The Fleeting Years Page 5

  ‘Don’t change, don’t ever change,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let it spoil what we have.’

  ‘Nothing could spoil what we have, darling, pig-headed, precious Peter.’

  That evening he had a phone call telling him the crew were returning to the studio in two days’ time. During those two days they neither of them spoke of the future; like skaters venturing on ice, fearful that the thaw had started, they hid their fear of what they didn’t want to face.

  When, two mornings later, still in her dressing gown in the early light of dawn she watched his car turn out of the drive, the excitement she felt for her own future was forgotten in a premonition that they had lost something precious. Nothing would ever be the same again, not for them and, so soon, not for the children either. Involuntarily she shivered.

  When the children broke up for their long summer holiday they felt hard done by that their father had gone. It would have been so much more fun if he’d been at home, but he’d told them it would be some weeks before he’d get back except for just a few hours at a time. They would get days at the beach with their mother but that wasn’t the same as a proper holiday with all of them together. Neither of them liked to actually say that a day on the beach with Zina wasn’t nearly as much fun as it would have been with him.

  On their bicycles Fiona and Tommy went for cycle rides round the country lanes never far from home but with a thrill of freedom and independence. The thought that they were old enough to go away to school added to their feeling of near-adulthood.

  ‘A job for you two,’ Zina told them at breakfast about a week before the end of the holiday. ‘I want you to cycle over to Bicton Lodge for me.’ They seemed to sit a little taller at the idea of being entrusted with the mission. ‘Today, your gran’s birthday, she’s coming to tea so let’s make it a bit special and ask Celia and Jacques to come as well. Their phone doesn’t seem to be working so I’ve written a note. Promise you’ll be very careful on the road if you cycle with it. You’ve only got that one bit of proper road, where you have to cross the river bridge, then on to the lane to their house.’

  ‘Yes, we know the way, Mum,’ Fiona assured her. ‘And of course we’re careful, we always are, aren’t we, Tommy? Only stupid people aren’t careful. “Yer need to ’ave yer wits about you, m’duckie, such fools some of ’em are on the roads. Don’t use the wit the good lord gived ’em.”’ Fiona was rewarded with a giggle of appreciation from Tommy and a quick ‘sshh’ from Zina as she saw Mrs Cripps, their daily helper, push her bicycle past the window to prop it up against the wall of the one-time stable block. Hard-working, rough and ready, with great affection for the family, she had been with them as long as they had lived in Newton House and it irritated Zina to suspect Fiona was mocking her.

  Pleased to be trusted with an important errand, they set off.

  ‘We’ll wait for an answer, Mum, and tell them their phone is up the creek,’ Tommy shouted, meaning to put himself in charge of the expedition. But before they reached the end of the drive Zina could see from the way Fiona was pointing and talking that she had taken over. As Fiona’s bossiness did so often, it annoyed her. Tommy was every bit as capable, but he never fought his corner. However, she had other things to think about and first and foremost was to drive into Deremouth and see whether she could find a cake worthy of the occasion; if she couldn’t, it would mean going to Exeter – not for a moment did it enter her head that she could have made one and iced it appropriately, for Zina was no domestic goddess and today was important.

  The invitation was accepted and arriving home the twins were excited at the thought of a birthday party. They had packed their own presents, and they worked hard getting the garden table and chairs carried so that by afternoon they would be in the shade of the horse chestnut tree. Then it was Fiona’s idea that they – or at any rate she, for after all no one bothered about what boys looked like – would wear her party frock. All went well and when teatime came the children’s behaviour was perfect. They hadn’t grown to nine years old to be seen and not heard, but listening to them and watching them at the tea table Zina wished Peter could have been there; he would have been proud.

  The chatter was general but Zina let her attention wander to Tommy and Jacques.

  ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Mr Brandt,’ Tommy was asking. ‘May I pass your cup to Mum?’ He even avoided the trap that usually tripped him and remembered ‘may’ and not ‘can’. Zina felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘That’s jolly kind of you, Tommy. Tea in the garden like this is a real treat, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes, rather. Usually we sit on the ground, but today is special because of it being Gran’s birthday. And, of course, because you are here.’

