March 2001

It had been a year since Edie died. Statistics suggested that I should have been grateful that I’d made it through at all – many of the bereaved die within the first few months and since I had survived for a year my own death was supposedly not imminent. On the other hand, the fact that my body had decided to continue did not mean my life would suddenly become easier.

For the first year Clara and Lucy rallied around me. Our lives orbited the void Edie’s absence had created, that black hole at the centre of our universe. Yet piece by piece my daughters inched back into their ordinary routines. There were setbacks. Clara telephoned a week before Edie’s birthday, distraught that she’d purchased a card for her, remembering only once outside the shop that it was horribly unnecessary. I told her to write the card and post it to me. I received it and dutifully informed Clara that it was very touching, but the truth was that I couldn’t bear to open it at all. I shoved it into Edie’s bedside drawer where it sat with her spectacle case and the last, never-to-be-finished novel she’d been reading when she died, none of them to be opened again.

I understood that the girls’ loss was different from mine. Their sudden tsunamis of grief were brought on by the realisation that for a minute or an hour or even half a day they had not thought about Edie. They’d been caught up in everyday life – buying chops for supper or attending a school parents’ evening – and had briefly forgotten that their mother was dead. This was as it should be. We cannot be so utterly desolate at the death of a parent that we are unable to continue with our own lives and those of our children. If we did, then the human race would cease pretty sharpish. I watched them slip back into the rhythms of their busy lives with regret but also with relief.

It was not the same for me. Edie and I had been married for too long and were too much part of one another’s worlds. We were trees with a shared canopy, grown and shaped to fit one another. When one tree is lost in a storm, the other remains, ugly and distorted. I lingered at the edge of things, an observer, never quite managing properly to engage in any conversation.

To my immense sadness, at the end of a year I started to lose that sense of Edie being just around the corner. Until then, I had almost been able to persuade myself that she was making tea in the kitchen or had popped to the loo and was coming back any minute. I missed that magical self-delusion and felt, as each week and month passed, that Edie was sliding further and further away from me. Instead of easing my loss, time increased the distance between us. I tried to accept the grim fact that the best parts of my life were behind me. I now had to be nourished on memories alone, but, treacherous, they slithered away. I retreated into my notebooks, recording thoughts of her – early and late – and also scrutinising my more recent jottings, analysing my own grief.

It came in waves. Sometimes for hours or even days I’d function perfectly well. Then, something would trigger it. The knowledge of an anniversary – ‘Today a year ago was the last time we walked around the garden together’ – or not leaping to turn off the blasted radio quickly enough before I caught her singing. Then in the sudden silence, grief would catch me and bear me off on grey tides. I was helpless until it receded once more and despair dwindled into ordinary unhappiness.

I still couldn’t write music. Not a note. I wanted to write Edie her symphony but after a year I had nothing. It had to be a symphony and not a requiem – much too sad, not like Edie at all. She was full of melodies and always reminded me that, as a composer, it was my duty to please the audience as well as myself. She used to sing endless nursery rhymes to the children when they were small. I found most of them horribly tedious but when I dared to complain, Edie wouldn’t hear of it.

‘I don’t only sing for myself, I sing for my listener, who in this case is three and a half with a sore tummy. She wants “Three Blind Mice”, not Bartók.’

It was always her Yiddish songs that I wanted to hear. She rarely sang them and when I pressed her, she refused. They reminded her too strongly of her own childhood and of things she preferred to forget. Once, she confessed that soon after the family had arrived from Russia, there were times when they didn’t have enough to eat, and went to bed hungry. If she woke in the night, restless and with an empty stomach, her grandmother would pull Edie into her own bed and sing her songs to fill the hole. Later, Edie’s mother found a job at a bakery, and there were always yesterday’s bagels to eat, even if there wasn’t enough cream cheese or fancy things to put inside them. Occasionally, I overheard her singing them instead of nursery rhymes to soothe the children. I’d sneak in and listen in the doorway, frightened of disturbing her and making her stop. Heard melodies are sweet, but those overheard in stolen snatches, I discovered, are sweeter still.

I’d wake some mornings with a surge of energy, full of determination: this was the morning I’d start to write Edie’s symphony. I’d shower and as the hot water rushed over me I’d feel a sense of vigour and eagerness. Sometimes I’d scrub it away as I towelled myself dry and would have to sit down on the edge of the bath, already drained, fighting the urge to slink back to bed. Other times my enthusiasm lasted as far as the kitchen, where I’d brew myself a cup of bad coffee, always too weak or too strong – it was Edie who understood the quirks of the rickety coffee maker. I couldn’t do the sensible thing and buy a fancy new espresso machine, the sort Lucy was always marvelling over, because this one was another object that Edie had touched. So, I’d take my revolting coffee to my desk or to the piano and I’d sit ready to start sketching. Here, if it hadn’t already, inspiration invariably left me. I couldn’t settle. The house was too quiet.

Edie’s study door was open across the hall. I never closed it. For forty years we’d popped in and out to chat, to listen to an idea, to agree it was time for lunch – a cheese sandwich or should we treat ourselves and go to the pub? I rarely ventured inside her study any more. Her desk was exactly as she’d left it. I had Mrs Stroud dust it every week but I forbade her from tidying. Edie hated to have anyone touch the things on her desk. It was always a terrible mess – I couldn’t have borne to work in such chaos – but Edie maintained everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. The open door taunted me. It signalled that everything was all right, when I knew perfectly well that it was not. I’d wonder whether I ought to close it, and with that any tentative inspiration I might have had inevitably fled.

The only time my imagination was teeming with music was when Robin came to the house to play the piano. Those days were circled in red on the calendar and in my mind. Perhaps it was because of those red days that I didn’t die of a stroke or flu or any of the ailments of the bereaved, but found myself waking three mornings a week with a thrill of impatience. Robin came around to practise on Saturdays, Sunday afternoons and Wednesday evenings.

We’d agreed that for the time being it remained best that Robin used my Steinway rather than our purchasing a piano for him to have at home. Clara still fretted that if there was a piano in the house Robin would do nothing but play it. It was already enough of a struggle to deliver him to school on the days each week when he attended.

Family life now revolved around him. On Mondays, Clara and Robin would drive up to the Royal College of Music in Marylebone, leaving Dorset at five in the morning (the only time that Robin did not object with fury to getting out of bed was when he knew it meant piano lessons). Clara and Robin would spend the night in London and not return until nearly eleven o’clock on Tuesday evenings. On Fridays, Clara and Robin would rise again at dawn and drive to London and back before lunch. During the days each week that their mother was in town, Ralph would take the girls to school, where they had to stay late until he could collect them after work.

The schedule was exhausting for the entire family. Katy was not doing as well at school as she had been, and her teachers worried that no one was supervising her homework. Despite Robin’s rages and passionate objection, I think Clara was probably correct in forbidding the presence of a piano in their house. On the nights when Robin stayed with me, I’d discover him playing at three in the morning until I was forced to lock the music-room door before I went to bed.

One Sunday I had been anticipating his arrival with considerable pleasure. I’d purchased his preferred brand of chocolate biscuits and was looking forward to hearing the Brahms again. He arrived in a flurry of noise, hurling himself through the kitchen door, yelling somewhat unnecessarily, ‘Grandpa, I’m here! I’m here!’

Clara looked worn out. She sat down in the kitchen and reached for the teapot. I noticed that there were stripes of grey in her hair and, seeing me look, she ran her hand through it self-consciously.

‘I know, my hair is dreadful. I never seem to have time to get it done any more.’

‘I brought you something,’ said Robin, profoundly uninterested in his mother’s personal regime, thrusting a tatty piece of paper at me.

