The Branded Man Page 8

  Goodnight, my dearest, dearest Grandpa.

  Your Marie Anne.

  PS. Tomorrow I am to meet my musical professor, Carlos Alvarez. As his name suggests, he is Spanish, and to give you Sarah’s description of him, he is a nice gentleman of middle years with very good English and lives in a tall house, with his studios on the bottom and a wife upstairs. But I shall see this all for myself tomorrow. Goodnight again, dear Grandpa.

  Marie Anne and Sarah Foggerty both stood before Martha Culmill. She was looking at Marie Anne’s feet, and said, ‘That skirt of yours is too short.’

  Marie Anne looked down at the hem of her brown dress and said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s not what you think, miss, it’s a matter of decorum. It is too short.’

  ‘It is above my ankles, and that’s the way I want it.’

  Sarah Foggerty was coughing again. It seemed to be a warning cough, but Marie Anne took no notice of it. She was raring to go for her first lesson with Professor Alvarez. She had listened to this woman’s advice for a solid hour that morning on what she had to do and what she hadn’t to do; and one thing she hadn’t to do was to chatter to the professor; she was there to learn music and nothing else. Nor could she allow her companion to spend two hours doing nothing as she waited for her three times a week, and so she was to be careful with whom she made friends, such as other musicians, because musicians in the main were mostly of low character. And at home she must practise more hymns, with not so much banging and rattling of the keys, but quiet and soothing religious works.

  When Sarah Foggerty’s coughing seemed to be troubling her again, Marie Anne, glancing at her fob watch and addressing her aunt, said, ‘If I’m not at the studio on time, it will be good money wasted; and that would never do, would it, Aunt, so may we go now?’

  ‘You are meaning to be insolent, girl, aren’t you? I understand now why you were dismissed from two schools.’

  ‘I wasn’t dismissed from two schools, Aunt, I left of my own accord; and I’m not meaning to be insolent; it’s just that I’m tired already of petty rules.’

  ‘Then let me tell you, girl,’ and now Martha Culmill almost barked at her, ‘you’ll be more tired in the future, for as long as you stay in my house and under my care you’ll obey my rules, or I’ll write to your mother and hear what she has to say about it.’

  Marie Anne’s voice was low and trembling as she responded, ‘I think you already know what my mother thinks about me; after all, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Foggerty, take her away out of my sight. I…I never thought that at my age and in my own house I’d have to put up with such insolence.’

  So they went out of her sight, not exchanging a word until they were in the street, and then it was Sarah who made a simple statement: ‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll say that for you. Even if you have nothing else you’ve got spunk. And I can see it getting you through life.’ Then on a little giggle she added, ‘That is, if somebody doesn’t shoot you first.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah. She…she upsets me. She’s awful…awful.’

  ‘I agree with every word you say about her, but you’re here and you’ve got to put up with it, and so let’s put our best foot forward: we don’t want to arrive at the Academy late, do we? And I’d better tell you before you get there, you’re going to be disappointed in it. I don’t know so much about the man who runs it—although he seemed a nice enough fellow—but it struck me as odd that he let himself be beaten down by your aunt over his charges. I wouldn’t have thought he would have done that unless he was short of money.’

  ‘You said it was a house, but did you mean that it was the professor’s house and that there was a school attached?’

  ‘Girl, in ten minutes time you’ll see for yourself. There’s no school, as such, but there are places that are called schools, even academies, all with fancy names, but they’re really nothing more than ordinary houses.’

  ‘Oh Sarah, don’t say I’m not going to like it.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you, miss. Anyway, it’s exactly a fifteen-minute walk from door to door, and as time goes by I can get you there by three different routes and let you see a bit of London, because I think that’s the only way you’ll manage it; there’ll be no Sunday jaunts for you. All your Sundays will be taken up with chapel and prayer.’

