But her father's death had catapulted her into a scary realm. She wasn't sleeping. Although she went to bed long before Franco finished in the restaurant, she feigned sleep when he finally slipped in beside her. Fears for her family, stricken with arguments, baited her brain. What was happening back in England? Her mother had been protected all her life. First by her father, then her brothers, and for nearly fifty years by the ever-adoring Henry. Grace sometimes wondered if her father had sacrificed something of himself when he married Eva. He'd always seemed happy enough, but…
Grace found Franco in the storeroom behind the kitchen. He was sorting through the chiller cabinet and the glassy eyes of a fish stared up at her. Franco glanced round as she touched his arm. He was wearing thick rubber gloves and his expression was as cold as the air that seeped from the cabinet.
'Franco…' The word came out in a breathless squeak and he didn't seem to hear her above the hum of the chiller. 'Franco, I need to talk to you.' This time she managed to control her voice. 'Can we talk?' she asked. With obvious reluctance, he closed the lid and slowly peeled off his gloves.
Grace poured them both a cup of coffee and they sat at a table. Alfonso looked round the door from the kitchen when he heard them, but she waved him away. Grace started to explain how she felt. How difficult it was to be far away from home and family with her father gone. She'd never been homesick before, had always loved travelling. Nothing had prepared her for this, she told Franco. She'd probably come back too soon after the funeral. She should have stayed longer and adjusted to his absence. As it was, she kept imagining her father was there as usual, kept seeing him sitting at the piano.
'I'd like to go home and stay with Mum.' The words spilled on the table between them and settled.
'I need you here!'
'Just for a week or two.' Grace cast a glance round the room. 'We're hardly rushed off our feet.'
'No, Grace, I need you.' Franco's mouth turned down at the corners in that sulky pout she was noticing more and more.
'A few days, then.'
'You're my wife. You should be here.' He kept his eyes fixed on the table, refusing to meet Grace's gaze. She took his hand in hers. It still felt cold. She held it between both her palms and rubbed until it was warmer. 'Isabel is going to stay with George, and I don't want Mum to be on her own.' She could see Franco was wavering. 'I'll be back this time next week.' She leaned across the table and kissed him. 'And then we'll talk about a baby, I promise.'
Fifteen
George lived in Penzance in a large Victorian house, five minutes from the sea front. He shared it with four friends, and on Isabel's first evening, they had supper round the big table in the kitchen. She watched George spooning out helpings of shepherd's pie and topping up people's beer. He seemed a different person: none of the brittleness and bravado he displayed to the family. Someone made a joke about his cooking and they all laughed.
Suzanne and Freddy were a married couple in their forties. He was six-foot five, with a mass of frizzy grey hair. She was tiny and as neat looking as Freddy was wild. Mark was sitting next to George. He was so good-looking, Isabel couldn't help staring. It was warm in the kitchen and he wore a tight white T-shirt that emphasised his thinness. Chloe was bubbly and pretty. With her dark hair scraped back in a knot and her paint-stained fingernails, she looked like a schoolgirl, but must have been in her twenties. She'd been working at the studio today, she explained to Isabel.
The evening was fun: no tedious piano lessons, no solitary supper by the television listening for Rose's key in the door, no waiting for a phone call from Brian. It was past midnight by the time George carried her bag up several flights of stairs to a room at the top of the house.
'Hope you sleep well.' He dropped the bag on the bed. 'The pipes are a bit noisy, I'm afraid.'
Isabel yawned. 'I'm so tired. I'd sleep through a tornado.'
'Chloe's next door if you need anything.'
Isabel peered out of the small sash window into the darkness beyond. 'Can you see the sea from here?'
'Just a hint between the rooftops and the sky.'
Isabel thought of the flat in London, hemmed in on three sides by buildings; a patch of garden and a glimpse of playing fields through the fence couldn't match the sky and rooftops.
'It was good to see you laughing this evening,' George said.
Isabel swung round.
'If it's any consolation, I never did like the bastard.'
