'I know… oh, don't get me wrong,' he said quickly as Grace started to protest. 'Mum's great, but it was Dad you could rely on to be there for you.' He moved across to the piano and opened the lid. 'It's the music I'll miss him for most of all,' he said. 'I loved it when we played together. In fact, Grace, my darling…' his fingers wandered up and down the keys '…I made a decision during the service in church today.'
'Did you?' Grace asked warily. 'What did you decide?'
George sat down on the piano stool. He stretched his arms and paused, his fingers poised over the keys: the thrilling opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth filled the room.
'Ssh,' Grace said. 'You'll wake Mum.'
George stopped playing as abruptly as he'd begun. 'I'm the only one who ever plays it, so I'm going to take Dad's piano down to Cornwall.'
Grace left George finishing the bottle and went to her room. She needed to speak to Franco. When they met, he'd been working at his parents' pizzeria, and she'd been teaching English in Naples. Franco was one of her students. When the course came to an end, he arrived one evening at the marble-floored palazzo she shared with other teachers, on the hill high above Naples. He stood in the courtyard below her window and called up to her. She leaned out and laughed when she saw him by the fountain, his arms stretched high above his head, an earthenware pot balanced precariously in his hands.
'I have the bolognese, Signorina,' he cried. 'Can you cook the spaghetti?'
A month later, he asked her to marry him.
Grace had planned to go to South America after Naples. But caught up in the excitement, and wanting to make her father happy—'How romantic! Like your mother and me, but in reverse!' Henry had said—she'd accepted Franco's proposal. After their marriage, her in-laws had bought them their own restaurant on an island off the Neapolitan coast. 'You're so lucky!' everyone told her.
Now she dialled the number of the ristorante. It would be midnight in Italy, time for the staff to wind down. At this time of year only the regulars would still be there, chairs gathered round one of the tables, circles of smoke rising as they argued about last Saturday's football results. Franco liked to join them for a nightcap. She pictured the reception area where the phone would be ringing out. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.
She lay down on the narrow bed. She was sleeping in the bedroom at the back of the house that she'd shared with Isabel until Isabel got married. She'd missed her big sister at first, but soon began to enjoy the extra space. Her collection of teddy bears still filled the windowsill. An enlargement of her first communion photo stood on the bedside cabinet. She remembered being so excited about her white dress and new patent shoes. Her parents stood on each side of her in the photo. Her mother wore a smart red suit, scarlet pointed shoes, a lace mantilla covering her dark hair. She was always far more glamorous than the other mothers. Her father was dressed in his blue blazer with its silver buttons. Grace only came up to his waist in those days and she used to stand on tiptoe to peer into the buttons, making faces at her distorted reflection.
Grace thought back to the night her father died. She and Franco had argued earlier on that day.
'Let's have a baby,' he'd said.
'Not that again.' Grace had been irritable. 'Look, I want to go through these new menus with you.'
'Why do you always change the subject?'
'Because I'm not ready to have a baby.'
'But we've been married for three years.'
'That's nothing. Is it so wrong to want you to myself for a bit longer?'
She shut the door of the office. She wound her arms round his neck. The last stragglers from lunch had left the restaurant and the street outside was quiet as the afternoon heat settled over it. 'Why don't we go upstairs?' she said. She pushed her body against his. She felt him grow hard and she smiled. 'See.' She moved her hand to caress him. 'You know you want to.'
Franco's brown eyes swivelled away from hers. 'Mamma's started to ask questions.'
Grace laughed. 'What's it got to do with her?'
'You don't understand.' Franco clasped her wrists, pulling her arms from behind his neck.
'Have you been discussing me with your mother?'
'You're not getting any younger.'
'Franco, what's going on?' Grace took his hands but he shrugged her off.
'The older you get, the more likely complications are.'
Grace had never noticed before how his chin jutted in the air when he didn't get his own way. 'I suppose Mamma told you that?' She couldn't keep the sneer out of her voice. Then she saw Franco's face. 'I didn't mean it,' she said quickly. 'It came out the wrong way.'
