7,19 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A professional pianist searches for her sister, who disappeared when their parents died, aided by her childhood-care records and a single song that continues to haunt her … the exquisite new novel from the author of This Is How We Are Human 'Utterly beautiful … I couldn't put it down' Iona Gray 'Louise Beech has a rare talent … she doesn't just move the reader, she breaks their heart and mends it again' Fiona Cummins 'The best one yet … I'm still in tears of heartbreak and joy' S E Lynes 'Like the notes of a nocturne, Nothing Else will leave you profoundly touched by its beauty' Nydia Hetherington ––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Heather Harris is a piano teacher and professional musician, whose quiet life revolves around music, whose memories centre on a single song that haunts her. A song she longs to perform again. A song she wrote as a child, to drown out the violence in their home. A song she played with her little sister, Harriet. But Harriet is gone … she disappeared when their parents died, and Heather never saw her again. When Heather is offered an opportunity to play piano on a cruise ship, she leaps at the chance. She'll read her recently released childhood care records by day – searching for clues to her sister's disappearance – and play piano by night … coming to terms with the truth about a past she's done everything to forget. An exquisitely moving novel about surviving devastating trauma, about the unbreakable bond between sisters, Nothing Else is also a story of courage and love, and the power of music to transcend – and change – everything. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 'One of the best writers of her generation' John Marrs 'A story of childhood trauma, survival, the fragility of memory, and of love that survives decades … I loved it' Gill Paul 'A touching, beautifully written work of literary fiction ... pure perfection' Michael Wood 'A beautiful, heartbreaking, uplifting novel' Vikki Patis 'Another brilliant tale of love and hope' Fionnuala Kearney 'Powerful, mesmerising and honest … I loved every word' Carol Lovekin 'A tender and beautiful story about the loving and unbreakable bond between sisters' Madeleine Black ***** 'Wonderful prose' Shelley's Book Nook 'Emotional, poignant, delightful' Bobs and Books 'A masterpiece of emotional artistry, as spectacularly tender as it is disquieting, this book will stay with you long after you finish it' Bookly Matters 'This is another beautiful, lyrically written story, made even more perfect with the musical themes throughout' Karen Reads 'Beautifully written, in that style that is so typical of this author, and which never fails to draw its reader in' From Belgium with Booklove 'Madame Beech has done it again ... both touching and heartbreaking' Mrs Loves To Read 'This is such a beautiful book – incredibly tender, it's like an extended piece of the most beautiful classical music you ever heard' Tea Leaves and Reads 'This is a story, at its root, of love and loss, and lost time, but one that testifies to the power of truth and the endurance of love … her best yet' Blue Book Balloon
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 470
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Ähnliche
Heather Harris is a piano teacher and professional musician, whose quiet life revolves around music, whose memories centre on a single song that haunts her. A song she longs to perform again. A song she wrote as a child, to drown out the violence in their home. A song she played with her little sister, Harriet.
But Harriet is gone … she disappeared when their parents died, and Heather never saw her again.
When Heather is offered an opportunity to play piano on a cruise ship, she leaps at the chance. She’ll read her recently released childhood care records by day – searching for clues to her sister’s disappearance – and play piano by night … coming to terms with the truth about a past she’s done everything to forget.
An exquisitely moving novel about surviving devastating trauma, about the unbreakable bond between sisters, Nothing Else is also a story of courage and love, and the power of music to transcend – and change – everything.
Nothing Else
Louise Beech
For my sisters, Claire and Grace. Now you can both be Richard Clayderman.
And Patricia, or MrsLovesToRead, as I know you. For your husband, and his music.
‘Don’t only practise your art but force your way into its secrets; art deserves that, for it and knowledge can raise man to the divine.’ —Ludwig van Beethoven
‘Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.’ —Maya Angelou
‘Music can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.’ —Leonard Bernstein
PLAYLIST
‘Nocturne No 2’ – Chopin
‘Annie’s Song’ – John Denver
‘I’ll Remember April’ – Miles Davis
‘Clair de Lune’ – Debussy
‘Serenade No. 13’ – Mozart
‘Vincent’ – Don McLean
‘Lady Bird’ – Tadd Dameron
‘Moonlight Sonata’ – Beethoven
‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ – Simon & Garfunkel
‘Take on Me’ – A-ha
‘Für Elise’ – Beethoven
‘The Four Seasons: Spring’ – Vivaldi
‘Careless Whisper’ – George Michael
‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’ – Bach
‘The Thrill Is Gone’ – Roy Hawkins
‘Interstellar’ – Hans Zimmer
‘1812 Overture’ – Tchaikovsky
‘Dances with Wolves’ – John Barry
‘Sonata in C Major’ – Mozart
‘Now is the Time’ – Jimmy James
‘Yesterday’ – Lennon-McCartney
‘Une Barque Sur L’Océan’ – Ravel
To listen to these pieces please visit Nothing Else – The Playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7zxfUegPjGhWag4tnznizw
CONTENTS
HEATHER (PRIMO)
1
Sometimes violence is neat. It happens quickly. A table is overturned and then righted. Food is spilt and cleaned up. Glasses are smashed, the pieces swept up by dawn and sparkling new ones in the cupboard by evening. Physically, it is fast, then over. Emotionally, it lingers, then settles. There’s a bloody, visceral beauty to it, a sweet agony that leaves you breathless if you look at it.
But we didn’t look.
We closed our eyes and played our song. The notes were an accompaniment to the crashes and the thumps and the muffled cries in the next room. Our fingers flew over the keys; flashes of black and ivory, ivory and black, back and forth, neither of us leading or following. I recall that melody now in my dreams. I should hear violence as the background percussion. But I don’t. I only hear us. Our song. ‘Nothing Else’. Us, cocooned by the safety of our music.
And I wish I could play it again with her.
But she’s gone.
Gone.
