The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(165)

He stood a moment staring into her features, devouring the details of the face he had carried with him during the lonely days of waiting which had rolled from years into decades until finally they had become so many and so long he had lost track of them, but never of his goal. Now the waiting was over.

‘You’re not angry,’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and letting them fall against his coat where he flicked his fingers together apprehensively. Audrey blinked at him with her soft eyes and he noticed how age had robbed them of their definition but not of their tenderness and he wanted to hold her against him and dance the way they had done when they were young and their music undiscovered.

‘Cecil was a good man,’ she said. She noticed his lips twitch and wished she hadn’t said it. But she didn’t know what to say. She was no longer certain of how she felt. ‘I’m getting old.’ She sighed in an effort to excuse her tactlessness.

‘So am I,’ he replied and the corners of his mouth extended into a small smile. ‘But I haven’t forgotten how to dance.’ Then with an impulsiveness that had conquered her timid heart all those years ago he took her cold hands in his and stepped closer. They both flinched at the startling sensation of physical contact and stood staring at each other not knowing where to go from there. Audrey lowered her eyes anxiously, thinking of the husband she had just buried, unable to ignore the shame she felt as the feeling of Louis’ warm hands ignited the spark in her heart, that in all the nineteen years they had been parted, had never gone out.

‘Have you forgotten how to dance?’ he asked softly. Audrey raised her eyes that were now glistening with tears and her pale lips trembled because suddenly the past confused her. It had once all been so clear.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she replied and her voice was a whisper that was carried on the wind. ‘I just put my dancing shoes away for a time.’

He sighed as the years fell away and once more they were united, beneath the red ceibo trees and violet jacarandas in the leafy plazas of Buenos Aires, moving to the internal melodies of their love.

‘Hello Louis,’ said Cicely, staggering up to them. ‘From what Grace tells me you don’t shout any more.’ Louis shook his head at the memories that had come alive there and smiled at his sister.

‘I’d never shout at Grace,’ he replied, turning to settle his watery eyes on Audrey once again. ‘Grace is special.’ Audrey didn’t avert her eyes, she wanted to tell him by her expression that Grace knew. She had so much to tell him. But Cicely persisted.

‘Why don’t you come and stay with me at Holholly Grange?’ she asked. ‘Anthony has never met you.’

‘I’m booked into a bed-and-breakfast,’ he replied. ‘There’s plenty of hot water and heating there.’ He grinned mischievously.

Cicely didn’t take offence. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘As you wish.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Well, let’s not stand here getting cold. There’s tea back at your house, isn’t there, Audrey?’ Audrey nodded. ‘Well, good. I’ll give you both a lift.’

Audrey sat in silence while Cicely asked her brother all about Dublin. She watched his profile, barely able to believe that he was sitting there beside her. It didn’t matter that they weren’t alone for they were almost touching. After so many dreams they were once more united but this time it was different. For the first time in their lives, the road ahead was open to them. They had entered the realm of endless possibilities. She knew he was thinking the same thing. That was why he had come.

When they arrived home Leonora was passing the canapés around and pouring everyone tea. Little Panazel raced about the sitting room with his brother and sister, scrambling between the legs of the guests, unaware that a funeral was a solemn occasion. To him, death was like the changing of the seasons and not worth questioning. He’d miss his grandfather like he missed the summer, but he was too young to know about mourning. Alicia stood smoking beside the fire, her face still half hidden behind the veil, her eyes watching Florien without wavering, like the eyes of an old lioness who watches her prey longingly but knows she can no longer run fast enough to catch it.

Grace had been waiting for her Uncle Louis. She had barely been able to concentrate on anything else. She had watched the door, shrinking in disappointment each time it opened for someone else. When finally he entered she rushed up to him with unrestrained enthusiasm. She was about to throw her arms around his neck when something pulled inside her – a sudden feeling of unease as her instincts told her it was not appropriate in her father’s house on the occasion of his funeral. He sensed her retreat and placed a hand on her arm instead. ‘It’s good to see you, Grace,’ he said. She smiled at him warmly, grateful that he understood.