'Brian?'
George grinned, the sort of grin you expected to come with missing front teeth and dirt-smudged cheeks. 'No need to look so shocked, Sis. I do have some taste, you know.' He put his arm round her shoulder and drew her to him.
Isabel didn't know what to do. Her arms got in the way of the hug, and the scent of his after-shave made her nostrils prickle. She moved her head and his lips grazed her forehead. She waited as long as she could and then eased away, hoping the movement was natural.
George sat down on the bed.
She sensed his eyes on her as she fiddled with the zip on her bag. She pulled out her nightie.
'I should have asked before,' he said. 'How's Eva? I've had some interminable phone calls with her since I got back.'
Isabel was conscious of the filmy material of the nightie. She'd bought a new one specially, but now the pale pink silk seemed stupidly glamorous, and she shoved it under the pillow. 'I'm glad to get away, to be honest.'
George took her hand in his. 'Poor you. Left to hold the fort.'
'She's obsessed at the moment with Dad's clock. She's latched on to it as some sort of symbol of the fact he's gone.'
'Can it be mended?'
Isabel felt her hand growing hot in George's grasp. 'I could take it somewhere, but I doubt it. It's in too many pieces.'
'Weird, wasn't it?'
'Was spooky that it fell down at five to four.'
George dropped Isabel's hand. He flicked the end of the zip on her bag backwards and forwards. 'I meant weird that it fell down at all.'
'The screws had worn loose, hadn't they?'
'Not Dad's ghost then?'
'Ghost?' Isabel clutched the headboard. 'Don't say things like that!'
George laughed. 'Isn't it supposed to be the unquiet dead who walk? The ones who can't settle.'
'Shut up! And don't start saying that to Mum.'
George got up and went to the door. 'I'm only joking, Sis.'
'Good.'
'Still weird though.'
Isabel climbed into bed. Despite her assertion to George, sleep didn't materialise. She wasn't used to a single bed and felt stifled by the sloping ceiling above her head, which she could sense even in the darkness. George was right. The pipes clunked endlessly as the central heating cooled.
It was strange to think her father had been here only a few months ago. What had he thought of this unconventional household? He hadn't said much when he arrived home. He'd carried the painting George had done of him in from the car and hung it above the mantelpiece in the dining room. 'I think the lad will make it work this time,' had been his only comment.
For the hundredth time since her father's death, Isabel turned over the thought that Henry was not George's father. She'd felt determined when she gave her mother the ultimatum, but she didn't know whether she'd go through with it. Usually she pushed it out of mind. But being there with George, she knew the secret was growing, tumour-like, inside.
The studios were bright and airy and after a second cup of coffee, Isabel began to wake up. Mark was in the room next door taking a life class. She helped George set out brushes and paper for his group of beginners. This was their third week and he told her how he was going to show them painting techniques, placing little pots of blue next to each of the eight easels. The class was mainly middle-aged women, and Isabel noticed George's popularity. He flirted, praised their work, listened to their anecdotes. She watched them gaze up at him adoringly.
George fitted the artist's image: dark good looks, tor
n jeans, a loose checked shirt, the hint of a beard. But he was a good teacher. Far more patient than she was with her students. He went from one easel to the next. 'Wonderful!'… 'Brill!'… 'If you try dragging that sponge over the paint…' She studied him as he moved round the room. He was attractive… sexy, she thought.
Next week the group was going to have a go at landscapes and she wished she could be there to see how they got on. She wondered if her father had enjoyed himself as much. She went into the kitchen to make coffee and set out the sandwiches and fruitcake Suzanne had prepared. Mark's class had finished and George was helping him clear up before the afternoon's session.
The sandwiches looked tempting—thick crusty bread and hunks of cheese with pickle. She was famished. She crossed the corridor and opened the door of the other studio. Easels stood in lines down the middle of the high-ceilinged room. Half-finished canvases were stacked against walls. At one end a low couch draped with a red throw stood on a raised platform.