  ‘A special occasion, not like a picnic, eh? Ah, that’s my tea, is it, thank you, son. Now you tell me all about this school you and your sister are off to. Are you looking forward to it – quite an adventure.’

  ‘Yes. Rather! I expect it will be great.’ He tried to make his answer sound natural and not to let anyone guess that he was frightened to imagine how dreadful it might be, so far away from home and Mum and things he loved.

  But he didn’t fool Zina who had been listening with one ear while she made herself join in the conversation with Celia and Jenny. Oh, my poor little Tommy. Can the others hear the bravado in your voice too? Watching Jacques, Zina was sure at least he heard beneath the cheerful tone. Had the loss of his sight made him more sensitive to atmosphere, she wondered. Whether it had or not, concentrating on Tommy, he talked about his own days at boarding school, Zina was sure making it sound much more of an adventure than he had found it at the time. Listening, Tommy seemed to swell with pride that a proper grown-up man – one who was quite old from the viewpoint of his own nine years – should enjoy talking to him as if going to boarding school would elevate him to the same level.

  It was as they moved away from the table to sit in the sunshine that everything changed.

  ‘You two can go and play now,’ Zina told the twins. She almost added a reminder that Fiona mustn’t get her dress dirty but changed her mind. Even as a little girl she had never thrown herself into games with no regard for what she was doing to her appearance and, now, as she left the table it was obvious that her party frock was at the front of her mind. Tommy was making towards the side lawn, which was home to a climbing frame, swing, see-saw and a sandpit, nowadays used as a landing ground for practising long jumps.

  And then it happened! Just as the adults started to move towards the terrace came a thud and an involuntary cry!

  ‘Oh God!’ Celia shrieked as she ran back to the table. ‘Don’t try and move, darling. Let me shift the chair out of the way then I’ll help you.’

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ Jacques panted from where he was sprawled on the grass where Tommy’s chair had thrown him.

  ‘It was your bloody fault, Tommy, leaving your chair stuck out like that,’ Celia shouted, her thoughts just on Jacques.

  ‘Tommy, come here at once,’ Zina called out even though Tommy was already on his way. ‘How could you have been so stupid? Just because we had tea out-of-doors doesn’t mean you leave your manners behind. Come and apologize to Mr Brandt.’

  Worried on account of the man who only minutes ago had made him feel he was a friend and had spoken to him just as if he were a grown-up, humiliated that he had been so unthinking, hating knowing everyone was looking at him, Tommy kept his eyes fixed on Jacques who was struggling to get to his feet. The chair had been moved right out of the way and although Jacques wanted to put the incident behind him, Tommy could see how his hands were shaking and how he was panting even though he wanted everyone to think his fall hadn’t upset him.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Now Celia’s voice was gentle. ‘I’ll pull your chair back and you sit quietly for a few minutes. I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘Don’t fuss. I can manage.’ Once on his feet he felt for the table, pressing the palms of his hands on it as if th
at way no one would notice how they shook.

  ‘Mr Brandt, it was all my fault, I’m sorry, ever so sorry,’ Tommy said timidly, reaching to lay his hand on top of Jacques’s and speaking just to him. But it was the feeling of that trembling hand under his that was his undoing. Until then he’d fought not to let tears get the upper hand, but now his battle was lost. He sobbed loudly, helplessly. Probably he didn’t even realize himself that he was crying about far more than what he had done to his friend, his tears were a safety valve for much that he’d kept hidden as these weeks of the school holiday had melted away so quickly.

  He wanted to creep away, somewhere no one could find him, to be anywhere but where he was. He knew they were all looking at him. He’d been stupid, he’d shown them that he wasn’t growing up at all; and it had been so good only a few minutes ago when Mr Brandt had been telling him tales of the time when he’d been a boy at boarding school. Now, choked by sobs, he felt sick, from shame, sympathy or simply because he imagined just what poor Mr Brandt must be feeling knowing that everyone was looking at him and he could see nothing. ‘It had been such a nice teatime, too.’