She reached for his hands again, but he pushed her away. She stumbled against the computer. The corner of the screen jabbed her in the small of her back. She closed her eyes against the pain.
The phone rang, the sound jerking her eyes open. As she picked up the receiver, Franco slammed out of the door. 'Pronto.' Her back throbbed.
'Grace, I thought you'd never answer.'
'Isabel?' Her sister hardly ever phoned—why now when she wanted to chase after Franco?
'It's Dad. He's in hospital.'
'What? When? What's wrong?'
'We've only just got here, but they think it's a heart attack.'
'I'm on my way.
Grace rushed to tell Franco. If they could get cover, he'd be able to come to England with her. Forget about the quarrel for now. But by the time she arrived in the restaurant, the revving of Franco's car engine had shattered the silence of the street outside. He'd gone.
Alfonso, the waiter, was standing on the pavement staring after Franco. He must have heard their raised voices. She kept her tone business-like. 'How many are in tonight?' If it was quiet, the staff could cope on their own. She glanced at her watch. She might still make the eight o'clock flight.
'A big party from one of the hotels booked in this afternoon. We're full, Signora.'
Five
Rick parked the car at the end of the road and walked the remaining distance to his parents' house. If he could keep his visit secret, so much the better. He got to the gate and reached out to push it. The wood was smooth under his palm, with a slight hollow worn by countless hands.
In an instant, he was back. School blazer hanging from one shoulder, cap stuffed in his bag, homework weighing down his steps. In his pocket lay the golden message—centre half in Saturday's game. The sports master posted the names for the match in envelopes on the notice board. One of the highlights of the week was crowding round the board on Thursdays, pushing and shoving to the front to find that little piece of magic pinned to the board. 'You're in, you jammy sod!' For a second, he felt the sputter of joy, all over again. Then he opened the gate.
A glimmer of light shone through a gap in the curtains from the right hand window. Damn. Someone was still up. No doubt George was knocking back Dad's whisky. Chances were Isabel would be there as well. She thought the sky would fall if she left their mother's side. Grace was the only one of his siblings he could stomach. At least she'd made something of herself, getting away from home, running that business in Italy. Not that Italy appealed to him. Christ, he'd had it up to here with Italy. When Mum and Eduardo got together, the yap, yap, yap was interminable.
He leant back and studied the upstairs windows. They were all in darkness, apart from a glint right at the top of the house—the attic that had been converted for George, because he was too important to have a bedroom on the same floor as the rest of them. What was it his mother used to say? 'Closer to the angels, mio tesoro.' Rick used to fantasise about cutting down the funny little ladder that you had to climb to get up to the attic and leaving 'mio tesoro' to starve up there. Not that it would have made any difference. His father would have sawn the house in half to rescue George.
He reached under the mat for the key and fitted it in the lock. Slipping into the hall, he eased the front door shut and leaned back against it. Listening. The odd bump and clink of central hea
ting pipes cooling down, but otherwise, nothing. He thought he heard the distant sound of a sneeze, but then, nothing. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness, lit only by the glow filtering through the fanlight from the street. He moved towards the dining room and put his ear to it. Nothing. The light shining through the curtain on to the front garden must have been a false clue. The idiots had gone to bed and left it on. Okay for them—they weren't paying the electricity bill. He presumed his father had left his affairs in order—he'd spent long enough hunched over his accounts—but if not, Rick knew precisely who'd be expected to foot the bill. And it wouldn't have Georgie boy's name on it.
He turned the knob of the dining room door and pushed. No one there. Despite the silence, he hadn't been able to dispel the fear that the entire family would be inside, waiting to shout 'Surprise!' Or something equally moronic. His eyes took in the table, the empty wine bottle, the two glasses, one still half-full. That wouldn't be George's for sure. He picked the glass up and drank the remains of the wine in one go. Ugh. It was warm and slightly sweet. He thought at least the old man had better taste than that.