It was a splodge drawing. I squinted. Robin sighed and rolled his eyes.

‘It’s you playing the piano,’ he said, clearly exasperated at my stupidity.

‘So it is. It’s wonderful,’ I said.

It wasn’t. The figure was crude and barely recognisable as a person, but we’d been told to praise Robin when he showed interest in anything other than the piano. His school wanted to encourage balance and if possible to dampen his enthusiasm for music. It seemed a futile task to me, akin to trying to empty a pond with a teaspoon during a rainstorm, but I’m only a grandparent and so I did as I was told.

‘I’ll come back early today. To give you time to get ready,’ said Clara.

‘Ready for what, darling?’

She frowned and looked concerned. ‘This afternoon is Mummy’s stone setting. Did you forget?’

‘No. I hadn’t forgotten. I’m not going.’

Clara looked aghast, as though I’d finally lost it. I had forgotten, or rather I’d successfully put it out of my mind.

‘You go, if you want. I’ll stay here and mind Robin. He won’t want to go and he’ll have much more fun playing music with me.’

‘Yes. Please. That,’ agreed Robin.

Clara continued to stare at me with the same appalled expression. ‘Robin, go and play for a minute. I need to talk to Grandpa.’

Robin shrugged and disappeared at a run. Twenty seconds later the sound of ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ came cascading along the hall.

‘Papa, how can you not go to Mummy’s stone setting? I don’t understand.’

I shifted unhappily on my chair. I wondered whether sons were easier than daughters who constantly demanded explanations and needed to be told in unpleasant intimate detail the minutiae of one’s feelings.

‘I don’t wish to go. It’s a religious ceremony. They make me uncomfortable and listening to a stranger recite prayers in a foreign language has nothing to do with the woman I knew and loved. She wanted prayers and all those knick-knacks. But it has nothing in the least to do with me.’

I sounded angrier than I intended.

‘You’re really not going?’ Clara’s eyes filled with tears.

‘No, darling. I’m not. I’m sorry to upset you.’

‘It’s what Mummy wanted.’

‘Yes. But it’s not what I wanted. And I’m the one still here.’

I started to clatter cups in the sink to signal that I didn’t wish to discuss the matter any longer. Clara gathered herself. ‘All right. Very well. I’ll leave Robin here with you then. We’ll pick him up afterwards.’

I watched her leave, aware that I’d disappointed her, but I was unable to behave as she wished me to. While Edie was alive she always acted as a buffer between the girls and me, persuading them to leave me to sail my own ship, not to make too many demands, especially those that might interfere with my music. After she died, the girls stole closer like players in a game of ‘Grandmother’s Footsteps’ and while I often took solace in the intimacy, wondering why I’d kept them at a careful distance for so long, at other times I wished they’d allow me some privacy. A man doesn’t always wish to discuss his marriage with his daughters.

Wearily, I trailed across the hall to the music room. I lingered in the doorway watching Robin, feeling my spirits lift. With utter focus he was playing a Schubert sonata in G major. His eyes were almost closed and, although the music was open on the stand, he did not so much as glance at it. His teacher had suggested that he should see whether he could learn the music by heart, explaining that just as actors don’t walk around on the stage or on television shows holding their scripts but learn their parts, so musicians need to do the same. It’s only when one has memorised a piece that one can disappear into it, understand the music from the inside.

I watched Robin as much as listened to him. It was apparent from his posture that he was wholly within the music; the piano was an extension of his body. His shoulders swayed and rolled with a dancer’s grace, his fingers running over the keys. His immersion was an intensely personal thing, and I felt I was an intruder. At the end of the piece, he opened his eyes and, noticing me, grinned.

‘I like that one,’ he said. ‘It feels nice under my fingers.’

‘It feels nice in my ears, listening to it,’ I said. ‘You’re getting better.’

‘Good.’ He stretched like a cat. ‘I’m going to play the piano for, like, I dunno, ten years.’

I smiled. Ten years, to a five-year-old, was akin to for ever. I sat at my desk and listened to his practice. It was no longer my task to offer a critique. While he played I never did anything other than listen. I did not answer the phone nor drink a cup of tea nor read letters nor turn on the computer. My attention belonged wholly to Robin.

Yet on that Sunday, I found my thoughts straying to Edie. I was distracted by thoughts of the stone setting. I’d never been to one and I didn’t know how to picture it. I’d never been to a Jewish funeral before Edie’s. I certainly hadn’t expected that the first Jewish funeral I attended would be my wife’s. When Edie started visiting the synagogue, she didn’t tell me. If I’m being quite honest, mostly I forgot that she was Jewish. When I had to fill in one of those bureaucratic tick-box forms, I’d mark ‘White, British’ without a thought. On one of our trips shortly after I’d had a cataract operation and couldn’t see terribly well, Edie had filled in the form. I noticed that beside the box asking for ‘ethnicity’ she’d ticked ‘Other’ beside her name and had written ‘Jewish’ next to it. That was probably the only time I gave it a second thought. She was just Edie.

Neither of us had much time for God. No, that’s not quite true – I didn’t have much time for God and I simply presumed Edie felt the same. The first I knew about the synagogue trips was a few months before she died, when a rabbi came to the house and rang the bell. When I opened the door and saw the man in the tall hat and the black coat, I thought he was from some sort of cult and was either going to try to convert me or sell me dictionaries.

I said, ‘Not today, thank you,’ and he said quietly, ‘I’m here to see Edie. Edie Rose.’

That had startled me. Edie hadn’t been ‘Edie Rose’, except on CD covers and in tribute concerts, for forty years. She was Mrs Edie Fox-Talbot.

Edie never publicly discussed her Jewishness. Yet all our Jewish friends seemed to know without being told. I remembered a dinner with Albert and his wife thirty years ago. We probably served them sausage cassoulet. Even Edie ate pork after we were married and, truthfully, it would never have occurred to me that it might be tactless to serve pig to Albert and Margot. They were contemplating a trip back to Berlin. Albert had been asked to perform and was inclined to go, but Margot was appalled at the thought of returning. Albert turned to Edie and solicited her opinion.

‘Would you go back? Have you been back to Russia?’

Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No. I’ve not been back. I’m not sure I would go. I was so young when we left. And, suppose, you know. Suppose it still felt like home? What would I do then?’

I’d looked at her, aghast. All this shared life, and yet a part of her still hankered after something else. I’d made light of it then, silently resolving never to accept a job to conduct in Moscow, and wondered aloud, ‘How did you know Edie was Jewish? Do you chaps have a secret handshake like the Masons?’

The three of them stared at me as though I were drunk or mad or both.

‘Of course she’s Jewish,’ Albert had said with a shrug, and total assurance. I’d felt that they were all quietly laughing at me, and it was an uncomfortable sensation being the odd man out.

Sometimes, in later years when she agreed to the occasional interview, a piece might mention her Russian ancestry and the fact that she was ‘of Jewish descent’ – a vague phrase; after all, most of us possess a dash of something or other in our genes. Yet, after she died, every single obituary stated that she was Jewish as though everyone had always known, which was utter guff. I liked the piece in The Guardian the best. The headline was ‘England’s Winter Rose Dies’. Edie would have rather liked that.

I’d been disconcerted when the rabbi had appeared on the doorstep, and in all honesty I’d not been thrilled to discover that she’d been making trips to the synagogue. Even after I found out, I never went with her. I don’t know whether I would have gone if she’d asked, but then she never did. I wasn’t pleased about Edie returning to her Jewish roots. We were to be parted by death, and I thought that was a sufficient division. I resented the further separation. I didn’t want her to be buried in a cemetery in a grotty suburb of Bournemouth miles from where we’d spent our lives together. George was comfortable in his spot in the woods. I fully expected to lie beside him at some point, and I’d always presumed Edie would be there too. I wanted to think of her on the hillside amongst the snowdrops or trudging through the bluebell woods, not lying in a box surrounded by strangers and the hum of traffic on the roundabout near Ikea.