  ‘Oh no, they won’t. I won’t go.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be your battle. We all have our battles to fight; I’m fighting one inside me every day with that woman, and I can tell you if I could find a decent job tomorrow, I’d be out of this one like a shot.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah. Please…please don’t think of leaving. I can’t see how I would bear that house without you.’

  ‘It might come that you’ll have to, dear. But never mind about the future; it’s the present; so come on, step out;’ only to ask almost immediately, ‘is that foot hurting you?’

  ‘It is a bit when I hurry. It’s the one that was broken.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, me dear. I’m sorry. Well, we’ll take it easy. What matter if you’re a minute or so late.’ …

  They weren’t late. They reached the house and walked into a hallway, then into a waiting room. Here they sat on bentwood chairs and waited. Neither of them spoke; but now and again they would turn and look at each other.

  When the door opened abruptly and an elderly woman entered, saying, ‘Ah! There you are,’ they both rose to their feet.

  ‘I am Mrs Liza Alvarez and you’—she looked at Marie Anne—‘must be Miss Lawson…right?’

  ‘Right,’ put in Sarah Foggerty, which seemed to surprise the lady, who raised her eyebrows and for no reason said, ‘Yes,’ then added, ‘Come this way; the professor is ready for you.’

  Marie Anne did not immediately follow the well-dressed woman. She was surprised to discover that she, a professor’s wife, was a common woman.

  She now turned to Sarah and said, ‘I will see you at three o’clock then, Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Three o’clock I’ll be here.’

  At the doorway, two little girls, each carrying music and laughing, squeezed past her into the waiting room and sat on the two chairs she and Sarah had just vacated.

  The woman ushered Marie Anne into a room, saying, ‘In here. He will be with you in a moment.’

  Marie Anne looked around her. It was a large, somewhat bare room. In the middle was a table on which stood small piles of music, and against the wall, opposite the fireplace, was an upright piano. It was a beautiful-looking instrument, very like the one back home, and was made of rosewood.

  She walked towards it and as her fingers touched the inside of the lid a voice startled her, saying, ‘It is a nice-looking piano, you think, yes?’

  ‘Oh.’ She turned smiling towards the man, who had entered from another room. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  They stood surveying each other. She saw a man of medium height, who looked well built but wasn’t fat. He, too, had black hair, but unlike his wife’s, his looked natural. The skin of his face was tanned and his eyes were round and dark and merry-looking. He had what she would call a kind face. When he held out his hand to her, she noticed that his fingers were short and rather plump, but his handshake was firm and warm. That, she was to recall, was her first impression of him: he was warm, a nice man, and warm. And she saw immediately, too, that he looked younger than his wife. She guessed that he was not yet forty years old, but she knew she was no real judge of men’s ages. What she did recognise immediately was that he had a lovely voice: he was saying, ‘Well, shall we get started? I understand that you already play well, but we shall see, won’t we? We shall see.’

  On these last words, he bent his body slightly towards her, and when he smiled his teeth looked very white against the tan of his skin.

  After adjusting the round music stool to her height and noticing that she seemed nervous, he said, ‘Now, forget about me and play; something you know, have memorised, yes?’

  She looked down and plac
ed her hands on the keys; then she started to play. All the while she was conscious that he was walking about the room, and only once did he stop by her side, to remark, ‘Beethoven’s Sonatina in G. That was an easy piece, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but…but I like it.’

  ‘I like it, yes, too. Yes, I like it. But tell me, who do you enjoy playing? It’s apparent that you like Beethoven, but what about Bach, Mozart, Liszt?’

  ‘Oh’—she smiled up at him now—‘Oh, I like Liszt, but his music is very hard to play. His timing, too …’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. Although I know I play many pieces too quickly, I don’t feel I can ever play his fast enough.’

  ‘Oh well, then, we’ll have to see that you practise his pieces. What about Bach?’

  ‘I’m…I’m not very fond of churchy music.’

  He laughed outright now. ‘You call his work churchy? Well, maybe, because he loved the organ.’

