The Song of Hartgrove Hall (41 page)

Then, two weeks before the holiday, Ralph developed shingles and, as a consequence, both girls caught chickenpox two days before we were set to depart. Ralph, in my opinion, was a wretched father, but it turned out that he was a splendid virus spreader. Clara telephoned to cancel the holiday.

‘I'm so sorry, Papa. You'll get it back through the insurance. We can go another time.'

I was horribly disappointed. I wanted to kick something gratifyingly hard. Of course it would be Ralph who loused it all up. Trust him to fall ill precisely when it was most inconvenient. He seemed intent on spoiling things for Clara. I was thoroughly put out. Then I had a thought.

‘Wait a minute, what if I take Robin? I mean, he had the pox when the girls were away at tennis camp, didn't he?'

‘Yes, he's already had it. But I'm not sure, Papa. Wouldn't it be a bit much for you?'

‘I'll be all right. I used to travel the world, you know.'

‘Of course you did, but you've not been anywhere for a while. And Robin's not the easiest.'

I was carried along now by the brilliance of my scheme.

‘Yes, but it seems most unfair that he should lose his treat and be condemned to stay at home because his father and sisters are so inconsiderate as to fall ill.'

She laughed and then I detected a note of relief. ‘Well, if you're quite sure you can manage. It might be easier to look after the girls without Robin trailing after me and complaining that he's bored.'

Almost as soon as she'd hung up, I did wonder whether I was being a trifle overambitious, but it was too late. Besides, any such admission of doubt would confirm to them all their concerns that I was losing my confidence and that soon I might not be able to cope alone. I was warding off that dreaded confrontation with the girls for as long as possible, steadily ignoring Clara's sighs and Lucy's prods of ‘Isn't the house getting a little big for you, Papa?' as though it had spontaneously started to grow like rogue ear hairs. No, I would take Robin, and the trip would be a glorious success, and Lucy and Clara would leave me be for a year or two.

The night before we departed, it started to snow. I was too anxious to sleep and lay awake in the dark, watching the first flakes fall, silent and weightless. Then, after a while, seizing my dressing gown, I tottered downstairs and stepped outside onto the terrace. There was barely half an inch, just enough to glaze the hill and lawns. I stared out across the white expanse of garden. Edie would already have been out walking, hacking across the scrub and up to the huddled woods. I half expected to see her footprints.

The clouds parted to reveal a serving of moon, and its light reflected off the fallen snow, making it weirdly bright, as though the landscape were lit from within by a concealed lamp. The woods remained black. No matter what we did to the fields around them, the copse endured – with the knot of trees at its heart where no light or modernity seemed to penetrate. It had survived the slash and burn of two world wars. We told one another that it wasn't worthwhile felling it and putting the land to grass, as it was too poor even for cattle, but the truth was we loved those woods. The vast oaks and the alders, the tide of bluebells in spring followed by the stink of wild garlic and, most of all, the uncanny sense of eyes watching us. We dared one another to stay alone there after dark, and on one notable occasion my brothers lassoed me to a tree, leaving me screaming. I'd wrenched myself free and raced out onto the hillside, feral with terror. I'd had to wash the acid stench of fear from my skin before venturing downstairs for dinner.

Now, the white gleam of snow only made the woods blacker still. While the old songs receded from the world, dying as the last singers passed away, these woods remained, silent listeners to so many songs, as though they'd absorbed them through their roots and leaves. I imagined that when the wind blew, the music scattered into the air like pollen. In summer Edie had sung there as we walked with Clara and Lucy as children.
They'd been reluctant and had to be bribed along with treats. Jack told me once that our mother had often walked there too, and I liked to think that she did so singing.

In the cold I counted all the people I had lost like beads on a string. My mother. Only remembered as a warm shadow, a snatch of forgotten song heard sometimes when I started to drift off to sleep. George. Marcus. Edie. Jack. Here, I hesitated. His loss was different from the others. Jack I might find again.

I called out across the snow, ‘Jack, does it make it better that I spent my life loving her? It was a terrible thing I did and I've lived with it for fifty years. Our happiness cost you yours. For that I'm sorry but I can't regret our life together. That would make the sin worse. You paid the price for our loving one another. I hope you went on to marry again and to have children and grandchildren of your own. I wish that you'd written to me to boast of your good life. Your deserved good life. But perhaps that's my punishment. Never to know what happened to you. If you are happy, then perhaps I don't deserve the relief of knowing it.'

No voice answered from the muffled dark. The snow continued to fall.

When I awoke in the morning every last flake had gone, as though it had never fallen at all.

I was grateful not to be travelling alone. I couldn't lose my nerve in front of the boy. The trip was remarkably straightforward. The airport staff appeared to find the prospect of an old man and his young grandson travelling together as endearing as a box of lop-eared bunny rabbits. As a result we were wafted through to the front of every queue and tended to with benevolent condescension. On the plane Robin watched
cartoons and ate sweeties for ten hours – I saw no need to interfere – while I fidgeted beside him and counted which bits of me were aching with cramp.