After her funeral, I swore I would not go back to the cemetery. She might want to be buried there but I did not have to visit. I preferred to remember her in my own way. I could not understand why after all this time together that at the very end she’d insisted on turning away from me.

‘What do you think, Grandpa?’ asked Robin and I realised with some surprise that I hadn’t heard a single note.

‘Play it again,’ I said.

Happily, he returned to the keyboard and with a struggle, like closing an overfull suitcase, I pushed all thoughts of Edie from my mind.

—

Later in the afternoon we listened to CDs. I might not have been able to teach Robin the piano but I was still permitted to further his musical education.

We had a pleasant routine. Robin built himself a nest of cushions on the Persian rug and wriggled in amongst them. He always asked for the heavy damask curtains to be closed: he liked to transform the music room into an auditorium. I had to introduce the programme giving the title of the piece. I flashed the electric lights to signal the programme was about to start and Robin dutifully applauded the imaginary conductor while I pressed ‘play’ on the first track. I’d invested in better speakers; one of the sound engineers I’d worked with on my last couple of albums had come to the house and put it all together. It sounded simply marvellous – akin to sitting right in the centre of the stalls. Whether it was in imitation of me or because he felt the same, Robin refused any snack or refreshment while the music played. Instead, we had an interval after the first piece where we’d both eat chocolate biscuits and I’d have a cup of tea and Robin some milk while we discussed the performance with great earnestness.

For the concert that Sunday I’d selected Delius’s On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring. I enjoyed observing Robin as he listened. He sat amongst his cushions, never once slouching, always alert and taut with concentration. He reminded me of a hare I once saw in the snow on the Ridgeway, its long ears upright, perfectly still, every atom poised as it listened for the tiniest sound across the snowfield. When the Delius ended, we both clapped politely.

‘Well, what did you think?’ I asked, turning on the lights.

This was our routine. I liked to know Robin’s thoughts before I gave him the précis about the piece. He needed first to learn his own mind and feelings.

‘Shivery,’ said Robin.

He’d had a cold a couple of weeks before and had learned that the word elicited almost instant sympathy from his mother and sisters.

‘All right. Why?’

Robin screwed up his face. He didn’t enjoy having to put into words how music made him feel.

‘Try to tell me. And then I’m going to make milkshakes.’

Robin gave an elaborate sigh. ‘It’s shivery like when I get out of the bath at your house.’

The radiator in the bathroom that the grandchildren used didn’t work very well and it was always a good idea to hop in and out of the bath at speed, dressing and undressing smartly.

‘The music sounds cold?’

‘That’s what I said, Grandpa. Shivery.’ Robin fidgeted and huffed. The moment the music ended, so did his miraculous concentration. He started to pick at a loose thread on the cushion cover.

‘I think you’re quite right,’ I said, trying to engage him. ‘The music does sound cold. It’s about the first cuckoo in spring but it’s very early spring and still chilly. It makes me think of green things shooting.’

I opened my desk drawer, pulled out a typed sheet of paper and handed it to him.

‘Here. These are the programme notes for today’s music-room concert. I thought you might like them to be typed up like at a real concert.’

Robin took them from me and stared at the piece of paper reverently, even though he couldn’t read it. He glanced up at me with a look of mild reproach. ‘Grandpa, if it’s a proper concert you have to give me the programme at the beginning and I have to pay money for it and it has to be folded and not like that.’

He flapped the single sheet at me.

‘I’ll give it to you at the start next time. And you can pay me a penny.’

‘A pound or it isn’t real.’

‘A pound for the subscription for the whole concert series.’

He looked dubious.

‘I’m giving you a special rate because you’re an excellent customer and come to all the concerts,’ I explained. ‘It’s what the proper concert halls do.’

He stared at me for a moment, blue eyes big with suspicion, and then acquiesced with a nod.

We traipsed along the passage to the kitchen to make milkshakes. The kitchen was rather old-fashioned with green Formica work surfaces rather than the modern taste for granite or marble, and I’d kept the ancient range even though it didn’t work. We sat at the oak table, scrubbed white over the years, and drank banana milkshakes, Robin slurping his happily through a curly straw. The piano had curbed some of his naughtiness. However, if, God forbid, a lesson was cancelled or he couldn’t practise during his allotted time, the entire family suffered. His tantrums were Wagnerian and lasted nearly as long as the entire Ring cycle.

He watched me over the top of his glass, blowing bubbles with his straw. I didn’t want him to spend the whole day in the music room with the curtains drawn. Boys also require dirt and fresh air. I feared the consequences of suggesting such a thing but I would not be a coward in small matters. My father had instilled in us as children a deep-rooted fear of being what he termed ‘a drip’. It was a sin and a failing so hideous that for some years I had believed it to be a fatal and infectious disease that one could stave off only through cold baths, tedious walks in the rain and endless evenings without the respite of a fire.

‘Robin, at the end of the concert we shall go for a walk. We can take the fishing nets down to the river and hunt for tadpoles.’

‘Are they slimy?’

‘Absolutely. Covered in the stuff. Perfectly disgusting.’

‘OK, I’ll come.’

‘Oh. Good,’ I said, relieved.

—

After the second part of our concert – Mahler – we put on wellingtons and waterproofs and strolled down to the river. I felt a little guilty about the Mahler; it seemed adult and inappropriate – as if I’d shown him a film containing love-making – but his teacher had apparently mentioned Mahler’s piano quartet and, not having a recording of that, I’d ended up playing him Mahler’s Fifth. He’d sat, rapt as ever, and afterwards didn’t seem any the worse for it.

The grass was slick with dew and a flush of yellow celandine had unfurled in the spring sunshine, speckling the ground beneath the willows and blackthorn in the wild part of the garden. Daffodils and narcissi bobbed in the wind, studding the verge with colour. The earth smelled of fresh, growing things. Even before we reached the river, I could hear the trickle of the groundwater beneath us, seeping through the soil. Our progress was slow as Robin had to investigate the tiny, bedraggled corpse of a mouse, and sluice his boots in every puddle. When we arrived at the riverbank we dangled for tadpoles in a slow-flowing bend. I’d brought jam jars and Robin ladled phlegmy gobs of wriggling ooze into them. He surveyed the tadpoles writhing in the water, gloriously revolted.

‘They’re crotchets,’ he announced. ‘But when they wiggle their tails, they turn into quavers.’ He rubbed a filthy hand across his face, streaking it with mud or goodness knew what. ‘I shall write them a sonata. A tadpole sonata.’

‘What an excellent idea,’ I said. ‘And how will you create the musical effect of slime?’

Robin scratched his nose and considered the matter. Crouching on his haunches, he was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something I’m not supposed to tell you, Grandpa.’

‘Who said you’re not supposed to tell me?’

‘Mummy.’

This put me in a bit of a quandary – I was more than a little curious to know something that Clara had insisted Robin conceal. On the other hand, I didn’t want to land the poor fellow in hot water with his mother.

‘Oh dear. Then I suppose you’d better not.’

Robin scowled. ‘I’m going to tell you and you can just not tell Mummy that I told you.’ He glanced up at me. ‘You’re very old, Grandpa. You should be good at keeping secrets. You might even die before you have a chance to tell.’

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this. ‘I’ll do my best to keep the secret. Hopefully my death won’t be necessary.’

Robin avoided meeting my eye. ‘Some people want me to play piano on the telly.’