2
I arrived early at the town house; it was one of those tall new builds designed to blend in with the older architecture surrounding it, close to the river, and off a cobbled street. I always arrived promptly for a first lesson. I liked to chat to the new student, gauge what level they were at, how passionate they were, and ascertain whether music was something they wanted to pursue or something their parents had insisted they do. It was more often the latter, so I was always overjoyed when it turned out to be the former.
A willowy woman opened the door, tall like a new tree, but tired-looking, and I was sure she sported a bruise on her cheek that she tried to hide by repeatedly pulling her hair forward. Something in me stirred; an anxiety, a recognition, an urge to turn and walk away.
But I stayed.
‘Come in, Heather,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m Ellen, Rebecca’s mother. Thank you for agreeing to teach her. You came highly recommended.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I rarely agreed to teach very young students, particularly those younger than about eight. I mostly taught the bored teenage offspring of rich parents, who I knew would far rather be putting their long fingers to use on the skin of other equally bored teenagers. Dan, my ex-husband, had often asked why I preferred older, probably more stroppy kids, and I was always defensive, saying it was my choice, I didn’t need a reason.
So why was I here, having agreed to teach eight-year-old Rebecca, who her mother had described on the phone as a natural; who, she had told me, always played her friend’s piano, and then begged them to buy her one; who – when they did – ran to it as soon as she got home from school? Something about her mother’s gentle voice and simple request had compelled me. I recognised it, that maternal warmth, from long, long ago, and my heart had given in.
Now I could not take my eyes off the fading bruise. When I looked at it, I saw a lace collar below, though hers was plain; I saw soft yellow hair, though hers was mousy; I saw tiny pearl earrings, though her lobes were bare.
‘I chose you because…’ Ellen looked around the bland, modern hallway, as though checking who might be listening ‘…Brandon’s mother said you were very sensitive.’
So she was the one who had recommended me. I had wondered.
‘Oh. I guess.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s just, I wanted someone … understanding. Rebecca … we adopted her, you see. When she was three. And it’s been hard, at times, not knowing her full background. She’s always loved music though. It’s the one thing that calms her.’
I smiled. Oh, how I knew this. ‘Of course,’ I said.
Ellen gave a heavy sigh. ‘Before you meet her, I need to tell you a couple of things that we now know about her background … You see, she can go into black moods and not speak for days.’
I felt a little uncomfortable that she was being so open, sharing so much so quickly, but I just nodded along. Perhaps she needed to get it off her chest. And perhaps it would help me.
‘We couldn’t understand it at first, it was so difficult to deal with. Anyway, I decided I needed to know more about what had happened to her before she came to us. So, I got her care records from the social-services team.’
Ellen paused then, emotional. I told her she didn’t have to tell me if she didn’t want to.
‘I must tell you,’ she insisted. ‘It’s important, for you, if you’re to teach her.’ She steeled herself. ‘It was a very sad read. Both of her biological parents were drug addicts. They left her alone for long periods, but they always put music on for her, classical, because … well, they did love her, and they wanted her to feel comforted while they did what they had to.’
I nodded.
‘Now she wants to play her own music,’ said Ellen, softly.
‘Well, I’d love to help her,’ I said.
‘Wonderful. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come and that you still want to teach her, even after all I’ve told you.’ I thought for a moment Ellen might hug me, but instead she wrapped her arms around her own body, eyes watery. ‘Rebecca’s in here. Come through, please.’
Ellen led me to a door and opened it onto a large, sparse room, the floors gleaming wood and the walls beige. In the corner, by a tall window, was a baby-grand piano, perfect and polished, making my heart sing; and sitting there was a little girl in a sunflower-yellow dress with auburn hair cascading down her back. She was the brightest thing in that room. And yet I stepped back involuntarily, not sure at my sudden reluctance. My throat tightened; my heart sped up.
What was wrong with me?
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Ellen, closing the door.
I approached the little girl. She turned and I felt my knees give a little.
‘Hi,’ said Rebecca, shy, cheeks as pink as new roses.
I couldn’t form the word.
‘Are you OK, miss?’ She looked concerned.
I wasn’t. I thought I might be sick. And then I knew. It wasn’t just the bruise on her mother’s face. It wasn’t just this child’s background, the need for music as comfort. It wasn’t just the hair spilling down her back. She reminded me of … her.
I turned and ran.
‘I’m sorry,’ I called out, not sure where in the house Ellen was. ‘I don’t feel well. I’m sorry, so sorry.’
And I ran and ran and ran.
3
StarWind Entertainment Group are seeking a pianist to work onboard the Queen of the Seas cruise ship. The successful candidate will be fluent in English and play a variety of styles. Vocals are a bonus but not essential. You will play easy-listening music at cocktail time as well as pop, party style after dinner. You should also be able to play acoustic solo piano at lunchtime during the day. You will be able to read the room and cater to a crowd.
I didn’t for one moment think I’d get the job.
I’d never played piano on a ship. I taught music and occasionally took month-long gigs in quiet city bars where no one really listened, and they rarely tipped. That had been my career since I left university twenty-six years ago.
But mostly, I played at home on my baby-grand piano. Its polished ebony was a dark mirror that created a second set of hands; and together we danced a ghostly duet. I bought the piano with money Margaret had left me when she passed two years earlier – the good woman who was my mother during the latter part of my childhood. Hours of practice – a habit instilled in me long ago by my beloved tutor, Mr Hibbert – were a joy on this beautiful instrument. The old upright piano Margaret bought when I was eleven was like a beloved friend, but this sleek baby grand, with its larger soundboard and longer strings, gave my music a louder, richer, fuller resonance.
My friend Tamsin told me about the job.
She regularly did six months at a time on the ships. ‘You’d love it,’ she’d tell me during the brief in-betweens when she was home, and we caught up over mojitos and her lurid tales of exotic men and foreign lands. ‘It’s all playing jazz at night and then playing whatever I fancy afterwards, if you know what I mean. It’s not difficult to catch the eye of some velvet-skinned dream man when you’re the one in the spotlight. What’s not to love about that?’
