His last perception was of Amelia, his grandchild, her dark eyes wide, staring at him from across the garden.
SNOW IN WINTER
I had tried to flee, to fly back across the Atlantic to obscurity, but the girl at the desk had said no, there were no more flights because of the blizzard, and mine had been the last one in. She watched my fingers drumming on the shiny black – black, yes – counter and for a second her bright puzzled eyes engaged with mine. In my pocket Melanie’s letter telling me of our mother’s death nudged at my thigh. I felt a brief flicker of remorse. But it passed. As I left the terminal the snow swept in, even through the revolving door. Not surprisingly, the taxi reached Mortlake Crematorium fifteen minutes late.
They had expected stragglers. An attendant at the top of the steps waited while I kicked the slush from my shoes.
‘Family, Sir?’
Why couldn’t I say ‘mother’?
‘Eugene Harrington, her son.’
‘Through there, Sir. There are still seats on the left.’
On its plinth the coffin threatened the closed red curtains like a battering ram. I looked across the score of grey female heads to the front row, where I should have been. She was there, Melanie, my sister. There was no mistaking her gold-red hair, just like her mother’s. It fell to her shoulders but I’d remembered it much shorter.
I sat as the last of the amens died and the priest waited for the sea of rising faces to settle.
‘Please remain seated. Berenice Harrington, as we all know, was a pianist of considerable renown. It is fitting, therefore, to end this service with a recording she made at the height of her career – of a piece that her children told me she most liked to play to them…’
What was this man saying? She’d never played for me. But I had no difficulty recognising the opening of the Appassionata sonata. Yes, she could certainly play. Those electrifying chords sent a sharp reminder to the nape of my neck. It felt like she was emerging from the coffin. I saw in my mind those heavily ringed white fingers pushing the cover upwards, as if it were the lid of her precious Bechstein. Did Melanie know why I remembered that piece?
The echoes came fast. ‘Eugene! I’ve told you till I’m white to the tips of my ears never to approach the piano when I’m playing. What is it now?’
‘Melanie’s cut her finger.’
And then the exasperation with me, just for being the messenger. ‘Oh, then of course you had to tell me.’ There followed the familiar call into the distance, ‘Melanie…’
As the red curtains opened for the coffin I looked – frantically in my mind – for the certainty of the fire. But I was disappointed. Perhaps these days sight of it is deemed unsuitable for sensitive natures. Then, minutes later, all was done in the chapel. Those at the front began to file out.
She smiled as she passed me, my sister, with those grey-green actress eyes, ever alert, but never with guile. I followed her outside to where the flowers were laid. We stood side by side, looking down at the wreaths and posies with their dusting of snow. To my surprise she took my arm and pulled me towards her, over the flowers that from the message I could see were her own.
‘Don’t look down. What can you smell?’
‘Tulips, chrysanthemums… jasmine. The smell of jasmine in winter! With mine, I hardly bothered about the colours even.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Melanie, can she really have gone?’
‘You wanted it that much, Eugene?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Sooner or later you’ll have to forgive.’
We both knew our relationships with Berenice had been different. It had always been so, but I’d never really known why. Even in death her shadow lay over us. I wanted to change the subject. Above all I wanted to know about her situation. I tried to sound casual.
‘So Piers isn’t with you?’
‘He’s… um… directing at the National. He said he might appear later, if the rehearsals finish on time. Piers is too busy for funerals.’
I wanted to ask, ‘And for you?’ but wasn’t sure enough of my ground. I’d read in the papers they’d been an item for three years. I wanted to ask if she was happy, but feared she might answer yes, and said nothing. She took my arm as we walked away.
‘How would it feel to be driven to the house by your little sister?’
‘I didn’t even know you drove.’
‘That’s why I need to spend time with you.’
She made her way cautiously, her driving at odds with her impetuous spirit.
‘It’s good you take care in the snow.’ I said.
‘Pooh. Only to let the blue-rinse brigade get ahead. Didn’t you see them all in the chapel, how determined they looked? They’re doing the refreshments.’
‘I wish we didn’t have to go there.’
‘They promised they’d leave us in peace. Honestly.’
It was seven years since I’d been in my mother’s house. It was on one of the streets opposite the wall of Kew Gardens along the Richmond Road. Not much had changed in the first floor room that she’d called her salon. I’d heard her death had been sudden and sheets of music were piled upon the still-open piano. Open too was her great rosewood bureau, stuffed with papers. Beside it the lace curtains at the window were tied back. In spite of the falling snow I could see the pagoda in the Gardens rising high above the trees.
Many were the faces that came and went in that room. Some have become famous musicians. I’ve even attended their concerts, though, tainted by Berenice, I’ve tended to blank them out from my mind. Then there were her students. When I was small she’d get me to lead them up the stairs into her presence. Sometimes she would make me stay.
‘Sit there, Eugene. Millicent will demonstrate for you how diligence can reap rewards.’ There would follow a childish rendition of Für Elise, or some such piece, and then, ‘That was heavenly, my dear. Now let me hear the B minor scale in thirds.’ Then her head would turn mechanically towards me. ‘You know, Eugene, I think I’ll see if they’ll let her play the Hummel concerto at the school concert – only the slow movement of course because her fingers are still quite tiny. Little Millicent must make her mother feel so proud.’
And so I would endure such torture, praying for Melanie to appear. But that, when it happened, only gave Berenice further opportunities.
‘Melanie, I’ve brought you some walnut cake with coffee icing – your favourite. Would you like it now or when you’ve done your homework?’
Cake? Coffee icing? But Melanie had looked at me with those apologetic eyes and while Berenice was practising we’d eaten it together in the kitchen.
A quiet voice at my elbow returned me to the world of the reception.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Mr Harrington. We’re leaving now.’
I’d seen her somewhere. ‘Well, goodbye then, Mrs… um…’
‘Prendergast… Antonia.’
‘Oh, yes, I think my mother may have mentioned you.’
‘She should have done. After all, I was her best friend.’
‘Then thank you for all you’ve done, Mrs Prendergast.’
‘A great musician and a great woman, Mr Harrington. We must not forget that.’ She called to the kitchen. ‘Bye, Melanie. We’ll ring you tomorrow.’
Melanie appeared in the doorway. ‘Bye, Antonia. Thanks for everything.’
The slam of the front door was of a tight lid closing upon a treasured silence.
‘They’ve gone,’ Melanie said.
‘I thought they never would. Melanie, I thought I’d never see you again. It seemed as if Berenice would outlive us all.’