The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(156)

‘Who do?’ he asked.

‘The spirits,’ she replied, as if everyone could see them. He shook his head and watched her skip off with a bounce in her step. It was painfully obvious. She wasn’t Cecil’s daughter at all.

Louis retreated into his house. His little sitting room still smelt of her, the sweet scent of youth and optimism that mingled with the tang of lemon. He sat at his piano and placed his fingers over the keys, breathing heavily, his mouth set once again into its habitual grimace. Then slowly, as if to reflect his enduring patience, he began to play the tune he had composed for Audrey. He closed his eyes and the frost that had caught on the ends of his lashes glistened with sorrow. Over and over he played it. So that he would never forget or give up hope. No wonder Audrey had been able to survive the years without him; for Grace was the part of him he had left behind.

That night he dreamed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamed. He had lost the will many years ago. But that night he dreamed of Grace. He was sitting in a field full of buttercups. The gentle evening sun bathed him in a warm golden light and he felt at peace. And Grace was with him, her laughter like the bubbling of a nearby stream that filled him up inside until he was so light that he was hovering over the grass. Half of him wanted to stay on the ground, the other longed to fly. And Grace kept on laughing and laughing, filling him up and up and up . . .

In the morning he awoke, not with the usual heaviness of spirit that made getting out of bed the hardest part of the day, but with an enthusiasm that had been lost somewhere over the years along with his dreams and his smile. He hoped that Grace would visit him again. He hoped so very much. He bathed and shaved and splashed himself with an old bottle of cologne that was sticky with dust and neglect. It was hard to find a clean shirt, but at the very bottom of his drawer he found one that was slightly too small but washed and ironed by the housekeeper who came weekly. Then he emerged into the early morning sunshine to go to the corner shop to buy the papers and some milk.

When he returned Grace was sitting on his doorstep in a pair of faded denim jeans and a bright yellow shirt. Next to her was a basket full of food. ‘Good morning, Uncle Louis,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m taking you on a picnic. It’s a beautiful day and I’ve bought bread and pâté, a bottle of wine and some tomatoes.’ Louis was so taken aback that he didn’t know what to say. Grace didn’t wait for him to respond. She stood up and followed him through the front door. ‘I don’t have lectures today, but I have lots of things I want to ask. I thought, perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me.’

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘Philosophy,’ she replied.

‘Ah, there are never satisfactory answers in philosophy, only questions.’

‘But isn’t it exciting to discover just how many questions there are? We could go on asking questions for ever. Can we go and sit in a field somewhere? It’s going to be a warm day. An Indian summer. We had better make the most of it before autumn sets in. By the way, I like your cologne.’

Louis found Grace refreshingly unpredictable. With a small smile tickling the corners of his face he drove his old Morris Minor into the countryside where the roads were narrow and winding and the small green fields lush and inviting, lined by the grey stone walls that had withstood centuries of wind and rain. Grace entertained him with her stories of the Argentine, reminding him of the hideousness of Aunt Hilda and the neediness of her daughter Nelly, until he laughed out loud. ‘Do you miss it?’ he asked, wiping his eyes.

‘I thought I would when I left. But I belong here now. I’d like to go back one day. Of course it will all be very different. Granny died some years ago then Great Aunt Edna. Great Aunt Hilda is still alive somewhere, she’s so old she’s probably petrified, quite literally. People’s personalities end up in their features, there’s no avoiding it, so she must be set in stone by now. But I’d like to go back just to remember it.’

They found a little wood that bordered a stream and sat down on the rug that Louis had found in an old trunk in his hall. The sun shone through the leaves creating moving patterns on the grass like a kaleidoscope. Grace kicked off her shoes and stretched out her legs. ‘Can you see all the wood spirits?’ she asked, then laughed with childish delight. ‘This is a beautiful place. How clever of us to find it.’

‘Anyone else would think you were mad,’ he said and chuckled. ‘People have considered me mad all my life.’

‘Have they?’

‘Yes. Nowadays people are far more tolerant of those who are different. In my day everyone had to be like everyone else. It was all very rigid.’