I’d never felt much inclination to travel, beyond country getaways or weekends in Dublin. But Tamsin showed me the job advertisement just two weeks after I’d run away from that sparse room with the little girl sitting at the piano in the corner.
Still, I resisted even considering it at first, which was ridiculous because I had no ties. It was just me. I’d recently downsized to a two-bedroom flat on Hull Marina, with a metal balcony overlooking the bleached boats and wind-swept walkers who dropped chip paper, with a mustard-yellow kitchen I kept meaning to paint, and with my piano in the corner of the cold-floored living room, sitting on a large grey rug to absorb excess reflected sound. It had taken two movers an hour to get my instrument up three flights of stairs on a hot August afternoon last year.
I was now divorced. I’d never really felt married, not the way I think you’re supposed to. What did I know though, with the example my father had set long ago? I’d always chosen gentle men, kind men, quiet men. Just a hint of aggression and I was gone. Dan and I split amicably. How else do you separate when neither has done anything wrong? When you still love each other, but your love isn’t quite enough for him, and his is more than you think you deserve?
‘I’d have applied for the job myself,’ said Tamsin, over at my flat one evening, with a bottle of Prosecco on the balcony and the cruise ship job description on her phone. ‘But I’ll be in Brazil by then. The Queen of the Seas is a magnificent ship. Made for me, really.’
She laughed. Her confidence was what I loved most. No one bigged up Tamsin more than she did, and I adored her for it. I wished I could be more that way. We met years ago, when she played the sax in a band at a pub where I’d played too. I was shadow to her sun; she was an extrovert, craving the spotlight, while I was quieter, loving my music but far too shy to shout about it.
‘I think I’ve done four or five trips on the Queen of the Seas,’ she said. ‘You should go for it. You’d love life at sea, Heather. I’ll never understand why you’ve never considered it.’
‘I like my feet firmly on the ground,’ I said, unsure about new things as always.
‘They will be. These are big ships. There’s hardly any motion. You don’t even know you’re at sea.’
Tamsin clicked her phone screen and showed me more of the job details. I skim-read them while she regaled me with the tale of Marco, who she met in Rio and ‘almost married’ on the beach.
Sailing area – Southampton to New York, two nights in the city, fourteen nights Eastern Caribbean cruise, return to New York for two nights, repeat fourteen nights Eastern Caribbean cruise, two more nights in the city, return to Southampton. Total of 42 nights (6 weeks).
Contract length – from Friday 2nd August 2019 to Friday 13th September 2019.
Working hours – up to four sets of 45–120 minutes a day.
Accommodation – Cabin shared with a roommate or single.
Included – Full board meals with the crew, laundry, and free Wi-Fi.
Salary – ranges from £3,400 to £3,600 depending on musician’s ability and experience.
*Additional duties besides a regular performance (helping in other departments) are tipped an extra £300–700 per month.
‘It does sound nice,’ I admitted.
‘Nice? Nice? It’s a bloody marvellous life, woman. What’s stopping you? You get to do the thing you love, around the clock, you get paid well for it, you have an actual attentive audience, and you’re at sea.’ Tamsin studied me; her skin was still tawny from the last trip. ‘What are you doing now, eh? Playing melancholy shit all on your own here, for an audience of you and a nosy neighbour.’
‘Thanks.’ I shook my head at her.
‘Heather, you’re forty-eight an—’
‘Seven,’ I corrected.
‘You’re forty-seven and you’re one of the most beautiful pianists I’ve ever heard play. You know that, don’t you? You know I envy you, and trust me, that’s a hard thing for me to admit. And you’re teaching scales and C-major arpeggios to bloody thirteen-year-olds who don’t care. You’re wasted.’
‘I like teaching,’ I said.
I did. But I hadn’t told Tamsin about the other day. About coming home from Ellen and Rebecca’s tall townhouse, sure I couldn’t do it anymore.
‘You could be in New York, for God’s sake. New York. And the Caribbean.’
‘Maybe. Six weeks is a long time to be away though.’ Could I do with that time though? To think about what I really wanted from life?
Tamsin swigged Prosecco, laughed. ‘You big baby, it’s nothing. I do months at a time. It will be a taster for you. And who knows, if you like it, you’ll want to try longer.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Let’s fill the application in now,’ she cried.
I shook my head, still hesitant. ‘Let me think about it. I promise I’ll decide by tomorrow.’
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, studying me.
‘Yes,’ I lied. Then, ‘Yes,’ more firmly.
‘Don’t wait,’ she cried. ‘People are killing one another for these jobs.’
I did think about it. When she had gone, I sat alone in the dark on my balcony. The harbour lights bounced off the water, mini flashes in a watery theatre. Tinny dance music drifted up from one of the nearby bars. But that wasn’t what I heard. I heard a recital as the sailboat masts moved in the evening breeze. I heard a symphony of the sea in their chimes. Because I heard music in everything. A monotonous hum from the washing machine or from a food blender and I’d harmonise with it, moving my fingers across an imaginary keyboard, working out what chord progression worked best.
I tried to concentrate on less melodic matters and looked up cruise ships on my phone. Tamsin had told me plenty about them over the years, shown me all her travel snaps; they were her passion. I clicked on pictures of sleek white liners cutting through azure waters, of promenades with as many shops and bars as a high street, of art auctions and surf parties. Then I read blogs by people who worked aboard – some happy, describing wild crew parties, breathtaking cities, and friendships that lasted a lifetime, others listing the cons: no days off, tiny, shared cabins, and long shifts.
Could that life be for me?
