‘…I’m just reporting what the gardener thought he might have seen, Madam. It could, of course, have been his supposition…’
But she would not accept the lifeline that had been offered.
‘Is it true what the gardener said, Eugene?’
‘He didn’t see anything…’
‘See or not, is… it… true?’
‘We only…’
‘Only? Only? You have violated my daughter. You’ve contaminated her with… your filth… your father’s… The violence dissolved into groans of distress.
Later, as I lay on my bed, Berenice thundered at the piano. That evening Melanie was taken to an aunt at Acton. I can still hear her screaming at the door. I nearly broke the window off its hinges trying to crane out, but I saw only the car departing.
I don’t know why it was me that stayed in the house. Aunt Isabel would not have me, I suspect. But in the days that followed it was like I was being held under scrutiny. There were even fleeting kindnesses, as if Berenice were eliminating the possibility of some redeeming feature in my character before making a final judgement.
‘Do you know how to make tea, Eugene?’
‘Yes, Mother. I can make it.’
‘When you bring it we can talk for a bit, before I begin on the Shostakovitch. Eugene, it’s high time we talked. Perhaps if we’d done so sooner this wretched incident might never have happened.’
‘I’ll… make your tea, Mother.’
How sharp is the knife-edge on which fateful decisions rest. How small an action need be to have monstrous consequences. I put the teacup on the piano.
‘You see, Eugene, there were… difficulties in my life to which you were… through no fault of your own… well, a party. When I have found it difficult to treat you as a son…’
It was then that she saw I had placed the cup on the polished black surface. Even I could not have anticipated the violence of the response, except that it ended, as it always did, with the instruction to get out of her sight.
A few days later Melanie and I were back at school. I wrote but nothing ever came back. From time to time I saw her at events where it was deemed appropriate for we children to be present, but always in a crowd, and mostly at opposite ends of a room. The last time was soon after she’d met Piers. Berenice had just completed her cycle of the Beethoven sonatas and the recording company had honoured her with a small reception and obviously not known better than to invite me. They were too engaged to see me approach.
I heard Melanie say, ‘…so Piers will be staging Madame Butterfly. He’s wondering who to cast as Pinkerton.’
‘Yes, it’s proving quite a challenge.’
It was the first time I had seen Piers. It was difficult to account for the vehemence of Berenice’s response.
‘Then I suggest the lowest the gutter can provide.’
Melanie’s eyes widened. ‘Mother?’
‘Oh, I see, Berenice,’ Piers exclaimed, giving her undeserved credence. ‘Your theory is that a performance might be enhanced if the artist has experience of the events…’
‘Take no notice of her, Piers. She’s winding you up. She has this thing about… male roles…’
It was then that they saw me. Melanie seemed pleased.
‘Eugene, what a surprise.’
‘A surprise for me too,’ Berenice said. ‘I thought you were still in the States.’
‘An invitation went to my London address. I happened to be in town.’
‘Then I must have a word with the office. Their administration is appalling. You know, Piers, that on my last CD they spelt my name Bernice.’
‘That is atrocious. By the way, Berenice, is this person who I think he is? You must introduce us.’
‘Melanie, you do it.’
‘Piers, this is my brother Eugene.’
‘Of course! I should have recognised him instantly.’
Melanie looked concerned. ‘Why?’
‘The hair! The black sheep of the family. Isn’t that what you called him once, Berenice?’
‘Mother?’
And so it went on. I made my excuses and left. There were stairs to the exit at the other end of the room. By the time I reached them Berenice had been enticed to the piano and had begun to play. As I looked down I saw Melanie detach from the group and look around. Foolishly – and wrongly – I abandoned the thought that she might actually be looking for me.
On one of my earlier visits from the States I had plucked up courage to see her. But she and Piers were holidaying in France, and no one seemed to know where. Rashly I had confronted Berenice instead.
‘Mother, I’ve come to ask you something. Something that as your son I have a right to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘Why this coldness persists. As I’ve got older I’ve come to realise that the crime you accused me of doesn’t justify… this alienation. If my sister can’t forgive me…’
‘No she can’t forgive you. She’ll never forgive you. You’ve ruined her life.’
‘But when I meet her I get no sense of that.’
‘You don’t know half what she’s told me. People don’t change, Eugene. If it’s in your character, it remains.’
‘Mother, you’re living in a bygone age.’
‘Well, I don’t want to talk about it. My head is simply throbbing and I’ve got a recital tomorrow. Just please recognise that where Melanie’s concerned you’re wasting your time. Perhaps time will heal it… but I doubt it. Come later in the week if you want to talk about matters of a more… domestic kind.’
So I’d continued to believe Melanie resented me for the harm I’d done to her – the reason I’d always kept apart. But as we stared up at the pagoda I saw her face, flecked with snow. There was that wry smile again and I knew to my horror that all along I’d been wrong.
‘It was the third tier, wasn’t it, where…’ I stammered.
‘It was the best, Eugene. The first and the best.’
‘Then I wish I’d known.’
‘Come on, it’s time for some tea.’
‘They won’t be open in this weather.’
‘It said four-thirty on the board. We can just make it.’
We paid for our teas and carried our trays to a table by the window, in the failing light brighter than the rest because of the snow on the bushes outside.
I said, ‘I suppose losing a husband made Berenice what she was. Don’t you think?’
‘After our… father left us she had no interest in men.’
‘No interest? She had a grudge against all of them. And from her perspective I suppose I’d turned into one.’
‘Something like that.’
‘What?’
‘Look, I think we should go back.’
‘You’ve not finished your tea.’
‘I… don’t want any more.’
‘But we’ve…’
‘It’s maybe for the best.’