Anger threaded through me. ‘What people?’

‘I dunno. Some people. Daddy knows them. I’m not supposed to tell you. Mummy said, “Grandpa won’t like it. Robin George Bennet, you mustn’t tell Grandpa because he won’t like it one bit.”’

‘Bloody right,’ I said. ‘For God’s sake. What are they thinking? Ruddy fools.’

I was almost shouting and Robin looked as if he might start to cry.

‘Oh, darling. I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you.’

‘Don’t you like the telly?’

‘I don’t like children on the telly.’

‘Never? Then you couldn’t have kids in any of the shows. Even the ones for kids.’

‘That’s different. I don’t think that bright young chaps like you should perform in front of people. Not till you’re older.’

We pottered about by the river for a little longer, but I kept checking my watch, wanting to return to the house and wait for Clara. It grew cold and we headed back. Exhausted, Robin struggled to walk and whined for me to carry him. I heaved him onto my shoulders, invigorated that I was still strong enough. There’s life in this old dog yet, I declared silently. I hummed an old tune as we trudged back to the house. Robin was so tired that I laid him down to snooze in the drawing room, tucking him under the ancient horsehair blanket, which he insisted upon and then complained was itchy. I poured myself a Scotch and waited.

I heard the rumble of wheels on gravel. A few minutes later voices echoed in the passage. Lucy and Clara appeared in the drawing room. I pointed to Robin and put my finger to my lips. Clara turned round and waved at her daughters to be quiet. Katy and Annabel crept in, tiptoeing elaborately, and lay down beside the fire. Ralph followed a moment later and, after helping himself to a slug of the good Scotch, stretched out in the chair nearest the fire. I stiffened.

‘Well, how was it?’ I said quietly.

Lucy shrugged. ‘Short. Sad.’

I didn’t know what to add to this. I was sure that there was some kind of pleasantry invented for the occasion but not knowing what it was I said nothing. The girls looked very smart. They wore dark skirt suits and I thought how pretty my daughters were. Such things shouldn’t matter but they do.

‘Darlings, would you like a drink? Gin and tonic? A glass of wine?’

‘Gin and tonic,’ called Katy from the hearthrug, making her sister giggle.

I opened a bottle of wine, found some crisps and we settled back beside the fire. The children sipped lemonade. Katy eyed me with interest.

‘The rabbi wondered why you weren’t there. He thought you were poorly. He said we could have done it another time when you were better.’

‘I’m not poorly,’ I said.

‘No,’ agreed Katy.

She was fishing for information. I couldn’t understand how these women learned such tactics so young. I glanced at my son-in-law, occupied with his whisky and filling in the crossword on my copy of The Times (another habit I can’t abide – what sort of chap does another chap’s crossword without checking first?) I was outflanked by women, and the men who ought to be on my side were either aged five and fast asleep or, in the case of Ralph, unhelpful and hostile. I decided it was time to change the topic of conversation.

‘Robin tells me that you want him to go on some television show.’

‘Blast it, Clara. I thought you’d told him not to say anything,’ snapped Ralph, no longer making an effort to be quiet.

Clara looked anxiously from her husband to me, wondering how to placate us both. ‘I did tell him not to say anything.’ She turned to me. ‘Of course we were going to discuss it with you, Daddy, but I didn’t think today was the right time. And nothing is decided yet.’

‘I should hope not,’ I said, cross all over again.

‘It’s a tremendous opportunity,’ said Ralph, fixing me with a look of ill-concealed dislike. ‘I don’t really see why it’s a matter for the whole family.’

I glanced over to the sofa where Robin was sprawled, still asleep. I wished for the thousandth time that Edie were here. She would have defused the situation, mollified Ralph and quietly persuaded them both that having Robin perform in public at such a young age was a ghastly idea. I tried to think what she would have said, although inevitably I was incapable of presenting it with much tact.

‘Your mother sang as a child and loathed it. Her lifelong stage fright was a consequence of having been forced to perform when she was so young.’

Clara stiffened. ‘She never said that to me. And no one is forcing Robin to do anything. He loves to perform.’

I felt a pulse tick in my temple. ‘He loves to play, not to perform.’ I glanced at Ralph who was rolling his eyes at Clara. ‘No, Ralph, it is not the same thing. At present Robin’s enjoyment of music is a very private matter. He plays for himself. If we happen to listen, then all to the good. He likes to please us – we’re his family, after all. But he does not play for us. He’s a charming and selfish little fellow who plays solely for his own pleasure. And at five years old it’s absolutely right that he should. Performance, on the other hand, is about presenting oneself to an audience. It necessitates self-awareness, which Robin doesn’t have and, frankly, oughtn’t to have.’

I sat back on the sofa and steadied myself with a sip of whisky. My heart was beating wildly like a panicked bird, a most unpleasant sensation. Katy and Annabel stared at me, mouths agape. I didn’t think many people dared to contradict their father, but I confess that, when it comes to matters of music, I’m afraid of no man.

Clara shot a pleading look at her sister. Next to Edie, Lucy was considered the best person to reason with me. Lucy was always the peacemaker. When they were girls she’d confess to Clara’s crimes simply to get the unpleasantness over with. We never believed her, leading, inevitably, to Clara complaining that, in my eyes at least, darling Lucy could do no wrong.

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Papa, you keep telling us how difficult it is to succeed as a pianist. Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity for Robin?’

Ralph seized his moment. ‘It is. I showed the producers a tape of him and they were astounded. They’ve never had a kid his age on the show. They’re desperate for a prodigy.’

I winced, unable to abide that term. ‘Child prodigies are circus animals. Remarkable because they’re freaks of nature. Brilliant but freaks nonetheless. They want to put him on television so that people can gawp at him.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Fox. There is no need to be so melodramatic,’ said Ralph, helping himself to yet more of the good single malt. ‘It’s a fantastic opportunity. He works hard. We all do. The lessons and travel are bloody expensive. It all mounts up.’

I thought this was a bit of a cheek, considering that I’d surreptitiously paid for Robin’s lessons.

‘And yes, Fox, I know that you’ve been paying for the lessons. That has to stop. It’s humiliating. I’m his father and it’s up to me to foot his bills.’

He dared me to contradict him but I threw up my hands. What he said was true: it’s a man’s right to pay for his own son.

Clara frowned and looked at her daughters. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go and play or watch a video?’

They shook their heads in unison. Watching us squabble was clearly much more interesting than any other kind of entertainment.

Lucy frowned and coughed. ‘Has anyone asked Robin what he would like?’

‘For pity’s sake,’ I exclaimed, quite exasperated by these trendy parenting notions. I’ve never given two hoots for what a child proclaims he wants. ‘He wants to eat chocolate instead of vegetables, wipe bogies under the dining-room table and play the piano twenty-three hours each day. We decide what’s best.’

‘No,’ said Ralph, ‘Clara and I decide.’

I grunted, too angry to talk, and looked over at Robin, snoozing on the sofa. His eyelids flickered. The rascal was only pretending to be asleep. I hoped the argument hadn’t upset him. On the other hand, I dreaded that there was worse to come.

The television show was one of those ghastly talent contests. I’d never watched it before but Clara lent me some videos that the production company had sent through and I dutifully endured a few episodes. I fast-forwarded through most of the first few, which I considered to be the worst kind of freak show. Some of the contestants appeared to have some kind of mental illness and in my view should have been referred to a doctor instead of being given an opportunity to share their delusions with the nation. It was a pitiful spectacle. It never ceases to bewilder me what people find entertaining. There are so many marvellous and talented individuals – musicians, actors, ballerinas – all of whom are eager to transport us with their remarkable skills, and yet many of us prefer to watch the twitchings of the asinine and the damaged. It’s the modern equivalent of the gallows. Sterile and sanctioned, but a gallows nonetheless – we applaud while they dance in the air.

