T
HEY HAD SPENT
a relaxing three-quarters of an hour over tea in the gracious Pump Room, listening to the pianist, eating cake and discussing methods of killing Valerie, when Sara, idly fingering the menu card, turned over the last page and read that today’s pianist at afternoon tea was Alex Cooper. She looked behind her at the grudging girl as she plinked from
Summertime
to
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
, and searched her memory. She was sure she had not met her before. Then it came to her. James, lying up at the top of the garden of the Sulis, had told her there was quite a good piano there, a baby Blüthner. And in the piano stool of the baby Blüthner he had found music belonging to the departed music therapist with the amusing name. The name which someone kept getting wrong—Alice Cooper instead of Alex Cooper. As the music trudged on, Sara looked more closely at the pianist. Alex Cooper’s new job as Pump Room pianist did not seem particularly to agree with her. The tight little face with small, toffee-coloured eyes, the tense shoulders and decorous playing posture suggested someone who was not a natural performer, and the popular numbers being tapped out on the piano correctly, but devoid of grace,
personality or swing, confirmed it. She wore no jewellery or make-up. Her clothes carried too little impact to offend; all that could be said of them was that they covered her body in the same way that her hair did nothing for her except cover her head. Alex Cooper’s message to the world was not just that she was not a natural performer, it was that she would prefer not to be noticed at all.
But she would prefer, surely, to be told that several pounds’ worth of her music was still in the piano stool at the Sulis when she must have given it up as lost. Alex Cooper was clearly not prosperous enough—who would be?—to lose it all, a collection probably acquired over years. Sara got up and approached the platform just as the few people in the Pump Room not holding teacups or cake forks began to applaud the last tinkling notes of the set. Alex turned her dead eyes towards Sara, expecting to deliver an indulgent reply to some standard question about the music.
‘You used to work at the Sulis, didn’t you?’ Sara asked instead, which provoked in Alex a sudden, violent blush.
‘The Sulis on Bathwick Hill? Didn’t you use to work there?’
‘The Sulis? Oh. Oh, well, yes. Yes, but not for very long.’ She shook her head as if to indicate that this was all she knew on the subject, then turned and began to leaf through the music on the piano.
‘It’s just that when you left—’
‘I left ages ago. I’m supposed to be playing,’ Alex said with a nervous, managing smile, ‘I’m sorry.’ She launched with inappropriate aggression into
Edelweiss
. Sara, puzzled, thought for a moment about shouting above the racket but, concluding that the good turn she was trying
to do Alex Cooper was one the girl did not deserve, shrugged and returned to her seat. Andrew raised an eyebrow and patiently poured her another cup of tea.
‘What on earth were you saying to her? By the look on her face you were pointing out what a piss-poor pianist she is.’
Sara explained and then said, ‘Don’t know why she was so odd about it. She wouldn’t even talk to me.’
‘You told her who you were, I suppose?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Why should I?’
Andrew shook his head slowly, amused. ‘You are hopeless. When will you ever learn to take advantage of your celebrity status?’ He rose and made his way to the piano, where Alex was just gathering up her music.
A moment later he led a smiling but no less pink or embarrassed Alex to the table. ‘I
thought
it was you! Then I thought, it
can’t
be, then you asked me about the Sulis … gosh, it’s great to meet you!’ she gushed. ‘I can see it’s you now, of course! I heard you on the radio.’
She looked uncertainly back at Andrew, who nodded encouragingly. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking
me
to join you for tea … but if you’re
sure
… of course I’d love to, if you’re really sure …’
Andrew had found another cup and chair. He put tea into one and Alex into the other and said, ‘Sara said she wanted to meet you.’ Alex beamed and glowed. ‘Didn’t you, Sara? So, Alex, how long have you been playing the Pump Room?’
Alex’s face dulled for a moment before she took a deep breath and launched into a résumé of her life and musical education to date, its central feature being her college course (an indecipherable mix of music, therapeutic tools,
expression and empowerment), culminating in a deeply felt commitment to exploring issues around creativity, serving the community, pushing back boundaries and breaking down barriers. Sara felt herself beginning to sink under the weight of this very old young woman.
‘This is only a stopgap,’ Alex said, nodding towards the piano on the platform. ‘I want to do something worthwhile. I hate those stupid songs, they’re so trite. And I get fed up playing for just tourists.’