I lived in a port. I should have been drawn to the ocean; Hull is a sea city without being right on it. The Humber Estuary took ferries daily from our port, across the North Sea, linking Yorkshire to Europe. It was a city I’d never left. They call it the end of line. Once you’re here there is nowhere else to go but the water. And yet I’d never sailed. I was within touching distance of the waves; I witnessed currents and storms from the safety of my balcony. I played melodies with the double doors wide open, the stench of brine on the air. Could I play out there, at sea, for an audience of travellers?
Why was I so reluctant?
I wasn’t sure. It was only six weeks. I’d be coming home again. No children held me here. Margaret and Harold – I’d never been able to call them Mum and Dad, though I loved them deeply – had passed away. I knew my ex-husband Dan would encourage me to go if I told him about Tamsin’s idea. ‘Be adventurous,’ he’d say. ‘See the world.’
And then there had been Rebecca two weeks ago.
I hadn’t been able to put her of my mind; I kept seeing her turn around to look at me. I’d hardly been able to concentrate on teaching after I ran away from the house. I’d taken the last few days off, cancelling all my lessons, apologising and blaming a family emergency.
Family emergency.
Those two words were perhaps more truthful than I’d at first thought.
4
The morning after she had shown me the advert for the cruise job, I called Tamsin. ‘I know you’re busy, getting ready to go away again bu—’
‘Have you applied for it?’ she interrupted, excited.
‘Tamsin … I … I know I said I was when you asked yesterday … but I’m not OK.’
‘I didn’t think so,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong, babe?’
‘I … I haven’t been working these last few days,’ I admitted. ‘I just haven’t felt like … well, like I can.’
‘Why? That isn’t like you, Heather.’
‘I know.’ I went onto the balcony and looked out at the boats. ‘There was this … student…’
‘Yes?’
‘She reminded me of…’
‘Lady Gaga? Miley Cyrus?’
I laughed. ‘No.’ I said her name then, one I rarely said aloud, one I only thought of when I was alone, and the past grabbed at me with greedy hands: ‘Harriet.’
‘Oh,’ said Tamsin softly.
‘Rebecca, my supposed new student,’ I explained. ‘She was this little girl, and her vulnerability, it just, it floored me. And I ran away. She broke my heart. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay and teach her. I had to lie and tell her mother that I was ill. I feel terrible now.’ I bent down low, as low as I felt, and put my forehead to the chill balcony railing. ‘I’ve never liked teaching the little ones. And I think it’s because…’
‘Because they’ll remind you of her.’ Tamsin paused. ‘I think perhaps it’s because you’ve buried such a lot and you never talk about it.’
‘It’s hard to,’ I breathed.
‘Haven’t you ever wanted to look for her, after she disappeared like that?’
‘I’ve been … afraid, I guess. I mean, yes, I’ve looked on Facebook and I’ve googled her name – or at least what was her name – but nothing more. I can’t explain why I haven’t taken it further. I can’t explain why I’m … scared. It’s like, if I search for her, I’m going to have to face so many other memories.’ I shook my head as though to free my fears. ‘Anyway, I did something quite epic. I applied for my care records last week.’
‘You mean, from your childhood?’
‘Yes. Rebecca’s mother told me she’d got hers, you know, to find answers about her past. They adopted her when she was three, you see, and she had some behavioural problems, so they wanted the full story. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What might such a document disclose? What might I find inside mine?’ I came back inside and stood by my piano. ‘So, I got in touch with the council after I googled how you obtain them, and I’ve requested them. They said they could take up to thirty days to arrive, because they have to redact other people’s names and details first, by law, though it’s often much quicker.’
‘Oh God, this is so Long Lost Family,’ gushed Tamsin.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Are you hoping they’ll give some clues as to where Harriet is? Do you think you’ll actually look for her?’
‘I’m not sure. It was an impulse. I might not even dare read them.’
‘I will,’ cried Tamsin.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I can’t go on like this – not teaching. I need to earn a living. So, I’ve decided; I’ll apply today for the job on the ship. It’ll give me time to think about what I really want to do in my career. To decide if I want to … finally face my past. And when I get home, my care records might be waiting for me.’
‘I’m so happy.’ Tamsin paused. I waited. ‘I really am. You’re supposed to be playing, not teaching. I’ve always said it.’
‘I wouldn’t be able to play if I hadn’t had such a brilliant teacher,’ I said quietly.
‘Oh, you would. It’s in your blood.’
Was it? Yes. And she was right. Maybe it was time to play.
5
The audition for the cruise job was the most intense thing I’d ever done.
An American lady – Pamela-Anne Garcia – called three days after I’d submitted my application to say that she loved my résumé and would I audition. I might have embellished how often I’d played for an audience and made the bars I’d gigged in sound more upmarket, but it was true that I was classically trained, and that I had studied music at Durham University.
‘Oh.’ I panicked, walked onto the balcony with my phone. ‘An audition?’
My gigs in bars had been via word of mouth. I hadn’t auditioned for anything since university. Not for the first time, I felt foolish that I’d even thought I could play anywhere beyond a local venue. I suddenly saw myself, twenty-one, reading the list of things I could do with my degree: composer, choral director, conductor, sound design, music therapist. But I’d realised that really music was my therapy. I hadn’t studied with a career in mind, but for love. Now, I wondered if I had wasted my years.
‘Do I come to you?’ I asked Pamela-Anne.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘We come to you.’ She laughed lyrically. ‘Well, at least via the magic of video. The audition will be conducted via Zoom or Teams. We just want to see what you can do.’
What could I do? I could read sheet music and perform on the spot, but I preferred to listen to the music in my head and play that. I’d wake in the night with a melody in the room and hum it into my phone, so I didn’t forget it. Then I’d play it by ear in the morning. But no one wanted to hear those songs. They wanted the oldies, the classics, the recognisable.