Isabel's eyes were drawn to the huge window at the other end of the studio, which looked out on to the sea. The light was unexpectedly bright from the expanse of glass. George and Mark were silhouetted against the winter sunshine. They had their backs to Isabel as they gazed out deep in conversation. The sight of their arms clasped round each other jolted through her.
Over lunch, Isabel had to stop herself staring at Mark. She bit into a cheese sandwich. He and George were obviously close, but how close? George had never been short of girlfriends. He'd been with Eloise, a beautiful Argentinean, for several months when he was in his twenties. Henry and Eva had hoped he'd marry her. But she'd disappeared like so many others.
George stood up. 'That's better. Good old Suzanne. Knows how to keep a man happy.' He dusted crumbs from his jeans. 'Come on, you slacker.' He slapped Mark on the shoulder. 'Back to work.'
Mark caught his arm and twisted it behind his back.
'Get off, you brute!' George pulled free of his grasp. 'You've got a class to teach. Isabel, I'm going to St Ives to order paints and brushes. You're welcome to come, but Chloe will be here soon and I know she's hoping you'll model for her.'
For an awful moment, Isabel thought she was going to have to pose nude. The last thing she wanted was to appear the suburban housewife, but she cringed at the idea of revealing her lumpen body to the youthful Chloe. Since Brian left, she'd piled on pounds and could hardly bear to look at herself naked.
'Don't worry.' Chloe rearranged the throw on the couch 'I want to do a head and shoulders. I'm working on a project for my Master's, the seven ages of woman.'
Isabel perched on the edge of the chair Chloe had indicated. 'And I suppose I'm perfect for the middle aged frump!'
'Don't be so hard on yourself. You've got wonderful skin.' Chloe placed her hands on Isabel's shoulders. 'If you could relax… tilt your face so that the light catches it.' She took Isabel's chin in her hand and moved it up and to the side. 'Is that comfortable?'
Isabel was surprised she didn't feel more awkward at the younger woman's fingers on her neck. 'It's fine, but I'm not very good at staying still.'
'That's all right. I work quickly.'
Isabel didn't dare say a word. Only the sound of music from next door and the occasional scrape of Chloe's pencil on the paper broke the silence. Isabel felt a familiar blush spreading across her breasts and up her neck. Chloe would see the crow's feet, the lines either side of her mouth. She wished she'd put hair colour on before she left home. The roots were really grey.
She risked sneaking a glance at Chloe. She was standing back from the easel, her head on one side. 'How's it going?'
'Can you manage another fifteen minutes or so, while I get this first sketch down?'
'Yes, I'm fine.'
'You're allowed to talk.'
'I'm concentrating.'
Chloe laughed. 'That's my job, not yours.'
Isabel felt an itch developing on the side of her nose. 'How long have you known George?' Conversation might help take her mind off it.
'About five years. I met him when I was at Uni. He's a friend of one of my tutors.'
'We were surprised when he got involved in this art school. He's never really settled to anything before.' Isabel waited, but Chloe seemed absorbed in her sketch. 'He's got all of you to motivate him, I suppose.'
'Oh no,' Chloe said. 'He keeps us going. Mark's a brilliant painter and he's the one with the money, but he's got no drive, and I wouldn't have a clue how to teach if George hadn't given me some tips. No, it's George who holds this whole thing together.'
'How about Suzanne and Freddy?'
Chloe explained that Freddy had been a talented sculptor, but didn't do much these days. 'Drugs,' she said. 'It's such a shame. George has been so good to them. I don't know where they would have been, if it wasn't for him.'
This was a view of her brother Isabel hadn't expected. She'd come to Cornwall hoping to persuade George to give up his plans for Henry's piano, but her stay was turning into a different experience altogether.
As if she'd read her mind, Chloe said, 'George is determined to have your dad's piano, you know.'
Isabel watched Chloe's pigtails bobbing about as she sketched. She wondered if George had told them all about the row. It was horrible to think of them sitting round that kitchen table dissecting her family. Rick could be over-bearing, but their father had always told them 'family squabbles don't go outside the front door'.