  Apologetically now, she said, ‘It’s probably because I don’t like hymns.’

  Again he was laughing; then bending towards her he whispered, ‘I’ll let you into our first secret, I don’t neither. No, I don’t neither.’

  She was smiling at him, but she wanted to laugh outright at his mixing up of the language, for it sounded quaint. He had a lovely voice, though. But now the voice changed and became quite businesslike when he said, ‘Well, shall we leave all the composers sleeping for today, and concentrate on scales? Shall we? Scales, scales, scales.’

  When she looked somewhat surprised, he said, ‘Scales can be very musical if they are played correctly, eh?’

  She hadn’t thought she would be made to practise scales again, but that’s how the two hours were spent; and it was not until ten minutes before the end of the session that he stopped his pacing up and down and his shouted corrections and said, ‘Please cease now. It has been very tiring for you, I know. Yes?’

  ‘No,’ she lied; ‘not really, but it’s a long time since I…well, I played scales.’

  ‘That is evident. Oh evident, evident.’ He was smiling now. ‘Would you like to play something for me; another one that you like?’

  She drew in a long breath, looked down on the keyboard, then said quietly, ‘I would rather listen to you, if I may.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ His face beamed now. ‘That is very nice of you, and I will certainly oblige. What would you like to hear?’

  She hunched her shoulders just slightly, and there was an impish look on her face as she said, ‘Liszt.’

  His laugh rang out as he repeated, ‘Liszt it shall be, just a little. Here we go.’

  As she slid off the stool he sat down, and for the next five minutes or so she stood by his side and became enthralled at his playing. This was real piano playing. She had only once before heard Liszt played and that was at a concert that Pat had taken her to. When he had finished he said, ‘What was I playing?’

  She shook her head; all she knew was, she would never be able to play like that, and so she said to him, ‘That was beautiful, what…what was it?’

  And he answered, ‘Just a part of Liszt’s concerto in E flat.’

  She repeated again, ‘It was beautiful.’

  ‘Well, in a very short time I should be able to return the compliment and say, That was beautiful, Miss Lawson, beautifully played.’

  They were staring at each other without speaking; then he said, ‘It only needs practise, practise, practise; and I understand you will have time of plenty—’ he now took the palm of his hand and beat his brow with it and he laughed as she said, ‘plenty of time, Professor Alvarez.’

  They were both smiling as he opened the door for her, saying, ‘Tomorrow, bring what music you have with you.’

  ‘I haven’t any.’

  Then, his head bobbing, he said, ‘You will have to pur-chase some, eh?’

  ‘Yes;’ and she repeated, ‘I shall have to pur-chase some.’

  In the waiting room there was a boy of about ten waiting, and he was on crutches. She wanted to stop and speak to him, for she knew what it was like to be on crutches. But there was the Professor’s wife at one door and Sarah Foggerty at the other.

  ‘Well! How did it go?’ asked Sarah, as they went out into the street.

  ‘Very well. He’s very good, at least I think he’s going to be, but he put me on scales all the time. I’m to bring my own music tomorrow and I haven’t any.’

  ‘In that case, me dear, you’ll just have to tell her you need money to buy some.’

  ‘Oh, I know what she would say, and I’d have to get more hymns I suppose. No; I have some money of my own that my—’

  ‘You have money of your own? Where? Because I know she’s been through your things.’

  ‘She hasn’t!’

  ‘Oh, yes, she has. It’s amazing how quickly her rheumaticky legs can go when she wants them to. She only found three shillings in your purse, so where’s your money?’

  ‘In my petticoat.’

  Sarah let out a high laugh as she said, ‘Good for you, good for you. Then keep it there. Is it much?’

  ‘A few pounds.’