I digress. These things infuriated and frustrated me but, as Robin never stopped reminding me, I am very old.

It was the first of Robin’s meetings with the producers in London and Clara and Robin wanted me to go. I did not bother to ask whether Ralph felt the same way since it was perfectly clear that he did not. The meeting was in the afternoon and, although we had time beforehand, for once I did not invite Clara and Robin to lunch with me at the club. I could feel Clara waiting for the invitation, but while I did feel rather bad about it (despite everything, I do very much enjoy my daughters’ company and taking them out to luncheon is a father’s great pleasure), on this occasion I’d arranged to meet Marcus and Albert. I found myself once again very much in need of their advice. Clara and Robin disappeared to John Lewis to purchase new school shoes or some such, and I took a taxi down to Pall Mall and my club.

I enjoy playing the part of the old gent when I come to town. The pavement along St James’s is strewn with elderly chaps much like myself, like white anemones. They all wear similar suits: good hard-wearing tweed, never in fashion but also never quite out of it. We fellows are an endangered breed in general, but the clubs along Pall Mall are stuffed with us. They are places where jackets and ties must be worn, where burgundy and cigars are encouraged, while denim and women are frowned upon.

My club is the RAC. Nothing to do with the automobile rescue service any longer; it is instead one of those last bastions of civility or old fogery, depending on your point of view. Being an old fogey, I am fond of the place. It’s very comfortable – a little too comfortable after yet another shiny refurbishment. I preferred the worn leather, the slightly gloomy bar and the atmosphere of regretful yet elegant decay, but with members dying off at quite a rate, the club needed to encourage the enemy – young chaps of merely forty or fifty – to join.

A porter in a red uniform greeted me at the desk.

‘Mr Fox-Talbot, Sir Marcus and Mr Shields are waiting for you in the bar.’

I walked across the chequered floor to the new bar, ablaze with the light from an array of chandeliers.

‘Morning,’ said Marcus a little sadly. ‘They’ve cleaned out all the nooks and repapered the crannies. I don’t like it at all.’

‘No,’ I agreed, glancing about. ‘It’s beastly. It feels like a gentlemen’s club in drag.’

‘Well, I like it,’ said Albert. ‘I think the new bar is splendid.’

‘You always were a bit of a modernist,’ reproached Marcus, and Albert laughed.

‘I’m not sure that liking art deco lamps and polished brass makes me a modernist exactly. Shall we order drinks?’

This was another thing that I liked about my old chums. There was never the slightest hesitation about pre-luncheon drinks. Clara and Lucy, even Ralph, inevitably objected on the grounds that they’d really better not since they had work to do in the afternoon. I’ve always considered that a paltry excuse. If I’m honest, some of my most innovative works have been achieved as a direct result of a Negroni, a dozen oysters and a bottle of lunchtime Chablis.

We settled down with our drinks and, after a few minutes of chit-chat, Marcus turned to me with a ‘Well? What’s up?’

I told them as succinctly as I could about the television business, which wasn’t succinctly at all, since I succeeded in getting het up and furious all over again. They listened without interruption and only when I slowed, reaching for my glass, did Albert raise an eyebrow.

‘Are you quite finished, Fox?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I think so. The whole business is dreadful. It’s a terrible thing for the boy.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Marcus.

Albert sighed. ‘Whether it is or it isn’t, you are not a musician in this situation. You’re a grandfather. If you’ve made your point, which, knowing you, old chap, you probably have several times over with decreasing politeness . . .’ He glanced at me and I nodded: it was perfectly true. The last time I’d said my piece, Clara had left pretty quickly without saying goodbye. ‘Then I’m afraid,’ Albert said, ‘it’s time to shut the hell up.’

‘I’ll have to pick up the bloody pieces afterwards when it all goes wrong,’ I said, signalling for another snifter.

Albert shrugged. ‘Then you do. You’re the boy’s grandfather, not his father. It’s not up to you to make the decisions. If you keep sticking your nose in, you won’t change anything but you will thoroughly annoy Clara.’

I turned to Marcus. ‘You’re very quiet.’

He frowned. ‘It’s a quandary. I agree with you that the boy is far too young to perform in public. It’s a horrible idea.’

‘Good. At least I have one ally,’ I grumbled, giving Albert a sharp look.

Marcus waved his hand. ‘Oh do be quiet, Fox. Albert’s perfectly correct. Don’t piss off your daughter. It won’t end well.’

I stared miserably at the melting ice in my glass.

‘Do you remember in the early days when I used to advise you on your orchestration?’ asked Marcus.

‘Good grief, do I remember? “Too thick. Too much cello. No pianist could play that unless he had four fucking hands.”’

Marcus looked extremely smug, an unusual expression for a man of eighty-two. ‘Ah, yes, but was I ever wrong?’

‘No.’

He looked even more smug. Positively Cheshire cat. ‘Well, Albert and I are equally correct about this. You’ve said your bit. Now shut up and cheer at the sidelines. If it does all go wrong, then be glad that you’re around to help pick up the pieces.’

‘Don’t upset them all, Fox,’ said Albert, more gently this time. ‘You seem better. You’ve put on a bit of weight and you smile. The boy’s doing you good. You don’t want to lose him by being rude to his parents.’

This wasn’t the advice that I’d wanted. I’d rather hoped that the three of us would blaze into the production company’s offices like the ageing cowboys in The Magnificent Seven and call a halt to the whole thing. Unfortunately, I had a disagreeable, churning feeling in my guts suggesting either that the oysters were off or, more likely, that my friends were right. I decided to voice no further objections to Clara and Ralph – or, as Edie liked to say, ‘For once in your life, Harry, keep schtum.’ I wished she could have been here to see it. Harry Fox-Talbot, keeping schtum at last.

The meeting wasn’t held at the television studios but in cramped offices in Soho, plastered with posters of previous talent-show winners – at least I presumed they were winners due to the number of exclamation marks after their names. Robin, Clara and I perched in a row on a leather sofa, while Ralph prowled the waiting room, pretending to read the industry magazines. On the opposite sofa a doll-faced girl of eight or nine, wearing a pink T-shirt and a glittery Alice band, sat with her mother, a large stuffed bear with a matching Alice band between them. She smiled at Robin, who grimaced and started to pick his nose. My grandson had not yet developed charm.

I was already irritated. I didn’t think children ought to be kept waiting like this. It only exacerbates their anxiety. But then I wondered whether perhaps that was the point. To see how they managed under pressure. Robin clutched his music on his lap. He didn’t need it to play, but its presence comforted him.

A barrage of overly solicitous assistants kept offering us a surprising variety of waters. ‘Still? Sparking? Chilled? Room temperature?’

‘Tea, please,’ I said. ‘Hot.’

Clara shot me an anxious glance. I sighed. Robin had promised me that he would behave and in turn Clara had extorted the same promise from me. After twenty minutes or so we were called in to see the producers, ahead of the girl and her mother.

A cluster of chairs had been set out around a coffee table. The walls were lined with yet more posters of aspiring and perspiring young men and women, most of them mid-song, eyes screwed up, pink mouths open as wide as starling chicks’ waiting for worms to be popped in. Three people stood up to greet us as we entered, two women and a man. All of them were much too young – everyone seems young to me but even the man, who was the eldest of the three, was barely out of his twenties.

‘Hi, I’m Mike,’ he said. ‘This is Ellie and Jocasta.’

