The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  Isabel looked at her watch: the time had flown by.

  'I suppose we'd better go. They'll think we've taken root here soon.' Simon pulled on his jacket. 'Thank you for today,' he said. 'I'm sorry you're having a tough time, but it's been great to meet you.' He leant forward and kissed her cheek.

  She scrabbled under the table for her bag. Her skin seemed to burn where his lips had touched. 'It's been lovely,' she agreed. 'Sorry to burden you with my problems.'

  He gave a little bow. 'All part of the service. Perhaps we can do it again sometime?'

  She had set out this morning determined she would make some excuse if he suggested another meeting, but now she found she wanted to see him again. 'I'm going to visit my brother in Cornwall soon, but when I'm back…'

  Simon reached inside his jacket and felt in a pocket. 'Here's my card. Give me a call.'

  Twelve

  Eva stopped in the bread aisle of the supermarket and reached out for a white crusty loaf.

  Isabel caught hold of her hand. 'I thought you said you've been throwing bread away.'

  Eva snatched her fingers from the loaf. 'Henry had toast every morning after his walk and a sandwich for lunch. I can't get used to not needing the bread.'

  'Be strong, Mum. Dad wouldn't want you to go to pieces.'

  'No. He used to tell me off if I was being "too Italian".'

  As she unpacked the shopping from the car, Isabel remembered Grace's email. She waited until they settled down in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Her mother had spread some Florentines on a plate. Normally Isabel loved them, but when she bit into one, it tasted dry and stuck in her throat.

  'Who's Archie Stansfield?' she asked.

  'Why?' Her mother's mouth tightened into a thin line. 'Who told you about him?'

  'Grace spoke to him at the funeral. She wondered who he is.'

  Her mother swept crumbs from the table into her hand. 'He was a friend of Henry's.'

  'I've never heard of him.'

  'They hadn't seen each other for years.'

  'Why not?'

  'Your father never said.'

  'I thought you told each other everything.'

  'No wonder Brian walked out, if you pried into every part of his life!' Her mother reached towards the plate and took another Florentine. She bit into it, breaking it in two.

  'That's cruel, Mum.' Isabel tried to keep her voice steady.

  'You have to work to hang on to your man. Perhaps you spent too long on those piano students of yours.'

  'You mean that justified Brian going off with some bimbo, do you?'

  'Of course not, but a contented man doesn't stray too far from home. Look at Henry and me…'

  Her mother's constant talk about how much Henry had loved her had a hollow ring now. 'Let's leave Dad out of this. Tell me more about Archie Stansfield.'

  'Archie… Archie… What is all this about Archie Stansfield?'

  'I'm intrigued. They hadn't seen each other for years and yet he turned up at the funeral.'

  'You're giving me a headache with all these questions. I'll have to go and lie down.' Her mother leaned on the table as if to lever herself up. 'Help me, would you, cara?'

  'In a minute, Mum.' Isabel felt stronger since the conversation with Simon. She wouldn't be fobbed off this time. 'Who told Archie Stansfield about the funeral?'

  'How should I know?'

  'It wasn't you?'

  'Certainly not!'

  'You must have some idea.'

  'If I knew, Isabel, why would I say I didn't?'

  'It wouldn't be the first secret you've kept, would it?'

  The words were out before Isabel could stop herself. She hadn't planned to come out with it like that.

  Her mother hands went to her hair as they always did when she was flustered. She took out some of the pins that held it in place. She gripped one between her lips while she repositioned the other. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'George, Mum. What you told me about George.'

  Her mother stood up. The chair scraped across the floor tiles, setting Isabel's teeth on edge. Eva gathered the crockery together. She placed the saucers on top of each other and slotted one cup inside the other. She stacked them on the tray without a word.

  Isabel had seen her behave like this before. It meant the subject was closed. 'You can't make me keep a secret like this,' she persisted.

  Her mother picked up the tray and carried it to the draining board. She tipped the plate up, so that the remaining Florentines slipped into the biscuit tin. She turned on the tap and water splashed noisily into the bowl.

  'I should never have told you.'