‘I’m off to Salzburg in a day or two,’ Sara murmured. ‘I should think I’ll be playing to tourists there. But if you don’t like it here, why did you leave the Sulis? You left all your music behind, you know. That’s what I was trying to let you know.’
Alex coloured hotly again. ‘Oh. Oh well, I …’
‘It’s still in the piano stool. My friend found it. You could come up and collect it. Do you want me to tell them—’
‘Sara,’ Andrew cut in, ‘I’m sure Alex can organise all that herself when she has time.’
Alex blinked gratefully at Andrew and relaxed a little. ‘I haven’t actually been back, not since I left,’ she said confidingly.
Into the following silence Sara lobbed, conversationally, ‘My friend heard from Sister Yvonne you left quite suddenly. Didn’t you get on with Dr Golightly?’
‘Oh, no, that wasn’t it! He—he was fine, I suppose, only—look, I don’t want you to think there’s anything weird about me or anything.’ She paused. Sara looked at her, trying not to look too interested. But what was it that made it impossible for this woman to discuss Stephen Golightly without expiring with embarrassment?
‘I know I left my music behind. But I haven’t been back for it because I didn’t like what was going on there.’ She gave a small sniff and drank her tea, hoping that that explanation would close the subject.
‘Really? But Dr Golightly seems such a good doctor. Everyone says so. He’s treating one of my dearest friends.’ Sara was beaming with curiosity and goodwill, as if Alex Cooper were the most fascinating person ever to have honoured her by accepting an invitation to tea. And Alex fell for it, being too young and impressed to suggest that Sara mind her own business.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. He is a good doctor. It’s just … other things. Things that weren’t very professional. I … I didn’t like the accommodation.’
Sara poured more tea into Alex’s cup and lowered her voice. ‘Tell me, go on. It’s all right, I never betray secrets. But I really
must
know, I mean, if something unprofessional’s going on. I don’t want my friend suffering in any way. You do see, don’t you?’
Alex mentally folded away the last shreds of her discretion under the flattering glow of Sara’s attention. ‘Oh, I don’t mean unprofessional as far as the patients go. I mean other people, other things.’
‘To do with the staff, do you mean? So what was wrong with your accommodation, exactly?’
‘The staff were—Look, I can’t go into it. But there was something going on. An affair. I didn’t like that, I don’t approve of things like that. Because I could overhear them when I was in my room. Him and the nurse—you know … Yvonne. I heard them—having an affair.’
‘You mean Dr Golightly and Yvonne? You heard them making love in his flat? God, how
dreadfully
embarrassing!’
Sara stifled an urge to laugh. The thought of pretty, cheeky Yvonne and Stephen was rather sweet, if uncomfortably like a
Carry On
film. But why should the fact suddenly have increased his attractiveness?
Alex seemed a little peeved that her bombshell seemed to amuse rather than shock. Primly she said, ‘I never actually saw them, but I—you know—heard noises. And she worships the ground he walks on, she’s really obvious. But I wonder at
him
.’
‘But perhaps he was lonely. Why shouldn’t he? He’s not married.’
‘No, but
she
is, or she’s got a partner, she was always going on about him, Chris this, Chris that. He drove a Securicor van or something. Anyway it’s
disgusting
at her age and it’s completely unprofessional. I couldn’t very well go on listening to it, could I? So I left.’
‘It was either soundproof your room or leave, then,’ Sara almost giggled until a glance at Alex made it clear that levity was not welcome. ‘Sorry, it wasn’t funny for you, obviously.’
‘I was
distraught
. I had to leave. I had nobody to turn to. Ivan saw I was upset and I told him. He’s very sensitive. He’s like his father the way he understands things, deep down.’ Alex’s voice had grown calmer.
Andrew asked, ‘What did he say? I mean, what did he think about his father … you know?’
‘He just said not to say anything to anybody because it could damage the clinic. He didn’t seem all that surprised. I mean, he understood why I had to leave.’
Sara frowned. Why hadn’t the silly little prude just made some noise of her own, played the radio very loud or just gone out? She looked at Andrew, whose eyes held the
same concealed mirth at the farcical set-up, and then she knew. The reason why Alex Cooper had been unable to stand the sound of Dr Golightly making love with Yvonne was that she was in love with him herself.