The two women smiled and waved in bubbly unison, like synchronised swimmers. Ellie, a sparkly blonde who looked as though she ought to still be in school finishing her geography homework, grinned warmly at Robin. ‘We’re so excited to meet you, Robin. We loved the tape your dad sent in. You’re very talented.’

Robin said nothing, only stared. There were a few minutes of chit-chat about the weather. I’ve observed over the years that this is the way that one can distinguish meetings in the various parts of the world. In England one starts with a discussion of the weather, usually commiserating about the rain, occasionally marvelling at an outbreak of sunshine, while in Los Angeles every meeting begins with at least fifteen minutes spent complaining about traffic. Meetings in Dorset inevitably start with discussions on compost and the progress of one’s vegetable patch.

The other woman, Jocasta, leaned over and whispered something to Ellie, who nodded.

‘You’re the grandfather?’ said Ellie to me as if it were a role for a play.

‘I’m Robin’s grandfather, yes.’

‘And you’re the composer?’

‘I am a composer.’

‘And it was you who discovered Robin’s gift?’ She glanced down again at Jocasta’s clipboard.

‘I realised that he had an affinity for music, yes.’

‘And you’re a well-known composer, is that right? And you run a series of summer music concerts at a country house?’

‘Well, at my house,’ I said.

Ellie frowned and looked at the clipboard in Jocasta’s lap. ‘Oh. So you actually own,’ she ran her finger down the page, ‘Hartgrove Hall in Dorset?’

‘I do.’

‘Oh.’ She appeared momentarily stumped and then shrugged. ‘We like to reflect the audience’s world back at them and so perhaps Hartgrove Hall is a bit’ – she hesitated, reaching for the right word – ‘rarefied for us.’

I thought this was a bit much since it was quite clear to me that both Jocasta and Ellie had been educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College or some such establishment. They had the gleam and shimmer of the expensively educated. The three of them stared at me, clearly making a reassessment. Jocasta produced a flourish of fresh notes.

‘But you teach him? That must be a wonderful experience.’

‘I don’t teach him any more. I’m afraid I’m a limited pianist. He comes to my house to practise.’

Three sets of eyes now swivelled eagerly to face Clara and Ralph. ‘You can’t afford to buy Robin his own piano? That’s fantastic.’

They wrote copious notes.

Ralph coughed. ‘No, that isn’t it at all. We could. We decided that Robin is so hooked on the piano it was better not to have one in the house.’

‘I’m the same with chocolate,’ said Jocasta, smiling at Robin. ‘Can’t have it in the house. I just can’t resist.’ She giggled.

I felt deeply uneasy. My instinct was that these people were much, much smarter than they were pretending to be. There was a careful plan here and simply because we couldn’t see it didn’t mean that it wasn’t laid out meticulously around our ankles.

I cleared my throat. ‘May I ask what is the purpose of today’s meeting?’

‘Of course!’ said Ellie. ‘I’m so glad you asked. Thank you.’

Mike, who hadn’t spoken yet, leaned forward and addressed himself directly to Robin. ‘We simply want to have a friendly chat. Our researchers have told us a bit about you but we’d like to hear it from you. Then if we’re all happy – you most of all, Robin – we’ll put you up tonight in a nice hotel in London and pay for you and your family to go out for a nice dinner, and then tomorrow you’ll show us what you can do on the piano.’

Clara frowned. ‘He’s auditioning tomorrow? I thought the auditions for the new series weren’t for months.’

Mike shook his head. ‘The open auditions aren’t till August. This is a special pre-performance. It’s not an audition at all.’

We must have looked utterly confused as Ellie smiled indulgently at Mike. ‘We like to have a few really special performers, some absolute gems of talent dotted amongst the public auditions. We want to see if Robin might be a good fit for one of those spots.’

Jocasta took over. ‘So, if all goes well, Robin would go along to the open auditions in Bournemouth or, if you prefer, here in London, but he’d already know everyone and he’d almost certainly be guaranteed a place on the live show.’

‘He does well tomorrow and then he’ll be on the show?’ asked Ralph.

‘Very probably. Nothing is ever absolutely certain in live TV,’ said Mike.

‘So tomorrow is a pre-audition audition?’ I asked, trying to keep the disdain from my voice.

‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ said Ellie, brightly.

‘No, but I wouldn’t be wrong if I did,’ I said and Clara shot me a filthy look.

I bit my tongue but I was troubled. This wasn’t how things ought to be done. When I asked a musician to play to secure a spot in the festival orchestra or for a new recording, then I jolly well told them it was an audition.

‘We shouldn’t really be discussing any of this just yet,’ said Mike. ‘The behind-the-scenes stuff of television is very boring but we do need to keep it secret or the magic is spoiled.’

‘If Robin does decide to play at the pre-performance tomorrow, we will need all of you to sign a confidentiality agreement,’ said Ellie with a particular nod in my direction.

I glanced at Clara. ‘I’m here to do what I’m told.’

For some unknown reason this seemed only to infuriate Clara and she looked away, refusing to meet my eye.

Jocasta returned to her clipboard with its kaleidoscope of neon-pen highlights. She spoke softly, her voice sticky with sympathy. ‘I understand it was the passing of Robin’s grandmother that brought the two of you together.’

I stiffened. I would not discuss Edie.

She tried again. ‘I understand that Edie – it was Edie, wasn’t it? – was a singer?’

Clara shot me an anxious look, clearly unhappy herself at the line of questioning. ‘Yes, my mother’s name was Edie. Her maiden and stage name was Edie Rose.’

The three producers nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Yes. The famous wartime singer. “A Shropshire Thrush.” Amazing. Robin has such talented grandparents,’ said Ellie in reverent tones.

‘Musicality often runs in families,’ I said. ‘The Bach dynasty is the most famous, perhaps. But there was also the Strauss family, and Wolfgang Mozart’s father Leopold was an accomplished pianist as well as a composer. And of course there’s the Von Trapp family. One mustn’t forget them. Without them, lederhosen wouldn’t be nearly as popular as they are today.’

Mike didn’t smile. ‘Your dad’s funny,’ he said to Clara.

‘He is a talented man,’ she said dryly. ‘But I’m afraid, in our family, musical ability skipped a generation.’

‘In any case, the grandparents make for a compelling back-story. It’s great stuff. Really great,’ said Jocasta.

I winced. ‘It’s not a backstory. It’s my life,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ said Jocasta quickly. ‘We’re not trying to diminish you.’

Ralph snorted. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Fox is never knowingly diminished.’

Clearly sensing a family squabble brewing, Ellie turned to Robin who’d remained silent throughout the entire conversation.

‘How about you, my love? Is there anything you’re worried about?’

Robin shook his head.

‘Good! That’s how it should be!’

I sighed inwardly. These people littered their conversation with exclamation marks. It must be exhausting to maintain such a fever pitch of enthusiasm.

‘Do you have any questions, lovely?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin. It was the first time he’d opened his mouth except to slot in one of the cupcakes that had been set out on the table.

‘What is it, my love?’

‘When can I play the piano?’

They all laughed uproariously, perfectly delighted with him.

I did not join in.

The budget apparently didn’t stretch to putting me up in a hotel too, so with considerable relief I took a room at the club. I was exhausted. I’d been grilled on my career and my routine with Robin. They were evidently thrilled when I described our music-room concerts and asked whether they could come and film us if, as they hoped, Robin appeared on the show. However, they confessed with an air of obsequious confidentiality, we’d need to film it at Robin’s house, Hartgrove Hall being ‘a little out of the mainstream’. I’d spent a lifetime avoiding publicity. Edie despised anyone prying into our personal lives, while I’ve always hated talking about my music – everything that I want to say is in the piece. Either you can hear it and it works, or you don’t and it doesn’t. There’s not much to discuss. The idea of having a film crew watching us was very unpleasant.