His gaze shifted to the painting hanging over the fireplace. He'd never seen anything so ridiculous, but to hear his parents cooing over it, you'd have thought it was Picasso or Gauguin at the very least. Georgie boy might be able to play the piano, but he sure as hell couldn't paint.
Rick turned away, but as he did so, the back of his hand caught on the corner of the piano. Damn, that hurt. He cradled his knuckles in the palm of the other hand. They felt bruised, as if he'd aimed a punch at someone. It seemed out of all proportion to the glancing blow. He leant against the piano waiting for the pain to subside.
The wood of the piano was a mellow honey colour with an exquisite texture and even grain. It was a handsome piece of furniture and it would look perfect between the big bay windows in his drawing room. The lid of the piano was raised. No doubt George had been demonstrating his virtuosity yet again. Rick reached out and lowered it. It landed with a satisfying thud.
The lounge was opposite the dining room. Rick took a pace and fastened his hand round the doorknob. As he twisted it, pain pricked his knuckles. The door slid a couple of metres ajar and he squeezed through. His mother was in the room above and his plan would be scuppered if she woke up. The darkness in the room was thick and dense—it filled his nose and throat. He breathed deeply, screwing up his face at the aroma of stale alcohol.
He bent forward to feel for the lamp on the coffee table and blinked as the light hit his eyes. He glanced round. The chairs had been straightened and the cushions plumped up—all sign erased of the people who had crowded into the small space for the wake. Rick hadn't recognised half of them. People of all ages and types. Who would have thought there were so many who wanted to mourn the old bastard?
He moved across to the bureau set in the alcove to the left of the fireplace. This was what he'd come for. It was his father's, and from when they were children, they'd been forbidden to touch it. A small, brass key stood in the lock and Rick had often put his fingers to the key, imagining what it would be like to turn it, to open the lid and… And what? What the hell he was expecting to find in there, he didn't know. Papers, documents—he'd watched his father sorting through them often enough—but what about other things? Those things he'd needed to be alone for—when he'd say, 'Run off and play, there's a good lad,' and Rick would have to leave the room while his father presided over the bureau like Midas over his gold. There must be secrets in there.
Rick began with the drawers. They weren't locked, so it would be routine stuff. He searched through the piles of letters, cards, packets of photos, bills, his father's account books, each with the relevant year blocked on the front. He hesitated over the letters with his grandmother's elaborate writing on the envelopes. Perhaps they held some clue. Stupid idea. Why would his father confide in that bitch? At the back of the bottom drawer, he found an old black and white photo. Interesting that it wasn't in a packet like the others. He studied it: a woman and two men, all arm in arm. He turned the photo over. Across the top were the names, Henry, Dottie, Archie, with a date 23rd August 1948, and underneath the words: For Henry, In memory of a wonderful day, All my love, Dottie. He threw the photo back into the drawer and began piling everything carefully into its place. If anything, the drawers were tidier than before—no one would guess they'd had the once over.
He touched the key, his entry to the secret top section of the bureau. His mouth was dry and he had to keep swallowing. The little key turned smoothly. He drew the lid down, rubbing his hand over the leather inside. It wasn't tidy like the drawers, but a jumble of papers, strewn haphazardly, like a scene in a television drama after a burglary. Rick felt himself smiling—this was it, he was sure. Somewhere in here was the answer he wanted.
He began to search the papers one by one, piling them on the floor when he'd finished. Every so often he put his hands to his waist and stretched: Christ, this was a backbreaking chore. He checked his watch: 3 a.m. It was taking too long. He needed to be out of here. Returning to the papers, he almost ripped one in his hurry. The trouble was he didn't know what he was looking for. Some pages were full of lines of poetry, all in his father's copperplate writing. But were they his own work, or lines he'd copied from some book? Rick scanned a few, but they were all about hills and trees, and rivers and birds… and music—there was no escape from the damned music. Crescendo… lento… forte… pianissimo… Looked as if his father could only see life in terms of music. Rick remembered once asking him to explain what the terms meant. It still made him laugh when he thought of 'rococo'—excessive, ornamental, trivial—summed George up exactly.