  'No, you shouldn't. But now you have, you've got to tell the others as well. And if you don't, I will!'

  Her mother swung round. Her face had gone white. Her hair was escaping from its pins and hung down over one shoulder. 'If your father could hear you.'

  Isabel stared at the fine lines etched into her mother's top lip. She had never tried to defy her before.

  Eva's rages were scary. Once, she'd stood at the top of the stairs and flung down a glass bowl Henry had given her as an anniversary present. It had landed on the tiled floor in the hall and smashed into pieces. Isabel had been the only one at home and she'd hidden in the garden until she heard her father's car pull up. She remembered now how she'd crept into the house and found him kneeling at the foot of the stairs, wrapping shards of glass in layers of newspaper. He'd put his finger to his lips and shook his head. 'Leave it, lass,' he'd whispered. 'Go and play.' It was the memory of the sadness in his eyes that day that spurred her on now.

  'It's not fair to me that I know,' she insisted, 'and it's not fair to the others that they don't.'

  'What is this fair?' Her mother's face creased as if the word had a nasty taste. 'Nothing in life is fair. How is it fair that your father's left me to cope on my own? How is it fair that my papa died and my brothers made me come to England? How is it fair that I hardly ever see my beloved Italia? How is it…'

  Isabel caught hold of her mother's shoulders. 'All right, Mum. You've made your point.'

  She felt her mother crumple against her. A stray strand of her hair tickled Isabel's cheek and her mother's brown eyes gazed into hers. 'I knew you wouldn't be cruel to your poor mamma. Not when her heart is breaking for darling Henry.'

  Isabel recognised that wheedling tone in her mother's voice. She'd seen her get round her father so many times. She let her hands drop. 'You nearly had me there, Mum. But I'm not backing down on this one. I'll give you till after Christmas. If you haven't done something by George's birthday, I'm telling the others.'

  Thirteen

  Rick always relaxed once he turned off the A1 and left Newcastle behind him. Twenty minutes and he'd be home. He stretched his neck, easing it from side to side. He lowered his shoulders and massaged his forehead, his fingers moving in small circles, as Deanna had taught him.

  Two days after he'd made Jim Foster, his marketing manager, redundant, Jim's father had died following a stroke. Rick had written to Jim to say how sorry he was, but there'd been no reply. He'd got Deanna to send flowers to the funeral, but when he asked members of staff who'd attended how it had gone, they mumbled an answer. He could see they blamed him in some way for Jim's father's death, but what was he supposed to do? He was hardly responsible for the downturn in the IT world. He was struggling to keep his company afloat when so many others had gone to the wall. And the new house had cost him far more than he'd bargained. The New York designer probably had been over the top, but Deanna had wanted it, and he found it hard to refuse her anything, especially since she'd been ill.

  He turned left to Rothbury. This was his favourite bit of the journey. It was a clear night and his headlights picked out the occasional gleam of water where the River Coquet snaked its way along the left-hand side of the road. The woods of Cragside rose up on his right. He drove on into the village. There was hardly anyone about. He'd been worried Deanna would find it t
oo quiet when they'd moved. After an unhappy start in Newcastle, she'd made lots of friends and worked in a boutique two days a week. But she loved Rothbury. Said she was a country girl at heart and felt more at home there than anywhere else they'd lived in England. Rick passed the war memorial and the market cross, drove along High Street and up the hill. He felt that familiar tightening in his chest. He would see Deanna in a few minutes. Even after all these years the thought excited him.

  He dropped his briefcase on the floor in the hall. He bent down and unzipped the outside pocket. Slipping his hand inside, he felt for the envelope. Yes, it was nestling there safely. His first thought when he'd found his father's letter to George had been to destroy it. When the letter, with its hated words, had gone, the spears of anger might disappear too. But he decided to keep it—a symbol, an emblem of what he'd fought against all his life: his father had loved George more.