I was ruminating on all this in the bar when Marcus appeared.

‘You’re staying tonight too?’ he asked, evidently pleased to see me.

I nodded miserably and told him about the afternoon.

‘For God’s sake, say no to any filming!’ he said.

‘But you told me to be amenable,’ I said. ‘This is me pretending to be amenable.’

‘We said stop arguing with your daughter. That’s all.’

‘Oh,’ I said, more miserable still. ‘I have to go with Robin to an audition tomorrow that isn’t an audition.’

‘That definitely calls for brandy,’ said Marcus firmly, gesturing to a waiter.

‘That is a splendid idea,’ I said, perking up a bit.

We chatted for a while with pleasant ease and familiarity. Then, sometime after the second nightcap, Marcus turned to me and asked, ‘Are you writing again, old chap?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Nothing. It’s all quiet up here.’ I tapped my temple.

‘Give it time,’ he said.

‘That’s all very well. But I’m not quite so young as I was. I can’t wait for ever.’

We sat for a while, pleasantly discussing mutual acquaintances, orchestras past and present, conductors come and gone, and then Marcus cleared his throat.

‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you. But what the hell. I’ve got cancer. Now don’t get all upset. It’s not a tragedy. I’m eighty-three next birthday but the doctors have told me that will probably be my last. I’d better have a jolly good party.’

‘Oh God, Marcus, I’m so sorry.’

I was sorry. More than I could say, but not just for him, for myself too. Marcus Albright was my closest and dearest pal. His sense of fun and mischief remained undimmed. That was the peril of old age, to outlive one’s great friends.

‘I don’t want you to die,’ I said, as a result of having drunk rather too much brandy.

‘No,’ agreed Marcus. ‘I don’t much fancy it myself. I know that as one gets older, one is supposed to be dignified and peacefully resigned but I don’t feel like that at all. I’m downright pissed off. I was just starting to get somewhere with the Beethoven sonatas and now I might not have time to finish. And death isn’t really a deadline that I can push.’

‘It’s terrible timing,’ I agreed.

‘To terrible timing,’ said Marcus, raising his glass.

We clinked.

‘And to death,’ he added ruefully. ‘May he come in his pyjamas while I’m sleeping.’

I raised my glass again, swallowing with some difficulty.

‘I keep thinking of George,’ said Marcus. ‘He was so brave at the end. I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want it to be the least bit necessary. I want to be a wimp to the finish.’

We were both silent for a moment, considering George’s grim stoicism through his final illness.

‘Edie took wonderful care of him,’ said Marcus. ‘I wish she was still around to take care of me. On second thoughts, I’d prefer a young Errol Flynn.’

I was desperate to go upstairs to my room. I had an unpleasant feeling that I might cry and I didn’t want to do that in front of Marcus. It seemed tactless.

‘What sort of cancer?’ I asked because I thought I should.

‘Do you really want to know? Does it make a difference?’

‘No. I hope you’re not in pain.’

‘I’m not. Not yet. When I am, I shall take all the drugs. All the exciting new ones that weren’t available when I was young enough to really take advantage.’

‘Excellent plan.’

My chest was starting to ache and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. Marcus reached out and clasped my hand. He was surprisingly strong. He gripped it, stroking my knuckles with his forefinger.

‘I loved you, Fox,’ he said.

And I saw him again as he had been, twenty-nine and sunburned, diving off the rocks and vanishing into the waters as I yelled at the empty sea, only to see him pop up a moment later, spluttering and laughing, as I shouted, furious that he’d frightened me.

He looked frightened now. I was filled with helpless fury. I leaned over and kissed him. His cheek was wet with tears. He clenched my hand more tightly, almost hurting me, and he did not let go for a long time.

—

I did not sleep well. I dreamed of Marcus and Edie. We were sailing in a boat off the Isle of Mull, which was quite wrong as Edie hadn’t been there. We were young again or rather we looked young; I was my present self, yet with my memory of everything that had happened since. It was a sunlit afternoon and I felt unbearably, unconscionably sad. There was no sound except for the slap of water against the wooden hull of the boat. Then they were both gone, leaving me desolate and alone in glorious sunshine.

I woke up with a headache, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. I attempted to pull myself together with a hearty breakfast of coffee and kippers in the club restaurant. Cowardly as it might seem, I couldn’t bear to see Marcus. I ate quickly and left, hoping to avoid him. I spent a quiet morning drifting along St James’s, ordering another half-dozen Oxford shirts from my tailor, and afterwards walked up to Hatchards where I bought a few books that I felt I ought to read but knew I wouldn’t. I still found it terribly hard to concentrate on anything longer or more involved than a newspaper article. Still, the act of purchasing the books made me feel better, as though by owning them I would be better informed, even if I never opened their covers.

I ate a lonely lunch at a dreary restaurant and returned to the club for an indulgent snooze. I thus managed to dawdle through the hours until Robin’s not-audition, and at three o’clock climbed in a taxi to take me to the television studio. I’d been before, back in the days when classical performances were still occasionally televised, but, to my shock, I calculated that I’d not been for nearly twenty years. Everything had changed. I barely recognised the building and thought for a moment that the driver had brought me to the wrong place. Inside everything was white like in an upmarket dentist’s surgery, while a barrage of television screens displayed the shows currently being broadcast. I’d never watched any of them.

I gave my name to a girl behind the reception desk and on receiving a plastic identity pass was herded along a maze of neon-bright corridors to a studio. It was much larger than I’d been led to expect after yesterday’s meeting, and I was surprised to find an audience of more than fifty people milling along raked rows of seating. The technical crew were busy with lighting and cameras at the front. A grand piano stood at the centre, a constellation of lights, cameras and electrical cables all around it.

I felt distinctly apprehensive. I glanced about for Robin or Clara but couldn’t see them. Noticing a girl with a headset, I introduced myself.

‘Hello, I’m Robin Bennet’s grandfather. I’d very much like to see him before the – well, the whatever this is,’ I said.

The girl smiled at me and mumbled something into her headset.

‘You’re the prodigy’s grandpa?’ she asked after a moment.

I winced, then nodded.

She mumbled again. Clearly the invisible voice gave her some instruction, as she turned to me, saying, ‘Will you come with me, my lovely? You must be thrilled. Gosh, it’s so exciting.’

We hurried along yet more white corridors – God knew how people found their way around such a place – until we reached a black door and I was shown into Robin’s dressing room. I ruffled his hair and shook his hand. He was always very particular about not being kissed by anyone other than his mother, who was permitted to on special occasions.

‘Have you asked to speak to one of the three musketeers from yesterday about all of this?’ I asked Clara.

‘No? Do you think I should?’

A child-sized dinner suit hung from a clothes rail.

‘He’s supposed to wear this.’

Robin looked from the suit to his mother with growing horror.

‘Yes. I think you should speak to someone,’ I said. ‘This is a bit much.’

Before I could gather whether or not Clara agreed with me, Ralph entered, holding paper cups of coffee and a carton of juice for Robin. ‘Well, isn’t this exciting?’ he announced with too much bravado.

‘Grandpa?’ said Robin.

‘What is it?’ I asked, pulling up a chair beside him. ‘You can play if you want to, but if you’ve changed your mind that’s perfectly all right.’

‘I want to play,’ said Robin. ‘I really, really want to play.’

‘Well, that’s settled,’ said Ralph, practically rubbing his hands.

‘Is there lots of people out there?’ asked Robin.

‘Yes,’ I said. I’d never seen the point in lying to performers. They’d see for themselves soon enough and it was always better to be prepared, either way. ‘I think there’s more than fifty in the audience and then, with the crew, it might be nearly a hundred.’

