Moon Song (7 page)

Isoldé called a halt at four-thirty, giving him time to get back
for his tea with the students. Every single member of the staff had bought a copy of his latest CD and one or two had brought previous ones for him to sign as well. Darshan had four copies, presents he told Mark, laughing.

Mark got back to the precentor’s to be ogled and idolised and pelted with questions. He managed to arrive just after five, by which time all the food was gone, for which he was thankful, but he accepted a cup of tea from Margaret Appleforth. The students were fun, asking intelligent questions but also treating him like an elder brother even though he was twenty years older than most of them. He was giving a master class the next day and these young people would all be there.

They left about six-thirty, giving him time to shower and change before collecting Isoldé.

Mark arrived at the bookshop just after seven-thirty. Darshan was still there and invited him in, calling Isoldé on the house phone to say Mark had arrived. The two men chatted about the shop, music and sci-fi. Mark’s reading included fantasy but most of what he liked was from way back in the eighties. Darshan steered him over to the shelf with the “Z’s”.

‘We’ve got a complete collection of Roger Zelazny, some of it second hand, but I always try to have his work in the shop. It still sells regularly, and we’re about the only place in the country where you can buy it direct. The internet’s made such a difference to second hand book sales.’

Isoldé came down the stairs. She had dressed up for the evening in a short, clinging black silk frock and high heels. Darshan handed her into her cape.

Mark felt himself about to gasp and held it back, managed an ordinary-seeming smile.

‘You look lovely,’ he told her.

Darshan tactfully ducked out of dinner.

‘Three’s a crowd.’ He winked at Isoldé as he gave her the
company credit card. ‘Do yourselves proud,’ he told her. ‘Why not the Thai down in the Close?’

He could see there was a thing going between Isoldé and Mark, hustled them out the door then went back to his own flat where he stood making coffee and telling himself he was a fool. The cats purred agreement.

Isoldé steered Mark across the square to the little Thai place. They were given a quiet corner in the small, packed restaurant and allowed to amble their way through a long dinner.

‘Did you mind horribly?’ Isoldé broached the signing. She could tell it had been more difficult for Mark than he had said.

‘No …Not really.’

‘Mmm?’ She looked at him from under her brows. ‘I’m not sure I believe that. It seemed a bit painful from where I stood.’

‘I’ve done it before …’ Mark began.

‘But not in Exeter?’ Isoldé queried.

‘No.’ Mark paused, put another slice of mango into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. It is being here that’s different. Everyone seems to feel as if they know me.’

‘Long lost brother?’ Isoldé chuckled. ‘And they all want a piece of you?

‘Yes, that too.’ He grimaced. ‘Prodigal son more like than long lost brother, but let’s not go there. I don’t want to spoil tonight.’ He looked at her.

There was something there, he could feel it. He told her about himself, and a little about Tristan. Thinking about it, he realised he’d never talked to anybody, except Tristan, like this before. And she listened. She was interesting, exciting, she knew lots of music, places, people. It had come out, by accident he was sure, about her going to Lunenburg and hearing him play there. They had both got red and embarrassed then but she had come out of it laughing, talking of small worlds and how funny things could be, connections.

‘Would you come and stay, at Caergollo?’ he suddenly found himself saying out of the blue. ‘Visit me there?’

Her eyes lit. Carefully, he touched her finger-ends with his own. The magic was still there. The flush ran up her neck into her face, he saw the shock of his touch as it hit her. As it hit him. He could feel the heat in his own eyes.

‘Wh–what …?’ she said, not sure what they had been talking about.

‘Err …I …err …would you like to come to Caergollo?’ he stuttered.

Her fingers touched his back. This time the shock was gentle, didn’t wipe out his brain.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I would love to visit you.’

That night Isoldé dreamed.

She found herself in a shadowy room, it was familiar. Thick velvet drapes covered three of the French windows, the fourth was open. From the light she guessed it was late afternoon, the sunlight shone low through the windows but very bright, making the shadowy corners black. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light flickering over a dark Persian carpet. Slowly she turned on her heel. It was the same room that she had dreamed of when she dreamed of Tristan. There was the grand piano on one side, she took a step toward it, another, it all felt intensely real, not like a dream at all.