  It was his last few words that helped Jacques more than all the women fussing around him. ‘So it had, lad. Then I had to do a damn-fool thing like that. Not your fault, Tommy, just my own. I usually feel around me with my stick to make sure I can step ahead but—’ he leant towards Tommy, feeling to rest his hand on the quivering shoulder, then he spoke quietly in a manner that went a long way towards the teatime spirit that had been lost – ‘between ourselves, today I was showing off and purposely left the stick in the car. Now then, to show we’re still friends, how about you show me your own bit of the garden, eh? We’ll both dry our tears and you give me a guided tour, describe it all to me.’ He held out his hand for Tommy to take.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Zina said softly to Celia as they watched the two of them go, the way Tommy pointed things out and their progress halted while he described what he saw, showing clearly that the guided tour was in progress. It seemed that Tommy’s spirits were reviving as he painted his word picture of the landscaping of the garden to Jacques. ‘Jacques is a remarkable man.’

  ‘It’s not fair, Zina. What has he done to deserve it? It tears me to pieces to watch him – and yet from somewhere he finds the strength to accept. I’m sorry I shouted at Tommy like I did, I didn’t mean to upset him. It’s just that I can’t bear it when things go wrong for Jacques.’

  Jenny stacked the tray, Zina carried it into the house and loaded the dishwasher and by the time the guided tour came to an end, the three women were sitting talking on the terrace, the incident happily behind them.

  It was towards the end of August, and Tommy was paying his nightly visit to Fiona’s room.

  ‘I like it, don’t you, when Mum plays at night? Makes it sort of snug up here with us just listening and whispering.’

  ‘Um …’ Fiona’s agreement was half-hearted. ‘I’d rather listen to records like Dad puts on. Just hark at it! It wouldn’t be so bad if she played a piano, then there might be a tune. I expect she’s quite good, though.’ This was said in what could only be called a condescending tone. ‘Dare say she must be for those people to want her to be in their group or band or whatever they call themselves.’ Then, with a complete change in her voice as she assumed the character of the faithful Mrs Cripps: ‘More like someone’s trodden on the cat’s tail, if you ask me, m’ducky. Gi’e me sommit with a bit o’ go in it, summit wot makes you wanna tap yer feet!’ She said it with a giggle that took away any malice. Then, pleased with her effort she added for good measure, ‘Not my cuppa tea m’dear,’ ending with Mrs Cripps’ customary sniff of emphasis. At that they both fell about laughing.

  ‘Do you reckon that when we get to school they will put us in dorms near each other so I can creep in when the teachers go away?’ Tommy was determined no one, not even she from whom he’d never had secrets, would suspect the ache in the pit of his stomach when they talked about it. He just hoped that without their putting it into words she would understand and feel the same. But he was disappointed.

  ‘Don’t know. Doubt it,’ she answered and clearly Fiona the Brave was ready for anything. ‘Be a lot of fun though, about twelve of us in the dormitory, I expect. Don’t you go and blub or anything sissy. Promise.’

  ‘Course I won’t blub,’ Tom answered. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, I know that, silly. But if there are a lot of new boys in your dorm and someone else starts because he doesn’t want to be there, don’t you let it make you join in. I know what you are; you’re brave enough if you get hurt, cut yourself or fall off your bike, but get in an awful tizz about such silly things. Look at the fuss you made when Mr Brandt fell over your chair the other day. If anyone ought to have cried it was him for falling over.’

  ‘Shut up about it,’ Tom growled. He didn’t want to remember. Imagine not being able to see, not even to know what you tripped over, just being hurtled down and having nothing to save you. It had haunted him. To understand the real horror, when he’d been on his own he had shut his eyes and made himself tumble; it had been much worse than falling with his eyes open. Even thinking about Mr Brandt’s fall was awful. He had tried not to cry but it had been no use. Surely Fiona could understand and not keep on about it. ‘Anyway,’ he said, a note of defiance in his voice, ‘you don’t know, it might be you who gets upset if you don’t like the way things are at school.’