  Deanna was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, her eyes closed. Some country and western music was playing. It wasn't his favourite sound, but it reminded Deanna of home. Homesickness afflicted her more since the cancer. As always these days, it took a few moments to adjust to her changed appearance. When he was away she became her healthy self in his mind. Her golden hair shimmered and her blue eyes shone. In reality, her face was pale and thin. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her wonderful hair had gone, leaving only a few unsightly tufts. Rick preferred it when she wore one of her turbans. Then he could pretend that nothing had changed. But tonight her head was bare. He leaned over and kissed her lips.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him with a wan smile. 'Hi honey.' Only her voice hadn't changed. It still held that deep sexy note that had captivated Rick the first time they met. 'How was your day?'

  He sat down next to her and drew her feet on to his lap. He began to massage the soles in the way he knew she liked. They still hadn't made love, and he missed the physical contact.

  'So so,' he said. He didn't like to worry her unless he had to. 'How about yours?'

  'I slept off and on. Can't wait to finish the treatment.'

  He rested his head against the back of the sofa. He loved this room. The drawing room was much grander, but they used this every day. It faced south with wonderful views across the river. The designer had chosen burnt ochre for the walls and curtains and two button-backed yellow sofas stood opposite on either side of the fireplace. He'd thought the pale yellow carpet hopelessly impractical when Deanna suggested it, but it looked good, especially against the wooden floor.

  'When are you starting your piano lessons?'

  Rick's head jerked forward like a hound scenting blood. 'Need a piano first.' He shifted Deanna's feet from his lap. 'I've seen one in Newcastle, but the bloke's asking too much.'

  'You deserve a treat, honey.'

  'I haven't got cash to burn.'

  'I know, but you do so much for the girls and me and…'

  'I'm not paying what he wants. But he'll come down.'

  Deanna put her hand on his. 'I'm glad, anyway, that you've given up the idea of your dad's piano.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'If you're buying one…'

  He stood up, kicking one of Deanna's satin slippers as he did so. The vivid pink sat on the yellow carpet like a shadow on a pool of sunlight. Alicia had bought the slippers for her mother, and Rick thought they were hideous.

  'Where are the girls?' he asked.

  'Upstairs doing homework. Camilla's got coursework due in tomorrow, and you know Flavia never stops studying.'

  Their daughters went to a girls' private school in Newcastle. Flavia was the most academic and was hoping to go to Cambridge to study art history. Rick was torn between pride and an obsessive fear that gnawed at his insides, when he thought about one of his princesses leaving home.

  'Where's Alicia?'

  'She rang a while ago. She's staying in Newcastle tonight.'

  'Who with?'

  'A friend, I guess. I didn't ask.'

  'She'd better not be with that mechanic.'

  Deanna patted the sofa. 'Come and sit down again.'

  Rick perched on the edge. 'You're going to have to talk to her.'

  'You could try.'

  'She won't listen to me.'

  'Darling, it's no good lecturing her.'

  'I'm her father.'

  'I know you adore her, Rick, but she's an adult. You've got to let her make her own decisions, and her own mistakes if it comes to that.'

  'I'm not having her with that no-hoper,' he insisted.

  'I've told you before: his name's Gary.'

  'I don't give a damn what he's called.' Tension spiked the back of Rick's eyes. 'I've asked around at work and Samantha knows him. His brother's into drugs.'

  'That doesn't mean Gary is. And Alicia would never do anything like that. She's promised us.'

  'Like she promised us she'd get straight As.'

  When Alicia failed her 'A' levels the previous summer, Rick had wanted her to go to a crammer to retake them. Instead, she'd got a job in the restaurant at the top of the Baltic Centre. She thought working there was glamorous with its views up and down the Tyne and the Millennium Bridge arching across the river below. And all sorts of famous people came to visit. She'd been full of some film star she'd served the other day. But Rick had been mortified when they'd gone there for lunch one Sunday and Alicia had waited at their table.

  Deanna stroked her palm across Rick's forehead. 'Sit back. Relax.' Her hand was cool and smooth. 'Don't be such a cross patch.' Rick leant back and closed his eyes. The CD had finished. Only the tick of the clock, regular as a heart beat, and the muffled sound of music from upstairs disturbed the silence. He sighed. 'That feels just right, Deanna. You're so good for me. I don't know what I'd do without you.'