‘Poor you,’ she told Alex, sincerely. ‘Look, shall I get the music for you? I’m going there tomorrow.’
‘Are you? I don’t think you said,’ Andrew murmured. ‘I thought you were working.’
‘Apart from that I will be. Dr Golightly asked to see me. He has one or two “concerns” to discuss, I
hope
not about Joyce. Shall I, Alex? I could bring it and leave it here for you if you like.’
‘Oh you wouldn’t, would you? Could you really? That would be wonderful.’ Alex’s eyes took on a luminous gleam like a spaniel’s. ‘I can’t afford to replace it all but I can’t go back. Would you
really?
And … do you think I could have an autograph as well?’
T
HE ECLIPSE WAS
a diversion. Sara took off her eclipse glasses and returned to the music room, sorry that the diversion had not been longer or more, well, diverting. The Dvořák still stood on the music stand and was still giving her trouble. Not technically, of course. Sara sat down and again told herself that if she worked on it a little more some elusive quality that she sought—something more supple and giving, nebulous, but more real than the notes of which the piece was made—would somehow manifest itself. Somehow she had to draw that quality out of the notes on the page and somehow she was not managing to do it. Nor had she managed it by the time she packed it in for the afternoon and set off for the Sulis.
* * *
S
HE FOUND
Hilary, Joyce and Yvonne staring without speaking at the heap on the floor. There wasn’t much: an electronic keyboard, a glockenspiel, four or five recorders, two small guitars, five bongo drums and a triangle. The Welshman and Jane were sitting, unattractively tracksuited, in two of the chairs lined against one wall,
waiting for the wonderful healing power of music to work its magic.
‘No, but this is great! This lot could be fun!’ Sara lied. She picked up a pair of drums and beat what she intended to be a rallying rhythm, which sounded stonily round the austere room. Nobody smiled. Joyce’s mouth was clamped shut with distaste. The ‘creative space’ for music therapy at the Sulis—an almost empty high-ceilinged room which Yvonne had tried to cheer up with a few plants and pictures—had the air of a lost cause. The rebels appeared to have fled to the hills and left an assortment of musical instruments in the middle of the floor like surrendered weapons.
‘No, I mean, people will love this. They will!’ Sara insisted. ‘It’s a good start, isn’t it, Joyce? You could make a start with the recorders, couldn’t you?’ She absolutely must get Joyce to stay, even if the descent from music professor to supervisor of toy instruments was a little humiliating. Joyce was not, she sensed from the disdainful lips, quite able to judge how few options she now had, nor willing to accept that any of even these few would involve some downward mobility. Bed, board and medical care at the Sulis in return for teaching music to morons was a damn sight less humiliating than the direction in which Joyce had been heading when Sara had found her.
Not that she had found the heart to spell this out, nor did Joyce appear to be troubled by any sense of obligation or gratitude to her for her intervention. Sara thought that while she did not exactly
require
thanks, it was irritating that Joyce seemed unaware that, but for her, she could by now be domiciled at the back of the bus station with the winos who sat around drinking an interesting range of industrial
fluids in between peeing in their clothes and shouting at the walls. And even now, having saved her from that, she could not simply abandon Joyce to make the best of things here.
Joyce had seated herself at the electronic keyboard and was enjoying herself, experimenting with the
Skye Boat Song
on Hawaiian guitar with samba beat, her head down, concentrating. Watching her, Sara felt the weight of responsibility, for having picked Joyce off the street and shown her some hope, it would be infinitely more callous to let her sink now than to have walked by in the first place. Joyce would need her support to meet the challenge of teaching anything again, let alone music therapy. Then there was Joyce’s own playing, which Sara had promised to help her with. And at the heart of it all was the little matter of keeping her off the bottle long enough for her to do any of it. And if it hadn’t been for that damned pink suit catching her eye, she thought, trying not to grind her teeth, none of this would be her problem.
Joyce had switched to
Comin Through The Rye
on panpipes with echo, and now looked up. She fixed Sara with a look which told her to push off and take her magnanimity with her. ‘Would you mind if we got on? I’ve things to do and I want to get on and get back upstairs to Pretzel. I’ve a sick dog upstairs so I’d rather we didn’t waste any more time. Now, is there no piano?’ she said, turning to Hilary and Yvonne. ‘Did I not see one in the dining room? I’ll have that.’