The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(152)

‘I hear you’re calling him Panazel,’ she said.

‘After my father and grandfather. Although he no longer lives in a caravan he’s got gypsy blood running through his veins.’

Leonora was delighted to see her sister and embraced her heartily, throwing her arms around her and squeezing her. ‘Where have you been?’ she cried. ‘You must come up and see Panazel.’ Alicia followed her sister up the stairs, noticing at once that she was far from getting her figure back. She still looked as if she were pregnant. This gave Alicia a small feeling of satisfaction, but it was short lived. The moment she laid eyes on her nephew she felt as if a hand had suddenly gripped her about the heart. Crouching down she looked into the basket. Sleeping with the contentment of a well-loved baby, Panazel was more beautiful than any other baby she had ever seen. His skin was pale and translucent, glowing with a delicate sheen. His eyes were closed but she could see the rich brown eyelashes that were sweeping and long and his lips were generous and pink, breaking every now and again into a subconscious smile.

‘He’s adorable,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You’re so lucky.’ For the first time in her life she realized that Leonora had everything that she wished she had for herself. Mercedes had been right and her words came back over the decades to remind her of her own delusions. ‘Leonora will find happiness because her features won’t deceive anyone.’ Alicia’s features had deceived many, but no one more than herself.





Chapter 32



The following eight years were a joy for Leonora, a blur for Alicia and a continuous adventure for Grace, who was enchanted and curious about everything her small world had to offer. When she announced that she had won a place at Trinity College Dublin no one was more surprised than her mother, who had always believed her to be more interested in fairies than academia. ‘Philosophy has a lot to do with fairies,’ replied Grace, smiling at her mother in amusement.

‘But it’s so far away,’ she lamented.

‘A short plane ride, Mummy. I can even fly home for the weekend.’

But Audrey’s concerns weren’t only for the distance. Louis lived in Dublin.

‘Trinity College Dublin,’ enthused Aunt Cicely, who was now Mrs Anthony Fitzherbert after marrying the neighbouring landowner who had bought her farm the year after the gypsies left. Anthony, a jovial, kind-hearted man who always wore tweed and cashmere, had given her back her youth, her belief in love and her much beloved farm. She now smiled with the resignation of a woman who has walked through the flames of love and emerged with her heart singed but still beating, grateful for the affection of a less passionate but truer man. ‘How utterly wonderful. Dublin’s a beautiful city. You’ll love it.’ She paused from brushing one of the dogs to pick the hair out of the bristles, which she then tossed onto the grass. ‘Makes good nesting material for birds. Shame the nest-building moment has passed. They’re all flying about now.’

‘Have you been there?’ Grace asked, stretching out on the lawn to sun herself.

‘Yes, twice in fact. To see your Uncle Louis.’

‘Uncle Louis?’

‘You know, that odd uncle of yours that no one talks about.’

‘The one who taught Leonora to play the piano?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. The mad one.’

‘What’s he doing in Dublin?’ Grace had always been aware that her father had a brother, but his name was rarely mentioned and there were no photographs of him anywhere, except the black and white print on Aunt Cicely’s piano.

‘He was Director of Music for many years. He’s retired now. Lives in the College. Grace and favour and all that.’

‘What does he do all day?’

‘Shout at people, I suspect.’ Aunt Cicely laughed, recalling his rudeness and began to brush the dog again. ‘He’s a cantankerous old thing. But if you’re interested, you can pay him a visit. Surprise the life out of him.’

‘Why doesn’t anyone see him? He’s family after all.’

Cicely sat back and stared into the half-distance, trying to find the right words. ‘He fell out with your father. Many years ago. Before you were born. I don’t know what it was about. He was living with your parents in the Argentine at one time. He loved your mother’s sister, Isla, who died rather tragically of meningitis at a very young age. I don’t think your mother’s ever got over that. Come to think of it, I don’t think Louis has either.’

‘Is he older than you and Daddy?’

‘No, eight years younger than your father. If Cecil’s sixty-five now, Louis must be fifty-seven or thereabouts. But he seems much older. He’s had a rather unhappy life. He’s not like other people. But perhaps you’ll soften him up. It’ll do him good.’