The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (34 page)

Austin pauses for a second.

‘She's sleeping next door,' he adds, almost as an afterthought.

‘What!' I say, jumping up from my seat, but Austin gestures for me to wait.

‘She's fine, she's fine. Let her sleep. She has had a very difficult time, but she's had the best medical care over this past week and she may wish to follow up on that.'

‘What sort of medical care?' I ask, alarmed, looking towards the closed bedroom door across the hallway.

‘Don't be worried. She's in remarkably good health. But one of our doctors recommended some sedative medication to help her readjust. She wants to go home with you. As you have come to appreciate, she's been involved in a very stressful situation.'

‘I do appreciate,' I say, thinking I should be angry, knowing I will be angry at some point down the line. ‘I've not exactly been a bystander in all this madness.'

‘Yes, you've played a crucial part. But none of this was totally predetermined. It never is. Life is never that complicated, nor that simple. It just unfolded and we made decisions as the circumstances dictated. As each day dictated.'

One day at a time, I think. I must get back to my Meetings, start putting myself first and be responsible for how my life turns out.

There's a peculiar rumbling and the room shudders.

‘The tube train,' says Austin. ‘The Piccadilly Line is right under this block.'

We both listen as the train disappears underground.

‘So, I'm sure you'd like to be left alone with Caitlin. We have deposited a reasonable amount of money in both your bank accounts, to cover inconvenience, expenses, et cetera,' says Austin as he gets up and puts on a coat hanging on the back of the door.

Mr Morse and Mr Opal will be pleased, I think to myself, remembering the pompous bank manager with the aeroplane cufflinks.

‘This is the end of the matter. You shan't hear from us again. There's tea and milk in the fridge,' adds Austin, pointing towards the kitchen, ‘and some rather wicked chocolate biscuits.'

He puts his hand out for me to shake, but I decide to decline and remain seated.

‘Anyway, goodbye, Anthony,' he says, leaving the room. ‘Just pull the door shut when you two leave.'

In the street outside comes the sound of a dustcart along with the clattering and crashing of rubbish bins being emptied. Next door I hear Caitlin stirring.

‘Caitlin,' I call out softly, but there is no reply. I cross the passageway and push open the door to the bedroom. Inside is complete darkness. My eyes begin to acclimatise as the light from the corridor illuminates the room. The curtains are heavy, as is the single wardrobe in the corner. The only other furniture is a huge wrought-iron bed and a small bedside table.

‘Caitlin,' I say again, lightly touching what appears to be the shoulder of her curled-up figure under the mound of blankets. It shifts and a mop of ruffled hair emerges. A small wounded animal sniffing the air outside its den after hibernation.

‘Anthony,' says a tiny voice. ‘Is it you, Anthony?'

‘I'm here,' I say, reaching for the curtains.

‘Leave them, leave them,' she implores.

I sit on the bed and stroke her hair. It is dry and dull. After a while her face emerges from under the covers. She blinks and screws her eyes up. Her skin is sallow and cracked. On the table next to the bed are small bottles of pills, a jug of water, a glass and some tangerines.

‘Do you want a drink?' I ask of this face that looks strikingly more like my mother than my sister.

‘Yes, yes, please, and pass me the green pills.'

I pour a glass of water and give her the bottle of green pills. I watch her as she hauls herself up on to one elbow, rattles out a couple of green lozenges and then swallows them down with a gulp of water. She is painfully thin; the flesh hangs off her exposed arm like chicken skin.

She slumps back down on the bed as if the effort of swallowing is all she can manage.

‘You poor baby,' I say, stroking her face. ‘Where are your clothes?'

She points to the end of the bed. There on the floor is a small holdall.

‘Is that it?' I ask.

‘That, and my regulation prison wear,' she says, touching her T-shirt. ‘The sum total of my material possessions,' she says. I am relieved to hear the slightest glint of humour in her voice.

‘Well, there's always a positive in every negative,' I say cheerily. ‘We can go on a massive shopping spree.'

But she is quiet again.

‘Just take me home with you,' she whispers.

Outside the window the dustcart shudders and crunches as it crushes the rubbish into its body, its yellow light flashing against the bedroom wall.

Later that night, with Caitlin sleeping soundly in Lottie's bed, I pick up the phone.

‘Hello?' says Matilda.

‘It's Anthony. I'm back home.'

‘Good,' she says coldly.

‘How's Lottie?'

‘She's just fine. I'll get her in a second.'