'I hope I don't seem cheeky,' Chloe said, 'but I think it's what your dad would have wanted.'
'What makes you say that?'
'When he was here in the spring…'
'What? You met my father?'
'Yeah. George and I were having a bit of a thing at the time, so I went out for a few meals with them—if you could keep your chin up for a couple more minutes—I thought your dad was great, and he and George were such mates.'
Isabel contemplated telling Chloe the secret. That would unsettle her smug assurance. How dare she talk about their father as if he was an old friend or interfere in their family's private affairs? As that last thought filled her mind, she imagined George's comment: That's so bourgeois, Sis. Even so she'd love to see the look on Chloe's face if she told her George was not Henry's son.
'Right!' Chloe announced. 'That's the first sketch done. If you'd sit again tomorrow, I should manage without you after that.'
Isabel was taken aback. She hadn't expected it all to be over so quickly. 'Can I see it?' she asked, but Chloe was already covering the easel with a sheet.
'Nope. I never let people see work in progress.'
That evening Suzanne cooked a delicious roast and Mark produced several bottles of champagne. 'In honour of our guest.' He bowed, as he held out a bottle. 'Comte Audoin de Dampierre 1990.'
'Mark, that's one of your best!' George exclaimed.
'Isn't your sister worth it?'
During the meal Isabel studied the others. If there was anything between George and Mark, or between George and Chloe for that matter, she'd definitely notice some sign as they relaxed with the alcohol. But the only meaningful glance she intercepted was between George and Suzanne when she asked where Freddy was.
'He's not feeling so good tonight,' Suzanne said.
As the evening wore on, Isabel was enjoying herself too much to worry about liaisons. She had several glasses of champagne and felt tipsy when she climbed the stairs to her attic room. She paused on the landing to call goodnight to Chloe in the room next door and flopped on the bed. She fell asleep instantly, but then the dream started…
She's walking with Josh. They are in the park and they're going to feed the ducks. Suddenly a forest appears in their path, dark and forbidding, like a forest in a fairy tale. Fir trees cluster densely, blocking out sunlight. Isabel doesn't want to continue, but Josh pulls at her hand. 'Come on, Mum.' His high childish voice echoes in the treetops. He runs on and reluctantly she follows. The path is narrow and thick with pine needles. Josh is shouting, filling his bag
with cones. She glimpses a flash of his red anorak ahead. He is moving faster than she is. 'Wait for me, darling!' she calls.
And then she can't hear his voice. Only a soft moaning as the branches sway overhead. She starts to run, peering into the gloom, desperate to catch sight of that flash of red. She stumbles over a tangle of roots, which straddles the path. Her chest burns. 'Josh! Josh!' She screams his name, but no sound comes out. Then the murmuring starts. A low whispering around her. Faces appear high up in the trees. Their eyes shine, a fierce glare, and their mouths loll open. She's trapped. Her limbs feel weighted. She bends forward and clutches one thigh with both hands. She tries to lift her leg. It won't move. 'Josh!' She forces her lips open, but nothing comes out. 'Josh!' Gathering all her strength, she screams his name…
'Isabel. Isabel.'
From deep in her consciousness, an awareness of a voice surfaced: 'Isabel?' The door opened and in the light from the landing, she saw Chloe's face.
'You called out.' Chloe was standing beside the bed. 'Are you okay?'
'I had a dream.' Isabel covered her eyes, shutting out those horrible images. 'My little boy…'
'No need to explain. You need a hug.' Chloe lay down on the duvet and put her arm round Isabel. She stroked Isabel's hair back from her forehead. Her hand was cool on Isabel's burning skin. Isabel started to explain about Josh, about the dream, but Chloe put her finger to her lips. 'Ssh, don't try to talk. It will be all right.' Her weight felt heavy on the duvet, and it was oddly comforting. It reminded Isabel of Samson snuggling up to her on the bed at night.
The Piano Player's Son Page 11