She walked slowly over to the piano, stroked the silky, dark, wood, touched the keys. They moved easily under her fingers. This piano was old, Darshan would be entranced, she thought, smiling She sat down and began to pick out Frère Jacques. The notes sang through the air, she stopped, worried that someone might hear.

Getting up, the French window called her. She went over and the smell of wet earth wafted up to her. The leaves dripped, light silvered the wet grass. She went out, crossing the lawn down to the noisy brook. There was a bridge and path going away from it along the edge of the wood. She looked up at the glimpses of moorland grass and heath beyond the confines of the garden. Another noise hid under the clamour of the stream, she listened hard. It was the sea.

Light came on in the room behind her. She turned quickly and stood still, hoping not to be seen. A tall man was there, his fine aquiline features still visible under the ravages of disease. He made for the piano and sat down. Then he noticed the lid was up, looked round and saw the French window ajar. He sat looking out into the garden.

‘If that’s you, my ghost?’ he called to her, ‘come back, come
in …’

She froze, not even breathing. Everything went misty in front of her eyes and she felt giddy, like she was fainting. Then it all went away into darkness.

Next thing Isoldé knew was she was sat up suddenly in her own bed. A glance at the clock said it was two in the morning, the middle of the night. Her head felt full of cotton wool and thumping. She staggered up, pulled on a robe and made it down to the kitchen. Later, on the second cup of tea, she began to think coherently.

Was it possible to re-enter a dream, carry on from where you left off, like playback on a video? She finished up the tea and closed her eyes.

To her amazement, she stood beside the stream again, just as she had before.

‘Hello …?’ Tristan called to her from across the lawn. ‘Hello? Is that you? Please come to me, please find me. I need you …’

As Isoldé started back across the grass the French windows exploded silently in a ball of light.

Isoldé opened the letter. It was Mark. She had known it would be as soon as she touched the envelope. He was inviting her to stay with him at Caergollo in two weeks’ time. He’d given her his private phone number and his personal mobile, even his personal email. He was allowing her right into his private world.

She sat down at her desk and tapped out an email to him straight away, giving him her private numbers in return. This was something she really wanted to happen.

Friday

Mark put warm honey-water into the vase of lilies and freesias, took them carefully up to the spare bedroom. He was fussing and he knew it. He really hoped the spare bedroom wouldn’t be used but he wasn’t making any premature assumptions. Anyway, it would be good to go slowly, take care. He wanted this to last, forever maybe, no more brief affairs. Something had turned over within him when he first saw her by the golden gate in the cathedral, looking as lost as the sparrow. He had gone to find her as well as to take the little bird out to safety, although he hadn’t known that at the time. When they had touched hands the electricity had shot through him. He knew it now. He’d known in that instant that this was it, if he wanted it. And he did want it. He would go slowly, make sure she wanted it too.

He turned back on his way out of the door to look back into the room, getting the same impression he hoped she would when she arrived. It was the bedroom he’d slept in as a boy when he’d stayed with Tristan. After Mark’s parents had died, Tristan had taken on the fathering role, although he was only about 15 years
older than Mark himself, but at ten that had seemed ancient. Now, at thirty-seven and looking back to himself at twenty-five, he realised how young Tristan had been when he’d adopted him, only half-grown himself. What had Tristan really thought, felt, with this ten-year-old boy trotting at his heels? It must have been a drag at times yet Tristan had never shown it. They’d had twenty-five years together, a generation, and known each other so well. Tristan had never acted in a way the child-Mark had understood as fatherly although now, looking back, Mark could see that he had been. It had always seemed as if they were brothers, and that’s what Tristan had always called him, brother.

It was odd, Tristan never seemed to have had any women in his life, never any that Mark had seen, although they flocked around him. ‘Handsome bastard!’ Mark was smiling. But never had Mark caught him with a woman, even when he’d turned up unexpectedly. And he wasn’t gay. And he didn’t act reclusive or celibate. ‘Just never seemed to have any interest in all that …’ Mark muttered again. Unlike himself. He had had many affairs, nearly got married once. ‘Thank the gods that misfired!’ he muttered, turning out of the room and shutting the door, but not on the past. That followed him back to the kitchen. He put on a CD, the Breton pipes and drums stirred his blood. He wondered if she would like it. Tristan had. It seemed Tristan’s ghost was sharing his evening.