‘And you?'

‘I'm well. Macaroni Wood was a test. Anyway, Lottie's here now, she's got something she wants to tell you.'

There's a pause and then Lottie comes on the phone.

‘Dad, guess what?'

‘Hello, honey. I don't know. You've eloped with the Headmaster.'

‘No.'

‘Give me a clue.'

‘The competition.'

‘What happened?'

‘We're in the final. Me and Trixie are in the final.'

‘Trixie?'

‘Yes, she read her poetry. We're a team. A duet.'

‘Perfect. The two of you together.'

‘And guess what?'

‘What?'

‘It's in the Wigmore Hall.'

Then the raw emotion rises inside me. A heady mix of pride in my daughter, gratitude that I am here in the moment, and the realisation that I am available and present to share it with her.

‘Fantastic. Well done, you genius,' is all I can manage through the lump in my throat. ‘When is it?'

‘A week on Saturday … Don't tell me you can't come.'

‘I won't tell you I can't come. You try keeping me away.'

After speaking to Lottie, I call John from Hande Street and tell him all about the Meeting in the nursery school in Bogotá and how I feel so confident about everything and how wonderful it all will be now I'm no longer drinking and drugging. We arrange to meet up the next day and he suggests I try to get to ninety Meetings in ninety days to give myself a solid start.

‘I can't believe how well I feel,' I tell him again. ‘I think I've got it.'

‘Okay, that's great,' he says with a measured tone to his voice. ‘Most people find themselves on a pink cloud in their early days. Just take it easy, one day at a time, and you'll be just fine. Don't drink, don't drug and get to a Meeting. It's as simple as that. First things first, Anthony, first things first.'

18

Words and music

It is Saturday morning, a while before the doors open, before the crowds gather: the friends and relatives, music aficionados and talent spotters. It is several hours before Lottie and Trixie will stand on the stage and thrill the audience with their beguiling, hypnotic performance. For the time being, all is quiet inside Wigmore Hall. The photos on either side of the hallway, of long-dead baritones and sopranos, conductors and cellists, stare longingly at each other. In the marble and alabaster vestibule, the elegant stairway winds itself to the balcony. The light from the arched stained-glass window casts a good morning welcome on the plush red carpet.

Inside the auditorium, the porters, Dave and Brian, their week's work nearly done, are about to move the grand piano to its allotted spot in the middle of the stage.

‘A touch to your right,' says Dave.

‘Over your way,' says Brian.

After they have finished they will walk around the corner to Albany Street, to the only cafe for miles where they can still get a real English breakfast: fried bread, black pudding and all the trimmings. They will talk about the sad state of professional football, Brian's prostate, and the spiralling cost of Dave's daughter's upcoming wedding. But for now, the two men, who have been friends and workmates for decades, who both married childhood sweethearts, whose hair has turned from dark to grey, huff and puff as they manoeuvre the heavy and revered piano into position for this afternoon's competition.

‘That'll do,' says Brian, looking at the piano from all angles.

‘Spot on,' agrees Dave. ‘Breakfast?'

‘I'd say so,' says Brian.

The doors to the hall are tantalisingly open, but the ushers are not letting us in yet. The vestibule is filled with people. There is excitement in the air. A buzz and anticipation. I sit with Caitlin on the plush leather sofa, holding her hand, feeling her anxiety. This is her first visit out since her kidnap and I sense her unease. We're weaning her off the sedative drugs and we know it won't be all plain sailing. I've told the others she's been unwell and is recuperating. Lottie had sent her a get-well card with an old sepia print of the Wigmore Hall on the front and an invite to the recital in the postscript. Caitlin smiles faintly at me and then looks away. The ushers beckon us all forward and, like a gentle unhurried wave on a tranquil shore, the crowd moves as one towards the entrance to the auditorium.

Walking down the aisle to our seats I notice Matilda and Christine already seated in the third row. I catch Matilda's eye and we smile at each other. She waves at Caitlin, blissfully unaware of the drama my sister has endured over the last months. Matilda has always liked Caitlin and the smile in her eyes is one of genuine affection. Christine turns to us. I notice her hand on Matilda's shoulder, but we manage to smile at each other. It all feels right and good. It may not be how we all expected it to be, what we all hoped for, but it will do. It will do. Caitlin and I settle into our seats, four rows and to the right of where Matilda and Christine sit. I watch the two women, so well suited, so comfortable in each other's company. Christine leans over and strokes Matilda's cheek with the back of her hand.

