“Ladies and gentlemen. It’s almost half past eight. We’re about to begin.”
Once everyone is seated, Paul opens the performance. His eyes search the rows—I haven’t spotted Margie either. He smiles at me, almost conspiratorially, then smiles at his sister.
Dimitri is second. His voice is gravelly, deeper than you’d expect for his physique. My foot has gone to sleep. I shift my leg, trying to get rid of the sensation. He watches me do so. The paper trembles in his hand. The door opens. Margie slips in as quietly as possible. Dimitri stutters, seems to lose his thread. She walks over to my mother, whispers something in her ear, then beckons me.
“Where is he?” my mother is saying to Olive, in the hallway.
“In hospital. He’s unconscious. They don’t understand what’s wrong with his leg. It doesn’t seem broken, but he’s got no feeling in it.” My sister gasps out the words, high-pitched.
“Dudley’s had an accident,” Margie says. “He dived off a cliff and landed on a rock, not far from where we were sailing.” The wall is near me. I place my hand on its cool stone. “He fell onto the base of his spine. His leg is broken.”
My mother’s face drains. “We must go now, but someone has to warn Newman.”
“You go with Olive,” Margie says, “and Gwen and I will look after things here.”
“I want to visit Dudley too,” I say, feeling dizzy.
“But they won’t let three people visit him at once.”
Olive leaves with Mother. The sound of applause rings out. I open the door, see Dimitri bow, his poems falling from his hand. Margie goes and stands with him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Florence has asked me to thank you for your presence. There has unfortunately been an accident, so there will be no more refreshments here tonight. Please leave now and go home. Thank you.”
“What is the matter?” a man with a deep voice calls out.
“We’re not exactly sure.”
“Has she fallen ill?”
“Florence is in good health. Thank you. Please save further talk for outside.”
I leave the house and stand behind the little wall that encloses the veranda, waiting till everyone has gone. The garden seems to reach further than before—it’s a darker green. Things will never be the same again. Restlessness creeps over me, coils around me like ivy. The back door opens. Dimitri steps onto the veranda. He leans his elbows on the wall. It will mark his skin.
“Have they gone now?” The lights are on in the house, as if something else is about to happen.
He jumps. “Blimey, Gwen. Where did you spring from?” He gives a high-pitched laugh, then lights a cigarette.
“Do you know where Kingsley is?”
“He’ll be with his girl.”
Kingsley usually shows up in the course of the evening, though he’s not keen on music or poetry. His place is out of doors, not inside. My mother used to call him “The Changeling”, but now she doesn’t call him anything at all.
“Did the rest of your performance go well?” I flap my hands to shake out the fear.
“No. But at least I did it.” He looks at me. “Your brother will be all right. He’s as hard as nails.” He gives me his cigarette.
I draw on it and inhale. It irritates my throat and I try not to cough.
Dimitri takes the cigarette back.
A Blackbird lands in a sycamore behind him and begins to sing.
“Shouldn’t that Blackbird be asleep? It’s far too late for music.”
“They’re talking to each other.”
“Like you with your violin.”
Dimitri puts the cigarette on the wall and takes a step towards me. I stay where I am, standing straight, and close my eyes till I feel his breath.
The smell of brilliantine, smoke, his lips, the hairs above them, he’s gentle with me, then greedy, it lasts a minute, two, I stop counting, the Blackbird is still singing, I’m dizzy, his hand on my arm, my back, my body is alive, my hand is asleep, it’s as if all my feelings are on my skin or inside my skin. I take a step back, see Dimitri open his eyes, see a look in them that I don’t know but do understand, then I go inside.
In my room I undress myself, layer by layer, my body feeling strange and tingling. I open the window, dressed in my nightgown. “Charlie,” I call. “Charlie.” I can’t call loudly. Everyone is asleep now. Just as I’m on the point of closing the window I hear the beat of his wings. He perches on the windowsill. “Come on,” I say. He settles onto the edge of the bed. I gently stroke his back, even though I know he doesn’t like this. Weariness grips me, replacing the tension. Charles takes a sideways step, plucks at his feathers. “Sorry, Charlie. Dudley’s in hospital. It was such a strange evening.” I tell him about Dimitri. Perhaps he already knows. From the sky he sees everything.
He stays in the room until I fall asleep. I almost wake from the beat of his wings as he leaves, a black scratch across my dream.
As I’m returning from the hospital I see Patricia sitting on the wall in front of our house.
“Hallo.” She jumps down. “How’s your brother?”
“They’re operating on him now. My parents are with him.”
“Was it a terrible shock for you?”
“Not too bad.”
She gives me a questioning look.
“I have to go in,” I tell her.
“All right. I understand. I just wanted to find out how things are for you.”
I walk to the front door.
“Are you busy this evening?”
I turn to face her. “Sorry. I’ve hardly slept and I’m awfully tired.”
“Tomorrow then?”
The wind rises, blows my coat open. She’s still standing there, as if she has the right to something.
“All right.”
“I’ll come and fetch you.”
She runs off, like a child, in the direction of the park. In the field beside her a Partridge flies up. She moves like her brother does, taking large strides.
“Hallo,” I call out in the hallway. No answer. I go to the grand piano in the sitting room and open the lid. I play ‘Chopsticks’, Für Elise and then, three times, the first parts of Mozart’s ‘Turkish March’ in far too slow a tempo. I love playing the piano, but the others don’t like it when I do because I make too many mistakes. I slip up more when they watch my fingers. When I stop playing I hear applause. Cook is standing in the doorway watching me. “How beautifully you play, dearie.” Her accent seamlessly threads the words together. I go to her and fling my arms around her. She smells so safe, so familiar—of bread and meat and sweat—and she cuddles me as if I’m still a little girl.
In the morning the oak leaves are blowing against my window. It’s not yet autumn, not even late summer, but the fleecy clouds above the garden scurry by and the day already holds the coming months within it: long rainy Sundays, cold walks on the beach and boxes with injured Pigeons inside them, too weak to survive the winter, though sometimes they do.
Mother isn’t at breakfast. I go and sit next to Olive.
“And couldn’t you let us know? Your brother is in hospital.” My father’s voice fills the hallway. Kingsley mutters something. “Yes, I know he isn’t dead. But as long as you live under my roof you remain a part of this family.”
Kingsley comes into the dining room with lowered head, bags under his eyes, uncombed hair. Papa’s face is red with pent-up fury and his right hand tightly clasps a pen. They both have exactly the same angry expression on their faces.
My father pulls back a chair, almost missing it as he sits down. When I look at Olive we both start laughing, so I concentrate on my toast and suppress a giggle. The lump of jam on the bread looks like a flop-eared puppy. I spread the puppy out, eat it in silence, hiccup only once.