I found Florida disconcerting. Every day brought the same unsullied sky, crocheted in baby-boy blue. The only rain that fell came from sprinkler hoses to keep the flowers pert and vivid. Wedding-cake tiers of apartments lined the beaches, each angled so as to allow the one behind a precise portion of sunset. Nature had been combed, shampooed and set. Spearmint-green grass grew everywhere, across the neat communal gardens and the ribbons of golf courses, as though it had been purchased on special offer from the same bolt of ghastly fabric. The moon-white sand was devoid of litter. Everyone spoke loudly and with excruciating politeness. I loathed it and found it despicably comfortable, all at once. This was a paradise for the elderly. A cornucopia of sunshine, handrails and extra-large parking spaces. I worried that, if I remained too long, I would never leave.

None of the restaurants offered early-bird specials as they were packed with white-haired diners yelling at one another across the plastic tables from a quarter to six, every restaurant empty by eight. I drove anxiously at twenty-five miles an hour, comfortably overtaking even more decrepit drivers who creaked along at under twenty. When the lights changed, there was always a pause before the first driver succeeded in telling his foot to press the accelerator, but no one ever honked their horn.

I'd rented an apartment on Longboat Key, where I resented the usefulness of the handrail in the bathroom and the non-slip matting on the floor of the shower. The instructions for the air conditioner were all in large print. The only convenience the apartment lacked was a piano, but Clara had warned Robin and, suitably prepared, he managed with great fortitude. We spent two days beside the pool, Robin swimming and me mostly napping, or at least pretending to.

I took him to a concert where, during the
Moonlight
Sonata, we counted fifty-three audience members asleep. I understood why the conductor pushed the brass section a little heavily.

I wanted to recover my equilibrium before we went knocking on Jack's door. I worried that my appearing with Robin out of the blue would be quite a shock, but on the other hand if I had warned Jack we were coming, he might have refused to see us. It was entirely possible that Robin was Jack's grandson. I doubted that Jack would say a word about that but I was unhappy at the prospect of hurting him again and reopening old wounds. Yet, the closer we came, the more important it seemed that he meet Robin and one day, I hoped, Clara. I'd brought with me the Christmas card, keeping it in my pocket whenever my resolve wavered.

One morning, as drearily blue and perfect as all the others, I told Robin over breakfast that we were off to visit his great-uncle Jack.

‘I didn't know I had an uncle.'

‘A
great-
uncle. But I'm afraid that means he's old rather than that he's super-duper,' I explained, clearing that up before he was disappointed.

‘I didn't know I had an old uncle, then.'

‘No, you wouldn't. We fell out.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, I took something of his and didn't give it back.'

‘What?'

‘Grandma.'

‘Oh.'

He studied me carefully, clearly interested. I knew that Clara would certainly not approve of my telling him – believing that
children ought to be sheltered from ‘the truth'. Only she wasn't here, and it seemed rather pointless to conceal a fifty-year feud from an eight-year-old.

‘Are you going to say sorry? That's what you're supposed to do when you take something that isn't yours.'

‘I tried that already. Although it was quite some time ago. And the thing is, Robin, I'm not completely sorry. I'm sorry that I upset him but I'm glad that I got to keep Grandma.' I paused. ‘I probably oughtn't to say that when I see him. I want him to forgive me. I want it very much indeed.'

Robin stared at me with great blue eyes so like his great-uncle Jack's and made no remark.

As I sipped my strangely moreish muddy coffee, I smiled at my grandson. He was smeared with sunshine and chocolate spread and appeared perfectly untroubled by my confession.

‘Are you missing your mother and sisters? Would you like to telephone them?' I asked, thinking of the complicated phone beside the fridge. The instructions might have been in large print but they were still indecipherable.

Robin shrugged. ‘Not really.'

‘And what about your father? Your mother asked me to try to talk to you. I know it's all been a bit wretched at home.'

Robin shrugged and fidgeted. ‘I'm all right. I don't like his girlfriend, Angela. Her voice is a semitone flat. She sounds like a wonky clarinet. I could never like a lady like that,' he added with uncharacteristic vehemence.

‘I quite agree. Your mother has a nice voice. Melodic. Are you sure you don't want to call her?'

Robin shook his head.

‘Good.'

I had promised to telephone Clara every other day, but after an initial phone call to tell her we'd landed, neither Robin nor I had fussed. I supposed I'd be in for it once we returned, but here, amongst the red watercolour sunsets and
tangles of tropical flowers, home seemed sufficiently far off to risk her wrath.

My nervousness about our expedition showed: it took me four attempts to manoeuvre out of the parking garage. Robin tactfully said nothing, merely held the map open on his knee. I'd circled the address gleaned from the Christmas card in pink highlighter pen. In my anxiety, I drove more slowly than usual and a trail of bicycles zipped past, overtaking with a ting-a-ling of bells. We drove up a wide, sunlit road lined with palm trees and doctors' offices, proclaiming the diseases of the aged: ‘Diabetes!' ‘Cancer!' ‘Baldness!' in a macabre echo of the billboards in other cities, advertising ‘Coke' and ‘Pepsi'.