‘We need to see you as much as hear you,’ explained Pamela-Anne. ‘For a cruise job, it’s about the whole package. Make sure the device you use captures good-quality video and that your room is well-lit, and then set the device up so that we can see you and your instrument. The audition will last approximately two hours. The first half is a sight-reading test, and in the second half you’ll play in a variety of styles, some jazz, some blues, some poppy tunes, and some classical pieces. Do you have all these styles in your repertoire?’
I nodded, then quickly said, ‘Yes.’
I was growing more nervous with every word. Should I dress up? Yes. I tried to visualise my wardrobe, the simple trouser suits I wore to play in bars. Was that enough, or did they mean a cocktail dress? Ball gown? I was embarrassed to ask in case it seemed I was wrong for the job.
‘We’ll send you a PDF of some sheet music twenty minutes prior to the audition,’ said Pamela-Anne. ‘That gives you time to look it over but it’s a brief enough period for us to know your sight-reading skills are top notch. A cruise-ship gig is more challenging than most people think, and we need to make sure you can do it.’ She paused. ‘Are you still interested?’
‘Yes.’ I sounded more confident than I felt.
And so, four days later, I auditioned.
I wore a simple black trouser suit with a gold blouse beneath, in case they wanted glitz, and a dash of red lipstick. I put a large cream lamp behind my phone – which was taped to the bookshelf – so I was in a sort of improvised spotlight. I’d quickly sight-read the pieces they had emailed twenty minutes earlier. I could look at printed music and hear it at once in my head, without having to whistle it aloud. It was a language I understood better than any other.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Pamela-Anne, when I was seated at the piano. She was one of three – the other two were men – all waiting to judge my performance.
Was I ready? I had prepared as much as I could; my nails were short, I’d warmed up for forty-five minutes that morning, I’d practised a little in the preceding days (but not too much because over-practice can result in muscle fatigue), and I’d done a test recording with my phone to check the quality.
‘I’m ready,’ I said.
‘Then play for us,’ said Pamela-Anne.
Play.
And I did. It was what I’d always done, since I was six. For me, it was a private thing, even when I was in a bar. I’d often close my eyes if I knew the music intimately, but now, for this, I had to concentrate. I had to follow the set pieces.
What did they really want from me? I had asked myself this often during the last four days. To know I was capable, for sure. But maybe to know that I was creative too, and that I didn’t play like everyone else did. Or maybe that didn’t matter on a ship. Maybe blending in rather than standing out was the key. I’d asked Tamsin for advice, and she insisted, ‘Don’t play the pieces to make them happy, play them how you like to and how you want to play.’
Really, I couldn’t do it any other way.
I composed myself for a moment; my fingers floated above the keys, pale and patient. I took a deep breath, and then another. Then I began.
Sometimes she was with me in these moments. Harriet. My ghostly partner. A girl, smaller than me, with long auburn hair that fell in waves down her back, curls that, no matter whether you dampened them or brushed them hard, sprang up like determined peonies after a cold snap. She didn’t join in or look at me, she simply sat at my side, and that was enough.
Now, I felt her. I knew she was smiling.
I played ‘I’ll Remember April’, ‘Lady Bird’, ‘Now’s the Time’, and ‘The Thrill Is Gone’. I played pop tunes from the seventies and eighties, ballads from the big musicals, and Chopin. There was no camera, there was no Pamela-Anne, no panel. I played for myself, and I played for the girl at my side.
Afterwards, there was a moment to ask questions. I had already asked Tamsin plenty so I could hardly think of anything new.
Eventually, I said, ‘I presume you provide the piano,’ knowing how stupid it sounded, but needing to make sure.
‘Oh yes,’ said one of the men. ‘There’s one in every lounge and bar that you’ll play in.’
‘Um, thank you.’ That question freed some others. ‘How should I dress when I play?’
‘Classy. Simple. Elegant.’ This was Pamela-Anne.
‘Do I have to share a cabin?’ I would if I had to but hoped I’d have my privacy, so I could read, escape, relax.
‘Most musicians share with other members of the band, but the piano-bar entertainer always has a single cabin.’ The man again.
Now I really wanted the job.
‘We’ll let you know,’ they said.
They did. I hadn’t had to worry for long about how well I’d done. Just forty-eight hours of responding to Tamsin’s constant messages (Any news yet?) before she jetted off to Brazil. Forty-eight hours of checking my emails every few minutes. Then, ‘We want you,’ Pamela-Anne said when she called. We want you. ‘You’ll receive your itinerary, a letter of employment and other information tomorrow. You’ll also need to sign a few forms, which I’ll send you a link to. And we need a good, high-quality photograph for the brochure. Something elegant. There’s no time to get it in the one for the first cruise, to New York, but it will go in the one for the Caribbean leg of the trip.’ She paused and then added, ‘You played beautifully. I was mesmerised.’
I beamed, despite myself, proud and happy.
But because it was a brief, six-week contract she gave me just two days’ notice before I had to be in Southampton, ready to board the ship the morning after.
Those two days were a whirlwind of deciding what I might need, panicking that my passport wasn’t in date (it was), and realising I hadn’t asked what currencies I’d need for the trip. I went shopping for dresses, upset but accepting when the assistant in the posher section of the department store said, ‘There’s nothing in the sale here.’ I bought quality products for my hair (Tamsin’s tip), and new make-up, and some strappy black heels. I made sure my credit card bill was paid, my accounts were up-to-date, and that there was nothing urgent that needed dealing with over the next six weeks.
I had to let my music students’ parents know that my recent absence was going to be lengthier, though I was sure their umbrage would not be shared by the teens, who were free of my instruction for a longer while. I told my neighbour I’d be away until the middle of September, gave her my number and asked her to make sure my post was pushed through the door properly. I got her to take a photo of me with my Nikon camera, dressed in black, sitting next to my piano, for the cruise brochure.
‘I’ll miss your music,’ she said, and I wasn’t sure if it was a dig or genuine.
Then I said goodbye to the people who cared.
Tamsin had left the country so that meant Dan.