‘Damn the man!’ Mark told the onions as he got them out for making the casserole, but it wasn’t any use. Tristan was here, prodding him, laughing out of corners just as he always had.

‘Look.’ Mark turned to the doorway back into the shadowy hall. ‘What is this? What do you want? Are you jealous?’

Nothing answered him.

Mark got on with the casserole, still turning over old memories. The no-women thing was odd. He realised he had never really considered it before. He put the casserole in the oven, poured himself a glass of wine and went to the library
where Embar climbed into his lap. He stroked the cat’s ears, Embar purred, gently bit a finger.

A book lay on the table beside him, TS Eliot’s Collected Poems. He picked it up, certain he hadn’t had the book off the shelf for months.

‘Not Mrs Protheroe,’ he thought, ‘definitely not her style!’ The book fell open at East Coker.

‘In my beginning is my end,’
Mark read. One of Tristan’s favourites. He looked up, a whiff of rose oil caught his nose, another of Tristan’s favourites.

‘What is it, old man? What do you want?’

Again nothing answered him but he could sense a presence in the room, a frisson in the air.

‘If you want to tell me something you’ll have to do better than that,’ Mark told it. ‘I never was up to snuff like you with all the faer folk, the Ellyon, walking between worlds. You know I’m as thick as a brick when it comes to that stuff, always was. I know you could, but I don’t, not easily. It’s got to be more solid if you want me to understand.’

Embar put up a paw and pulled his hand back to scratching his ear. The moment was gone. It had been a long day, driving down from London that morning, shopping, getting the house as he wanted it, making dinner. He was tired, he dozed, responding to the rhythm of the cat’s purring.

It seemed he opened his eyes. The room had changed. It was like when Tristan was alive, the scent of him was in the room. Embar was alert, ears pricked, pointing. Mark could see nothing but he could sense the presence, he sat perfectly still, holding his breath.

There was a shadow sat on the piano stool. It turned towards the door just as the door opened. Another shadow came in. They seemed to talk, Mark could hear a rustling, like whispers, but could make out no words. It all faded. Then the French window was open, a scent of wet earth coming in. The shadow was beside
the window now, speaking again. Suddenly, there was a bright flash and it was all gone. Mark woke suddenly, shaking his head at the soundless noise which still made his ears ring. Embar was asleep now, as though nothing had happened. But Mark knew it had.

He got up gently and put the cat back in the chair. A car was pulling up outside.

Isoldé drove down from Exeter in continuous rain. It poured down in bucket-loads over the car, splashed up like tidal waves from the big lorries on the A30. She needed all her concentration to stay driving safely. The traffic thinned out a bit after Okehampton and once she crossed the Tamar she truly felt herself to be entering another land. It had none of the feel of the Irish Celt of home, nor of the Gaelic of the trips to Scotland. This was very different. A bright darkness seemed to hang in the very air. The little people here would be very different from those at home in Ireland.

It was a long, dreary haul to Launceston and she breathed a sigh of relief when she crossed Davidstow moor and found the by-road which took her twisting down the steep cliffs to Caer Bottreaux. The clouds lifted as she slid down the hill, giving her a glimpse of the sea. And the sunset.

She found the little road to Tintagel and took it, skimming along the narrow, wet lanes high above the sea. Then the road dived down to a hairpin bend. This must be it, she thought, pulling up and peering round. The gate into Caergollo was all but invisible when she finally saw it. Rain dripped off the trees and down her neck as she opened it. She slid the car through then got out again to close it behind her. As she did so there was a rustle in the bushes by the stream. A pair of large brown eyes topped by two long ears looked up at her, Isoldé stood transfixed. The hare sat for a moment, then flicked off into the undergrowth. Isoldé remembered to let out the breath she’d been holding, she’d never
seen a hare that close before. She got back into the car, let in the clutch and slid down the track to the house.