’t see Uncle George there, Papa,” she said matter-of-factly. “Aunt Clara said he was working, but I –”
“Well I see who she’s saved her best dance for! Hey boss, can we be next?” said Charlie, walking in and roughing up Joseph on the shoulder.
Joseph looked at Alexandra and winked, but spoke to Charlie. “Sure, if it’s fine by her, it’s fine by me.” He turned to face Charlie. “May I join you, though?”
Alexandra smiled and dashed off upstairs to get her new violin.
When she returned, she found her father sitting outside at one of the tables talking to Charlie. Both men sat straight up in their chairs when the young musician presented herself and, smiling, she curtsied before she began.
She played some of her lively melodies, her bow dancing and twisting gracefully across the strings while the fingers on her left hand obeyed her commands like good little soldiers. All the patrons of the café wandered outside, and they clapped and stomped to her rhythm. Alexandra roamed through the crowd, to each person and played gaily for them. She played to a young couple, to somebody’s old mémé and pépé, to the young family with a baby, even to Sophie and Bill who had interrupted their work for a few moments. She even played to café regulars Mrs. Tellier and Mrs. Labonte. It was a miracle her right arm hadn’t banged into anyone, and she felt like her old self again. She always tried to do her best whenever she played, remembering the wise proverb the Maestro once told her: “You’re only as good as your last performance.”
* * *
As the late day sun dipped below the horizon, magnificent shades of pink and red emblazoned the clouds and scattered these colours across the wide dome of the twilight sky. Alexandra remembered when this time of day belonged to the lamplighters, who until the previous year set about their work diligently going up and down the streets lighting each gas lamp, in turn, with remarkable speed and efficiency. Now the streets near the café were lit using electric lamps suspended on wires over the middle of the streets. Though many houses and businesses were using electricity, it was a rather unreliable commodity at best and subject to frequent outages. Joseph preferred the stability of gas lighting, though the long summer days hardly brought about such a need.
When the café closed for the day, Joseph went outside to join his daughter at one of the little round tables and enjoy the evening twilight. She was playing a series of slow songs which echoed into the nearly empty streets. During the middle of a particularly sad song, she stopped and turned a worried face to her father.
“What’s wrong, Angel? I like your songs; they’re such a nice, peaceful close to the day.”
“No, that’s all right, Papa. I’ve quite finished for today.”
Alexandra held her Nellie violin in her lap, scroll straight up, cradling it like a child. Still looking at her father, she drew in then released a deep breath.
“Papa, please tell me how Pépé died.”
He studied her face, wondering why she would ask such a question. Then again, they talked about the man and his life so much that it seemed reasonable now they could talk about his death.
“All right. As you know, he died of a heart attack when you were only four. Your mémé had already passed on by then but I still helped on the farm from time to time. Your Uncle George was already practicing law in those days.”
“Where was Pépé when he had his heart attack?”
“Well, he was home and your Uncle George had just arrived when it happened.”
“Where were you?”
“I was out buying farm supplies. Uncle George met me at the door when I returned. He simply told me that me that our father had died.”
Alexandra frowned. “Papa, did Pépé always have a weak heart?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he did. He had problems with his heart his whole life.” Joseph thought it strange she would ask such a question.
“Did Uncle George do anything to help Pépé when he had his heart attack?”
“Why of course he did everything possible to help him, my dear!”
“Papa, I have a feeling Uncle George didn’t do anything at all to help Pépé,” she said plainly.
“Why would you say so?”
She looked at him with big, unsure eyes, stroking the strings and bridge of her instrument with her fingertips. She sighed. “Papa, when I was playing Pépé’s violin I would get strange visions of the people who were listening to me. It didn’t happen with everyone though, and I can’t explain why,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I could see things they were doing in their past, maybe some experiences they had. Sometimes the visions came to me when I was playing, and sometimes they’d come later.
“The first happened when I was playing for a beggar woman near the train station. Papa, I could see things that happened to her in her past. It felt so real. Then I had a vision about Mr. Walker’s past when I played for him, and then it happened with Marcie … and with Robbie and Emma … and even with the Maestro.”
She adjusted her violin in her lap, clearly so her tears wouldn’t drip on it and risk marring the auburn finish.
Joseph listened, bewildered. He knew his daughter well enough. He knew she wouldn’t fabricate such stories, but at the same time she did have a very vivid imagination. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Papa, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you! I was having fun playing the violin, really I was, and I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want you to think I was crazy and I also didn’t know if Pépé’s violin was really magic or not. Most of all, I didn’t want you to take it away.”
By now the girl had tears trailing down her cheeks. Joseph reached across the table to dab them with a serviette. She had always been such an emotional creature. “Why did you ask me how Pépé died?”
“Because, Papa, I had a vision about that too. But it can’t have been a vision like the others because I would only get a vision when somebody was there while I was playing. Uncle George wasn’t even home.”
The vision was still interesting to Joseph, and though he could see his daughter was distraught over it, he had to hear. “Tell me about the vision you had of your Uncle George.” Joseph reached across the table and held Alexandra’s free hand. “It’s all right, you can tell me.”
The girl glanced up at him with teary eyes. She sniffled. “I was in their house and I really wanted to play a song for Owen. I don’t know why I wanted to play a song and I didn’t even know which one I wanted to play until I got there. I had a vision about Owen first,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Go on Angel, I’m listening.”
“It’s that Uncle George speaks so cruelly to him all the time. He’s always telling Owen how stupid he is, that he shames the family and that he’s never going to be anything good in his life. Also, Aunt Clara is always so busy; she never spends any time with Owen. He hasn’t got a friend in the world and I think that’s one of the reasons he’s such a bully,” she sniffed, gasping and choking back tears.
“But then Uncle George, oh, it’s really so awful, Papa! I had a vision that Uncle George had a very bad quarrel with Pépé in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Pépé fell to the floor and was turning blue. He was trying so hard to breathe; he was reaching his arm out to Uncle George for help, but Uncle George did nothing at all to help him. He just stood there
– watching.”
Alexandra began crying uncontrollably and almost dropped her violin. The revelation of her vision froze Joseph fast in his chair. He could not question the validity of his daughter’s vision as he clearly remembered the day he found his father on the floor of the kitchen as well as the dazed, stupefied look on his brother’s face.
“My goodness,” he said in a low voice. “Have you told anyone else about these visions?”
“Yes, Papa. I told Emma. That’s all. I swear it. I’ve told no one else and I made Emma promise not to tell anyone.”
Joseph rose from his chair and walked around to his daughter. He carefully took the violin from her weak hands and placed it on the table. He bent down to her level, and she instinctively put her arms around his neck and placed her head on his shoulder. She began sobbing anew, her tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt.
Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief Page 11