  ‘Ha! Ha! She would never think of looking there. Anyway, there’s a music shop in the High Street; you’ll get anything you want there. We’ll call on our way here tomorrow. Now, as soon as we get back you’ll have to go upstairs and give her the run-down on what’s happened and I’d like to bet she’s none too pleased by the fact that four shillings has been spent on practising scales, even when it isn’t out of her pocket. And by the way, what did you think of his wife?’

  It was a moment or so before Marie Anne answered, and then truthfully, ‘I haven’t thought of her at all.’ And it was to be the same for months to come: Liza Alvarez was to remain apart from the music room, except when she ushered her in for her lessons.

  But months pass and time changes.

  Three

  Dearest Grandpa,

  The Christmas holidays are over and I am so thankful. I start school again tomorrow. Each day I am more grateful for your lovely fleece-lined coat and Pat’s hood and gloves, because the cold here is different from that at home. It eats into you, and the fog is terrible, oh dreadful. But something nice happened the other day. It helped me to get over not seeing Pat—I cannot imagine Pat falling into a ship’s hold; he’s so used to inspecting them; but I am so happy to know he is up and about now and walking again, even if it is with the aid of a stick. I wrote him a long letter yesterday and told him about the nice thing that happened to me through Sarah and all the funny things she says. He will likely have already told you, but, anyway, the professor had a cold and so, as it was Sarah’s half-day off, which seemed a great piece of luck, she took me on a quick tour of the sights. I saw Buckingham Palace, Grandpa.

  We stood looking through the iron railings. There were many other people doing the same thing and all talking about the Queen although, as Sarah put it, there was no hope in…you know where, of seeing the old girl, and that was no loss. I don’t think she likes the Queen, because she said there’s more than one old tyrant in the world. She likes the Prince, although there’s a lot of scandal talked about him.

  The highlight of our gallivanting was that we went on a boat on the river, and the sun was shining and a man played a melodeon. Oh, it was magical, Grandpa. And lastly, what d’you think? We had a real tea in The Corner House—Lyons. Then we were ten minutes late in returning to the house, but it didn’t matter; we both told the same lie. I’ll never be able to thank Sarah Foggerty for all she has done for me. I wish you could see her; or, at least, hear her, Grandpa; she makes you laugh even when you don’t want to.

  My music is coming on. I feel I’m progressing, and the professor is such a good teacher, so patient. He is a very nice man; you, too, would like him, Grandpa.

  I must close now, Grandpa; but having said all this, I am very lonely inside for you and Pat…and the dogs and the garden and the open country. Oh, how I long to run, Grandpa; but I wond
er, even if I were back home, if I would ever run again as I used to, as my foot still hurts at times.

  As Clara is apt to say, we are all miserable bellyfuls. One thing I am sure you have noticed, Grandpa, and it is that my English will not have improved; but the girls’ talk here is the only light thing in this house. I refer to them as girls, for I don’t think of them as servants or maids; they are my friends. And lastly, to answer one of your questions: no, I have made no new friends here because no-one ever visits, and the pupils at the school all seem to be very young. Except for a lady pupil, I must be the oldest there.

  Goodnight, my dearest, dearest Grandpa.

  ‘We are sad today, my little Infanta; what is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I think I have a cold coming on.’

  ‘You are in the fashion then; everyone in this country has to have a spring cold. Here we have April: the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing, and bumble bees were heard buzzing in the park yesterday; it is the time of coming alive; so, my little Infanta, shall we bring the keys alive?’ He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to the revolving stool, and after she had sat down he gently pulled her around to face him and, bending his face close to hers, he said, ‘Is something deep troubling you, Infanta?’

  He had lovely eyes, she thought, and his mouth looked so kind. At times, when he came close to her like this, she wanted to put her head on his shoulder, because he was so like her grandpa. No, he was so much younger; he was more like Pat and he had a lovely face and he smelt nice. Yes, he always smelt nice. It was a warm smell. She likened it to the smell that came up from the garden in the evening; one that you couldn’t put a name to because it didn’t come from any particular flower.