  ‘Stupid,’ Fiona said with a laugh and again bringing Mrs Cripps among them, ‘we’ll soon knock ’em inte’ shape and no mistake.’ Then, changing the subject, she added, ‘We mustn’t forget to take the money Dad left us. Got to keep it hidden, mind. Don’t tell any of the others we’ve got it.’

  ‘Course not. It’s just for emergencies; that’s what Dad said. Rich, aren’t we!’

  Their nightly conversations were always in whispers, even though Zina would never have heard them, concentrating as she was on her playing.

  Peter came home to see them off to school on the twelfth of September.

  Just about to slam the front door and join them for the start of their journey, Zina saw her family waiting out on the forecourt. Even though in a few days’ time she was to join the Meinholt Quintet for rehearsals, at that moment her family were her whole world. They were standing by the cars, the children in their brand-new uniform, grey with red braid and trimmings, their ties red and grey stripes, Fiona’s skinny legs made to look even thinner by her grey stockings. The two cars were packed for the journey. About to follow them out, Zina stopped to look at them as they stood deep in conversation, or rather Peter was talking while they listened intently and nodded. She wanted to impress the memory on her mind; nothing would ever be quite the same again for any of them. These were the three people who meant the world to her; she felt a great surge of love for them.

  Then she slammed the front door and ran down the steps to join them for the start of the journey into their new life. With the roof of his red sports car open, Peter took Fiona. It hadn’t been easy to get her portmanteau into the space behind the driver’s seat, which looked like a seat but would have been useless for anyone with adult legs. For the child off on this new adventure, as she saw it, the sports car was so much more thrilling than having to go with her mother in the family Volvo. She hoped there would be some of her future associates there to see her arrive in such style and with a father who was no ordinary man but someone who would be recognized as special.

  Tommy willingly opted to ride with Zina. He did wish Fiona wouldn’t always want to attract attention; it was so embarrassing.

  ‘Mum, will you be scared about playing? I don’t mean just playing at home or in the village where you know the people, I mean with a huge hall full of strangers listening.’ He asked it in a serious voice as they drove.

  ‘No, not scared, just thrilled and grateful that I have the opportunity.’ She heard it as a serious question and gave him a truthful answer. ‘You see, T
ommy, whether or not there is an audience makes no difference once the music starts; it’s being part of the sound that matters.’ Zina realized, as she had so often, how easy it was to talk to him, forgetting how young he still was.

  He took in her words and gave them thought before he answered. Then, just as Zina had decided the conversation was to go no further, he said, ‘I think that’s how I would feel, Mum.’ There was a pause, but this time Zina sensed there was more to follow. ‘Mum, I think you are the luckiest person, honestly I do.’ He stressed his words to make sure she realized he wasn’t just making conversation for the sake of something to say. This was important. ‘I read the brochure for school, Mum, and it said that there could be private music lessons. Do you think I could learn to play like you do? Please. Honestly, it’s not just because it’s what you do, honestly it’s not that, but Mum, if there is someone to teach me the violin could I please have lessons? In the hols you could hear me practise and one day when I get good enough we could play together. They wouldn’t say I was too young, would they? Everything always seems to be for people who are older, unless it’s dancing and stuff like that.’

  ‘You’re certainly not too young. I was six and some are even younger than that. If you want to do it properly you would have to be prepared to give up a lot of playtime to practising, you’d have that as well as your prep.’

  ‘I know, and I would, truly I would.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Tommy. When we get to St Mary’s we’ll find out if violin lessons are possible. If they are I will bring you my half-size fiddle. I had that when I was about your age and I’ve always kept it. You’ll soon grow into needing a full-size one, but it’s better to start on one that’s just right. I must have kept it all these years hoping that one of you would want to play. It’s in the cupboard at home and I bet it’ll be glad to be making music again.’

  She had sensed Tommy’s unacknowledged nervousness about going to school, just as now she felt he was more relaxed. Perhaps the thought of learning to make music gave him a connection with home.