Another few minutes and he'd found it. He punched the air and waved the envelope above his head, as if he'd won a six-figure deal. He ran his finger over George's name on the front of the envelope. It had to be what he was looking for. The envelope was sealed, but Rick could imagine the words his father would have used: You're bound to be upset, lad… you love that piano… as my eldest son, Rick deserves… I admire Rick enormously… his talents… Oh yes, Rick could see it clearly. In fact, thinking about it, wasn't it better that the letter was for George, that his father had intended George to see how much he'd loved his first son?
Rick bundled the remaining papers back into the bureau. He didn't care any more if they looked as if they'd been disturbed. He closed the lid and turned the key, the letter still clutched in his hand. He hesitated, his eyes on George's name, but then turned it over and ripped the envelope open. My dear George, As you know, you and I have shared the closest friendship possible between father and son… The opening words made Rick blink. His father had been famously undemonstrative, rarely giving hugs or kisses, even when they were growing up. Occasionally he'd called their mother sweetheart. So, it hurt to read the affectionate address to George, but it made sense to sugar the pill he was about to administer.
Rick skimmed the rest of the page: bond… music… piano… bond… piano… music… Christ, how much more of this crap was there going to be? Cut to the chase, Dad. He turned the sheet of paper over—only half a side to go. His eyes moved to the last paragraph: And so, lad, I want you to know that when I go, the piano is yours. It's possible Rick will claim it, but he's never played it, nor wanted to, so it's my wish that you should have it. Much love, Dad
Rick tightened his fist round the sheet of paper. The bastard. He felt the paper crinkle and collapse in his grasp. His nails dug into the flesh of his palm. The fucking bastard. He closed his eyes against the rage that churned the air around him. But the blackness was worse.
He dragged his sweatshirt away from his throat. It was choking him. Water. He had to get water. Stuffing the letter into the pocket in his joggers he reached for the doorknob. He made it to the kitchen before the nausea hit him. He flicked the light switch and staggered to the sink. The vomit catapulted into the bowl. His throat felt raw, and he hung over the draining board, hot and shaking. He ran the
cold tap and scooped up water to his face, before swilling the sink clear of vomit. Straightening up, he rubbed his hand over his damp face. He was tired. His bones felt as if they might melt. He had to get back to the hotel before Deanna woke and wondered where he was.
He swung round, ready to leave, when the clock caught his eye. That fucking station clock. His father's pride and joy. The nightly ritual of the winding. No one else allowed to lay a finger on it. Christ, the man was a tyrant. He reached up and wrenched the clock from the wall. It was heavier than he'd expected, but he put both hands to it and raised it in the air. One, two, three… when he reached ten, he hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall opposite and bounced off.
Rick stared at the shattered pieces: springs, coils and shards of glass littered the floor. What had he done? What the fuck had he done? His mother would never forgive him. Above his head, he heard the creak of floorboards, footsteps. He had to get out. If he made a quick escape, no one need see him. There was no reason for anyone to know he'd even been here. He looked back at the clock face, upturned on the floor. Would you believe it? Five to four. He had to stop himself laughing out loud. Both clock and old man had well and truly had it and both at five to four. He turned off the kitchen light and made a dive for the front door. He could hear voices on the landing. They were coming to check. He was out of here.
Six
Two days after the funeral, the temperature plunged overnight. When Isabel got up, frost sparkled on the grass in early morning sunshine, but the sky was an unbroken blue.
She rushed round the kitchen tidying up. She tucked the cornflakes packet in the cupboard and swept crumbs from the table into her palm. They would be here soon and she still had to change. She hadn't been going to bother. Since Brian left she'd got used to slopping around in old jeans and a baggy sweater, but Rose's comment the other day: 'Those jeans make you look fat, Mum' had stung.
The Piano Player's Son Page 4