  'Ssh.' Deanna touched his mouth with her lips. 'You won't have to do without me.'

  She got up from the sofa. 'I'll fix us some supper,' she said. She crossed the room to the door. 'Hey, I almost forgot… your mom phoned today. She and Isabel are coming for Christmas. Isn't that just great?'

  Fourteen

  'You should have told me before we got married!' Franco leaned across the desk until his face was close to hers. The office was small and seemed airless. Grace felt frisked by fear as she looked up into his eyes.

  'I didn't know myself then,' she said.

  Franco turned on his heel, and the door swung to and fro behind him.

  She tried to concentrate on the figures in front of her. In the summer she'd taken over running the books, but they'd got in a muddle while she was away. Franco's appearance in the office had unsettled her.

  Last night they'd had another row. She thought about Franco's mother, a woman she couldn't take to, no matter how hard she tried. Mamma controlled her husband and six sons and expected her daughters-in-law to do what they were told too. Her approach to objection was to raise her voice an octave and talk at twice the speed. Grace could imagine what she'd been putting Franco through about the fact that they'd been married for two years and there was no sign of a bambino.

  Suppose—just suppose—she agreed and had a baby. She imagined giving Franco the news. He'd dance that funny little jig he did when his football team won or the restaurant had a bumper week. The funny little jig she'd found so endearing at the beginning. He'd be happy, and his happiness was infectious. He'd cosset her; his mamma would fuss over her; she'd be included for the first time in the gossipy circle of his brothers' wives. But if she had a baby, she'd be stuck for the rest of her life: Franco, his family, Italy, would be her world.

  This morning an email from Isabel had arrived. It was mostly about someone called Simon and how much she liked him, but at the end she'd added:

  By the way I asked Mum about Archie Stansfield. She said he was a friend of Dad's but they hadn't met for years. She didn't know why, nor who told him about the funeral. She got stroppy. You know how she is when she doesn't want to talk about something. Anyway, why are you so interest
ed in this Archie?

  Grace got up from the desk and went into the restaurant. She moved among the tables, straightening cutlery, checking glasses. She crossed to the big window and gazed out. It was one of those rare grey days on Ischia, when the horizon had settled on the sea. The rain sheeted down so she could only just make out the castle rising up from its shroud of mist. Outside, flecks of white bobbed on the sea.

  Her mind churned with the swelling ocean. What happened then? Dottie fell pregnant. She'd replayed the conversation with Archie Stansfield in her mind so many times that those three words were engraved: Dottie fell pregnant. She'd leapt up when he said them. Heard the little gasp escaping from her mouth. Felt her knee knock against the tray of tea and biscuits. Watched them land on the floor—brown liquid pooling on the carpet, bits of crockery, sugar, broken biscuits. Archie Stansfield had rushed to get help from reception, and in the mêlée, Grace had escaped.

  She fixed her eyes on the castle, willing its walls to emerge from the mist. The contrast with her first view of Ischia could not have been greater. It had been a hot day in late May and her cotton dress was sticking to her. The heat of Naples was not yet as intense and debilitating as it would become in high summer, but it was still a relief when the ferry pushed out into the Bay of Naples and the wind flicked and lifted her hair from her face.

  Grace hadn't been sure when Franco's parents first suggested buying them their own restaurant. But in the end she found it difficult to refuse Franco when his face crumpled in that way. He had plenty of experience from working with his parents and she—she had the elegance and beauty to charm their customers, Franco told her, gripping her hand as the boat bucked beneath them. He'd found the perfect place for them. Even the gods had adored Ischia, the 'green island'. Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty had bathed in its thermal waters, and the archangel Michael was said to have appeared there, giving his name to the island's southern tip, Sant'Angelo.

  As the ferry drew closer to the island and first, Mount Epomeo and then, the Castello d'Aragonese came into focus like a developing negative, Grace had felt more positive. Her doubts about Franco were probably a result of the strangeness They'd got married quickly; there hadn't been time to adjust. She took in the green hills; pastel-coloured houses clustered around the harbour and the stretches of white beach, and decided she could be happy on this paradise.