6
Dan and I had coffee in the café opposite my building the night before my train left Paragon Station. He looked tired, but I didn’t say so. Sometimes it felt more like he was my brother, which was lovely now, the affection and easiness, but it had been a problem when we were married.
‘I can’t believe I won’t be there tomorrow.’ I spooned froth off my cappuccino and then motioned to my flat.
He glanced at my darkened balcony and then at me. ‘I’m glad,’ he said.
‘Thanks. Nice send-off.’
‘No,’ Dan said gently, his green eyes the same soft shade as when he’d first looked my way fifteen years ago. I saw us for a moment; him too tall and handsome-faced to be serious about buying me a drink; me clumsy, stammering, finally agreeing. He had said many times over the years that he would never get over how a woman could trip up steps and crash into people in the supermarket and yet play music as gracefully as I did. ‘I think you need this trip, Heather. I think … it will anchor you.’
I snapped to the present. ‘Oh, God. Sea metaphors. Please stop.’
‘No, I mean … Look, don’t take this the wrong way … but you drift.’
‘I guess that’s just me.’ I was defensive.
‘It’s not a criticism. It is you. You sort of drift along, waiting for things to happen to you rather than making them happen. And now this. It’s huge. I’m proud of you.’
I shrugged off his praise. ‘It’s only six weeks.’
‘But who knows what will happen in that time? This could change your life.’
‘Maybe.’
I knew he had met someone else; I’d seen him with the same woman twice, their hands entwined, oblivious to my presence. How had I felt? Not entirely jealous, because we would always be friends, but sad. I’d never been able to let my guard down, never really let Dan in, and these things affected a marriage. I had learned long ago to hide pain, expressing it only in the music I played. I was afraid that the ugliness I had experienced long ago might be seen as an ugliness in me. That if I trusted Dan, one hundred percent, and gave him every bit of my heart, he would turn into my father.
Better to be safe. Better not to love fully.
‘Make sure you take condoms,’ Dan said.
‘Stop it,’ I cried.
‘I’m serious. Who knows what you might get up to out there? It’s different when you’re away from home. I’ve seen how women can be on holiday.’
‘It’s not a holiday,’ I insisted.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He grinned, and I knew he was teasing me.
‘Be happy,’ I told him, meaning it.
‘Jesus, you sound like you’re not coming back.’
‘Of course, I am,’ I said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Why now?’ he asked. He knew me of old.
‘What do you mean?’ I knew full well.
‘This is so sudden.’
I finished my cappuccino. ‘I think it’s time for a change,’ I said. I thought of telling him about my overreaction to Rebecca, but I feared I might cry. I didn’t want to ruin our last evening. ‘Also, I applied for my childhood care records.’
‘Really? Wow. I didn’t know it’s something you could do.’ Dan paused. ‘Why?’
‘Maybe it’s time to look at my past.’
‘You’ve never wanted to talk about it.’ Dan’s voice was gentle. ‘And I never wanted to push. But I know you saw some horrible things. You’d dream sometimes and cry out, “Where is she, where is she?”, and it upset me so much. I always wished you’d tell me, but I understood it was difficult.’ He looked at me. I tried not to look away, as I so often did. ‘And what about her?’
‘Don’t,’ I said, not sure what I meant.
I often did this. Got angry where anger wasn’t required. Dan had suggested I have counselling over the years, but I couldn’t face it. He often said that it wasn’t normal that I hated eating meals at a table at home, preferring to eat food on my knee, or that I needed it quiet at night – no loud TV or radio – or that I hated slammed doors so much that I’d tremble.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to her?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I cried. ‘Yes! Of course I want to know, but I’m afraid. Afraid … of … everything else I’ll have to face. Afraid of things I can’t remember now. I wonder all the time what happened to her. But it’s the rest … It’s the rest…’
‘I know,’ he whispered, putting a warm hand around mine. ‘I know.’
And then we sat in silence, one formed of comfort and years and respect.
I was sad when I watched him walk away, along cobbles bathed in gingery light, the last night of July tropical, my neck damp and my arms around my body. It wasn’t that I wanted him back. It wasn’t that I thought our split was a mistake. It was that I longed to feel that way. Sometimes I felt music was the only thing that fired me. That the world was too real, too average, too mundane. My feet walked the path, but my head floated in a cloud of harmonies.
Back at the flat, I finished packing.
What did you take on a six-week trip? The things you’d miss. Yes. The things you would rescue in a house fire. The things that brought comfort. The things to make whatever small cabin you were allocated a home. Plus the things you needed. And the things for just in case, like seasickness pills.
I wrapped framed pictures of Margaret and Harold in socks and put them in my case with the more practical items – the underwear and toiletry bag and spare phone charger. I chose four paperbacks I’d not yet read from my bookshelf; I found a soft, pink leather notepad I’d never used, in case I wanted to record the details of my trip; I packed my Nikon camera so I could capture pictures worth keeping; I selected sheet music for the songs I didn’t know by heart.
Then I zipped the case up.
7
I dreamt of fire, my last night in the flat.
Brazen flames flickered and devoured everything around me; they crackled and snapped and then roared. There was music in the sound. Tempo. The sky blackened with billowing smoke. The air was thick with it. I couldn’t breathe and yet I couldn’t turn away.
Then I heard it. Music. Just behind me.
I turned. It was there, our cherry-coloured upright piano, sitting on the grass, grey ash raining down on the keyboard like tiny flying notes. She was there too. Harriet. Seated. Waiting for me. I joined her. We sat side by side, in the places we always took, me on the right and her on the left.
And we played.
Our song.
There was nothing else. The music swirled around us as wild as the flames, a physical force, a wave of love, a place of safety.
Then I woke, alone, my balcony doors wide open and the sounds of the harbour a cold reminder of where I really existed. I went to my piano in the dark and tried to evoke the full melody from my dream, but on my own the song was incomplete, a haunting tune without its ghostly accompaniment.