Lottie and Trixie are not due for another hour. The competition is into its second day. All entrants have been selected through regional heats. By the end of the day the winner of the Young Interpretative Musician of Great Britain will be announced. The first offering of the afternoon is a flawless, though unemotional, rendition of Chopin's third piano concerto by an earnest young man from Pembrokeshire. This is followed by a soprano from Shropshire and then a cellist from Ayrshire. I listen to them all and appreciate the finesse and talent, hard work and youthful exuberance. I can see the pride on the faces of parents and family all around the hall. But I am waiting for my daughter and all that goes before is no more than a prelude. A young baritone from Cornwall comes onto the stage, accompanied by a beautiful pre-Raphaelite girl at the piano. He sings a song of the sea, of branches and roof tiles being swept into the sky and of courageous lifeboatmen on a stretch of white water off St Mary's in the Scilly Isles. I steal a glance at Caitlin. She still seems distant, but I sense the music is comforting her.

Across the aisle sit the judges. They occupy a special place, the four of them sitting in a middle row, with empty rows in front and behind. Their domain is cordoned off by a thick red rope. They hold clipboards and chew pencils and occasionally tap along to the music. I notice one raise his arm in a gentle arc as he traces the score, only to grimace as a note is missed by the singer.

My gaze fixes on the fresco above the stage. The central figure in the group of five is the Soul of Music. He gazes longingly at a huge ball of fire above his head, from which come rays of light reflecting around the world. A tangled web of thorns ensnares the lower half of the Soul of Music, depicted as a Christ-like figure, a crown of laurel leaves on his head, arms reaching to the sky. The entwining vines anchor him, tying him to the earth and all its concerns. At his feet are two figures. The one to his right is a musician who plays a violin. To his left, a man is crouched in deep concentration, a quill pen in hand, frantically composing on a voluminous, unfurling scroll. He is shrouded in a heavy cloak and behind him an angel holds a flame to light his way. On panels flanking the stage, the mural continues. It is perfectly balanced, with two women in sumptuous blue robes on each side. All four women turn their faces to the sky; their mouths open wide as they sing from music scores held in their hands. Standing behind them is the Angel of Love, with roses in her hand. I read us all into the mural. There is Caitlin, trapped and bound. Me with my pen quill: writing my research papers, trying to find all the answers, to write out everyone's script for them. I study the four singers flanking the main picture. Each a woman singing from a song sheet. Matilda and Christine; Lottie and Trixie. Singing their way through life, finding their own paths together. All of us guided by angels, just out of view.

‘Now, ladies and gentleman,' says the Master of Ceremonies, bringing me back to the moment, ‘we have the winners of the South-East regional final. Lottie Malloy will play the flute accompanied by the vocals of Trixie Stephenson. The piece they have chosen to interpret is by the twentieth-century composer, Claude Debussy.'

They walk onto the stage wearing classic sleeveless dresses of purple silk. Each has her hair tied in a tight bun and each favours Trixie's powder-white face paint, giving them a strangely exotic, oriental appearance. They look incredible. The Master of Ceremonies, resplendent in full dress suit, complete with scarlet cummerbund, bows and retreats to the wings.

Lottie puts the flute to her mouth, and from the first note I know she has the whole audience transfixed. After a few haunting bars Trixie begins to speak. Her voice is hypnotic, as if it was always meant to complement the timbre of Lottie's flute playing. Her intonation is extraordinary, and I realize we are witnessing something exceptional. From the moment her poem begins, with the lilting air of the flute guiding it through cadence and metre, to its last word, the audience holds a collective breath and no other sound is uttered in the auditorium. It is music, it is poetry, it is the sound of love, the quavers and crotchets resonating with someone's past, another's future, another's present. When it is finished, with a final flourish from Lottie, the audience is silent. Then applause breaks out, spontaneous, loud applause. Not just Caitlin and me, Christine and Matilda, but everyone. Not polite clapping and nods of the head, but real heartfelt appreciation. Matilda looks over at me with an expression on her face, a mixture of joy for our daughter, pride for us as parents, and unadulterated happiness. Her look reminds me of the girl I first met and first made love to. A time when all was in front of us and all was possible. I turn to Caitlin. A single tear runs down her cheek. In the midst of all this I catch Lottie's eye as she rises from a final bow. We are father and daughter. Whatever has gone before, we are father and daughter. And no one can take that away from us.