8
In the morning, a large brown envelope arrived in the early post. It was stamped with the local council logo. I knew what it must be – my care records – but there was no time to look now. I didn’t even know if I wanted to. Just holding the delivery my heart pulsed like a quaver followed by a quaver rest. It had arrived more quickly than I’d anticipated. Should I take it with me? Would reading what was inside it ruin my trip? Should I leave it here for when I returned?
I couldn’t decide, but I shoved it in my hand luggage anyway, and then left for the station.
I sat on a packed train for almost eight hours, stretching my legs and buying coffee when we changed at Sheffield and Birmingham New Street. Usually, I studied the other passengers when I travelled. I people-watched all the time, often creating their soundtrack in my head. An old man shuffling along might be a slow melody; a woman marching in crisp heels a faster beat; a running child joyful, her notes more random, jazzlike. But I couldn’t concentrate.
I kept thinking about the documents in my bag.
In the end, just after Birmingham, I took out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a black plastic folder; different pages were clipped together inside the cover – some handwritten, some typed, some official-looking, some yellowing. Everything was digital now, but back then, there were paper records. I slammed it shut, hands trembling.
Yes, I wanted to know what had happened to Harriet.
But that meant opening a door I had locked long ago.
9
I was in Southampton.
I had really come. I’d left my routine behind (practise piano all morning, teach mid-afternoon, play occasionally in the evening), my fridge cleaned and empty, and the plants in a row on the balcony in the hope that it might rain occasionally and water them.
By the time I’d found the hotel in Southampton and checked in, it was past seven and I was exhausted. I wanted to collapse on the bed. But then I went onto my small balcony, and I could see the harbour – its sea bluer than the sandbank-muddied water I saw every day – and in the far distance two cruise ships docked, side by side, twin beauties. One could be mine. I can’t deny that excitement livened me then. I put both my hands over my mouth like I was five years old, and I wanted to cry. It was just me and my future. ‘Just me,’ I murmured.
Just me.
For a moment it was as if there was an echo. Like someone else said ‘Just me’ at the same time. How curious. Perhaps I was tired. I stepped back and tripped over the bed, clumsy like always, laughing at my sudden joy.
I sat on the bed, wondering what this trip might really mean for me. Who might see me play? I didn’t usually dream of acclaim or fame, but we’re all human, and I enjoyed praise as much as anyone else. Once, a few years before, I’d played one of my own compositions at the end of a set in a small bar. It didn’t even have a name; it was just a melody that had come to me on a walk by the water. Someone recorded me playing it on their phone and shared it on Twitter. Just for a few hours, it went viral. I only went on social media occasionally and I had barely a few hundred followers anywhere – mostly those who had seen me play and liked my music – but briefly I was in the spotlight. Tamsin was delighted. She put her entire life on Instagram, so she urged me to ‘share the hell out of it and grab your moment’. She got everyone to share it with a hashtag she created: #GirlOnAPiano. Others added theirs: #RandomGirlInABar and #UnnamedSong.
I shared it twice, and of course, that ‘moment’ passed.
Unless you work on it daily, and share and promote your music hard, recognition doesn’t come knocking on your door. Tamsin was a social-media natural, but I never really knew how to do it. What to say. Which pieces to share. Which hashtags worked best. Or if I preferred to play for the simple joy of it; for myself.
I looked around the small hotel room, designed for comfort and economy. I didn’t unpack, other than my toothbrush and toiletries, and the next day’s clothes, which I hung up. What was the point? I wasn’t staying here. I found a menu and ordered chicken and salad from room service.
While I ate, I read through my cruise itinerary again. I had to board early, at eight, long before the guests, in order to be playing in the main lounge at lunchtime. I would be shown around the ship, meet other members of staff, and I’d get settled in my cabin. There would be a safety training drill where I’d be assigned my personal ship number. I’d also be given a special card to pay for anything I purchased while aboard, and this would be linked to my credit card.
It all sounded surreal, like I was reading about someone else’s new life and not my own.
The sun finally died, its rays setting the room alight. I wanted to cherish my last moment in England, so I got my camera and snapped the very first picture of my trip; the harbour lights that weren’t that different to mine back home, the now inky-black water, and the holidaymakers strolling back to wherever they were staying.
Then I went to bed.
I didn’t sleep well. The mattress was comfortable, but I hated unfamiliar sounds at night. I’d become accustomed to the safety of my flat. The lift along the corridor pinged intermittently, and people chatted freely as they passed my door well into the midnight hours. I grew fretful that I’d not sleep on the ship either, and that only added to my insomnia.
I kept thinking about the black folder in my hand luggage. About what words might be written there. I kept seeing myself walking towards young Rebecca, my would-be student, then turning and running away. In my imagination she called after me, telling me to Find her, find Harriet.
In the end, I found a favourite Chopin piece on my phone and put my headphones in, hoping to get lost in his tranquil nightscape. Still, I heard laughter and doors banging, the crude sounds louder than ‘Nocturne No 2 in E-flat Major’. I grew evermore restless. How could Chopin’s piece not soothe me? Usually, no other music calmed me like his.
I knew my anxiety at these unknown and sudden nocturnal noises was to do with my childhood. Back then unexplained sounds were rarely good. The years until I was eleven and moved in with Margaret and Harold were turbulent. The nights were unpredictable. The mornings could never come soon enough. Time had not lessened my need to drown out ugliness with the beauty of music.
In the end, I got up.
I considered dressing and going for a walk on the waterfront, but it was almost 2am. I wondered then for a moment about going home. Not boarding the ship. No. That was silly.
Instead, I got my purse. I took it back to the bed, turned on the lamp, and clicked it open. I went to the place where I knew it was; the slot protected by a plastic window. A faded Polaroid, its hues mostly the colour of that era: dull tans and olives. Two girls. One tall and gangly, her flowered dress with puff sleeves clearly too big, her hair the brightest thing, as yellow as the sun she squints in. The other one much smaller, chubby-faced, red-cheeked, with auburn hair in two thick plaits. Arms around one another, cheeks touching, smiles shy. Two girls, parents recently killed in a car accident, now with no one but each other.
Not shadow and sun like Tamsin and I, but gold and auburn.
I put the photo on the pillow next to me and lay down. I wouldn’t go back home. No; I’d go to sea. I’d play music at night, and during the day, if I dared, I’d read the documents in that folder. I didn’t plan on finding a man, like Tamsin always did, or partying hard. I had no interest in that.
I finally slept, thinking of her.
The girl with auburn hair, who I hadn’t seen for thirty-seven years.
Harriet.
My sister.
10
My phone alarm dragged me cruelly awake at six-thirty. I’d had barely three hours sleep, and I felt it as I tried to slug away the fatigue by making coffee with the sachets on the dresser; I then devoured the stronger one that arrived with my pre-ordered breakfast. Nerves and excitement churned my stomach, but I forced myself to eat a hearty amount of croissant, fruit, and cereal, knowing I likely had a long, eventful day ahead.
I’d booked a taxi for seven-thirty, though I could have walked to the ship in twenty minutes. I gave the room a final glance and spotted the photo of Harriet and me sitting on the pillow like a tooth fairy’s note. I gasped. I had almost left it behind. I’d never have forgiven myself. I put it back in my purse, heart staccato for minutes after.
The car dropped me at the end of a grey pier. I stood alone for a moment, looking back at the departing vehicle, and then at the vast carpark, not yet busy, at the gentle, sun-sprinkled morning water, at the ships waiting for passengers. I walked along the cement pier, passing the occasional person who looked like staff too – one was clearly on his first trip, looking as anxious as I felt, and another two were marching with the confidence of the well-travelled.
I stopped in front of my ship.
The Queen of the Seas was white and graceful, putting me in mind, curiously, of a large swan. The trim along her decks was navy blue, and the only thing that broke the expanse of white was her name on the side, also in navy. I knew from my itinerary pack that she was classed as a mid-sized vessel, that she had thirteen decks – eight were public, those lower were for staff – and that she catered exclusively for adults. She had enjoyed a refit last year, and now a stunning atrium formed the heart of the ship, spanning four decks and dominated by a marble-and-gold mermaid sculpture.
In the ‘sensual’ pool you could apparently enjoy a ‘chic environment whatever the weather thanks to the clear glass Skydome overhead’. The best views were said to be from the cocktail bar at the back of the ship, where you could relax during the day and watch the scenery float by, and by night enjoy a drink and the classical pianist.
That would be me.
I’d be giving them that music.
I found my Nikon in my hand luggage, fired it up and framed a picture of the ship, blue sky her backdrop, only two wisps of cloud on the horizon. Then I took the picture.
I headed for the terminal. It was much like one at an airport. I found departures – a huge, glass-fronted building with rows of empty chairs baking in the early-August heat and three escalators, one of which took me up to the check-in lounge and port security. Only two desks were open. I imagined they’d all be open later, and this place would bustle with excited holidaymakers. I approached one of the desks.
‘Good morning,’ beamed a white-uniformed man. ‘You’re very keen. We don’t admit passengers for another—’
‘I’m staff,’ I said, shy. Perhaps I didn’t look like they usually did.
‘Crew,’ he corrected with a smile. ‘On a ship, you’re crew.’ He took my passport and the letter of employment that I’d been told to also show. ‘Is this your first cruise job?’
I nodded, sick with nerves now.
Perhaps sensing this, he said, ‘You’ll enjoy every moment, I promise you. And there will be others who are new too. You’re going to have a grand adventure.’ He handed back my passport and my papers. ‘You’re good to go, ma’am. Just take the escalator on the right, follow the gangway to the end, and you’ll be aboard. Have fun!’
‘Thank you,’ I smiled.
It had said in my itinerary that I’d be met at the bottom of the gangway with other new joiners, so I approached the end of the long tunnel with much apprehension. There was more security to go through, and then I was in a navy-carpeted lobby with gold handrails and ornate mirrors, where a group of people gathered, some chatting in pairs, others looking nervous, all surrounded by a mishmash of luggage. They represented every walk of life; every gender, colour, age and type, like they had been selected to show that it was a thoroughly inclusive ship. I was among the oldest, aside from a greying man with designer luggage – I guessed a musician, too – and a couple of carefully made-up women who were likely here in some beauty capacity. I stood quietly by a plant in a gilt pot, nodding politely at anyone who looked my way, fiddling with the strap of my bag.
After perhaps ten minutes a man marched purposefully towards us down a corridor. He smiled warmly, showing teeth almost too white to be real, his blue suit crisply ironed, his shoes polished, and his general demeanour one of efficiency and readiness.
‘Good morning, newbies,’ he said, accent slightly American, voice loud. I smiled to myself: I heard him as Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812’ overture, a bombastic work that uses artillery in the percussion section for effect. ‘Welcome aboard the Queen of the Seas. I’ll let you into a little secret – she’s one of my favourites. I’m Aiden Miller, your crew manager. How are we all feeling?’
A couple of whoops from those feeling confident, and then ripples of laughter from the rest of us.
‘Great stuff,’ cried Aiden. ‘Right, I want you to grab your luggage – sorry but you’ll be responsible for that until we get you to your cabins, which will hopefully be mid-morning – and follow me to the crew office.’
We did as he requested, heaving our suitcases along a corridor behind him, crashing into one another and laughing and apologising.
‘You’re going to see what happens on a turnaround day,’ he called from the front as we passed open doorways leading to the pier and saw multiple forklift trucks noisily loading vast crates aboard. ‘Today is the busiest day, with the ship at the start of her journey.’
We descended a level, through a door that said CREW ONLY