He looked terrified. In hindsight, perhaps I ought to have fibbed – he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell the number under the glare of the lights.

‘You don’t have to play,’ said Clara.

‘I do. I do,’ shouted Robin, looking as if he was about to cry.

I noticed that he’d developed a large stye on his left eye, which was puffy and bloodshot. He blinked and rubbed it.

‘Stop it, darling. I’ve told you not to touch it,’ said Clara.

He nodded and rubbed it again, smearing yellow ointment all over his sleeve. My grandson was not looking his best.

Clara found another headset-wearing young person and asked to speak to one of the producers. Ten minutes later Mike appeared.

‘How are you all feeling? Excited?’

‘Itchy,’ said Robin, rubbing his eye again.

‘We have a few questions,’ said Clara. ‘There seem to be a vast number of people. More than we were expecting.’

‘We like to have quite a few bums on seats. It adds to the atmosphere of the test,’ said Mike.

‘So it’s a test now,’ I said, feeling cross. ‘Not an audition but a test.’

‘A screen test,’ corrected Mike. ‘But really it’s just a fabulous opportunity for Robin to play in a different environment without the pressure of performing on live TV.’ He turned and grinned at Robin with too-white teeth. ‘The thing to remember is that everyone out there is on your side. Most of them all work right here. They all want to love you, OK?’

‘Is it only Robin who’s performing?’ I asked. It seemed unlikely they’d go to all this trouble for one child – no matter how precocious.

Mike hesitated a moment too long. ‘There’s a blind opera singer, and a bus driver who plays the bassoon. And there’s also Keira, the little girl from yesterday. I don’t know if you guys got chatting? She’s also a pianist,’ he added brightly.

I smelled a rat. I drew Mike to one side. ‘I can’t imagine that you’ve room for two young piano players on your television show?’

Mike smiled his white smile and did not meet my eye. ‘Nothing is decided yet,’ he said, glancing at his phone. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to dash. See you out there. You’ll be great, Robin.’

We lingered in the sweltering dressing room, listening to the ineffectual roar of the air conditioner. Clara helped Robin into his dinner suit. The sleeves were too long and the cuffs dangled below his wrists.

‘That’s no good at all,’ I said. ‘They’ll get in the way of him playing.’

I sat down so that I was eye to eye with Robin. ‘Can you stretch your arms out for me? How does your jacket feel?’

He wiggled about and shrugged.

I sighed. ‘This is perfectly ridiculous. He needs to try the piano. And see whether this awful get-up interferes with his playing.’

I glanced down at him. He’d now succeeded in getting yellow eye-ointment all over the dinner jacket.

‘Robin, darling,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to do what they say. I think you should simply play in your jeans and your T-shirt. You’ll be much more comfortable and it will be terribly hot out there under the lights.’

He frowned. ‘Can’t. I have to wear this, Grandpa. This is what proper piano players wear. If I do good, then I’ll get to play in Carn Higgy Hall.’

Clara smiled but I only felt tired. ‘Well, you’ve already played at Hartgrove Hall and I think that’s perfectly good enough for the time being.’

This was everything I’d been dreading. For the first time in more than a year, Robin was anxious and self-conscious. Silly ideas about outfits and appearances at concert halls were distracting him at a time when he ought to be playing at home or with his teacher for the simple joy of discovering music. Instead he fidgeted in his shiny suit, hopping from foot to foot like a circus ringmaster who needed to pee.

Another young person muttering into a walkie-talkie appeared.

‘Hiya, Robin, all set?’

He gave a small, formal nod.

‘I’m going to take your family out front now but they’ll all be watching, cheering you on.’

Clara and Ralph hugged the small figure who stood stiffly, receiving their good wishes with quiet acquiescence.

‘Forget everyone,’ I said. ‘No one matters. It’s just you and the piano like at home. Afterwards we’ll go for milkshakes.’

‘OK.’

As we walked away, Clara close to tears – I’m afraid I was for once rather out of sympathy with my daughter – we heard the woman say to Robin, ‘It would be lovely if you could run up and give the presenter a hug before you play.’

I glanced at Clara and shook my head in exasperation. Robin really wasn’t a casual-hugging kind of child. Demonstrations of affection were rare, spontaneous and limited to immediate family or, after playing Beethoven, his piano teacher.

We were allocated seats at the front of the raked section. A table for the judges had been set up but the famous people from the television show were not there at all. Instead, three stand-ins sat in the chairs with signs round their necks, stating the names of the celebrities they were supposed to represent. I found the whole thing perfectly ridiculous. Mike, Ellie and Jocasta lurked near the cameras, chatting intensely. Clara sat between Ralph and me, pale with anxiety. Even Ralph appeared tense, his foot tap-tapping on the floor.

Mike came to the front and spoke to the audience, informing us when to clap. We sat and we waited. Then Robin appeared, blinking against the lights and rubbing his sore eye. He did not hug anyone. Neither did he smile. He looked serious and grim-faced. Clara had slathered some dreadful junk into his hair, supposedly to smooth his curls, but instead it made it appear greasy and unwashed. He walked straight over to the piano, piled up the cushions on the leather stool and sat down. I realised immediately that they were far too slippery. Before he had even started to play, it was quite clear that he was struggling not to fall off. He hopped down, picked up the cushions again, and rearranged the pile as the audience laughed indulgently. The laughter was kind, but Robin was obviously unsettled.

He sat at the keyboard, shifting and trying not to slide off again, then closed his eyes. I knew that he was trying to shut out the world and will himself back to the hush of the music room at Hartgrove Hall, to conjure the vast mullioned windows with their view of the lawns and the grey lake, and the smell of cedarwood and dust. I watched his shoulders soften. Perhaps he would be all right. He raised his hands to the keys and started to play, more hesitant than usual, but after a few bars he relaxed and Brahms’s Rhapsody in B minor rippled across the audience. I felt the collective intake of breath, the sense of wonder that this small person was producing this sound. In a minute or two they would forget that too and simply listen, lost.

But then Robin’s sleeves slithered down over his hands. He fumbled with a crash of chords and stopped. The audience giggled. Ralph swore and Clara went so white that I thought she was going to be sick. There was a dreadful silence while Robin sat, fumbling with his cuffs, but while the boy was a marvel at the piano, he couldn’t manage a stiff button under duress. This was simply ghastly. I couldn’t bear it.

I stood and strode over to the stage. A large man in a black T-shirt tried to block my way.

‘Move aside,’ I snapped in my best conductor’s voice.

The man drew back in surprise. I climbed up onto the stage and stood beside Robin.

‘Hello, old chap,’ I said softly. ‘Having a spot of bother?’

Robin was trying valiantly not to cry. ‘I think I’d like very much to go home.’

‘I quite understand. But perhaps we should play something since we’re here.’

I knew that we couldn’t leave just yet. I wouldn’t allow him to feel that his first appearance was a total failure. Since we were on a stage beneath the lights and before an audience, he needed to experience the pleasure of performance, of weaving a spell over his listeners, even if only for a minute.

‘Let’s take your jacket off.’

Meekly, he allowed me to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves so that they no longer interfered with his playing.

‘Now play a couple of scales, just to be certain that you’re quite comfortable.’

He did as I suggested and nodded. Mike appeared at my elbow.

‘Everything OK, folks?’

‘Leave us alone,’ I snapped. ‘We’ll play when we’re ready.’

He left, muttering something under his breath.

I succeeded in raising the piano stool and found the least slippery of the cushions.

‘Will you stay with me, Grandpa?’

‘Of course.’

‘And will you do the pedals?’

‘All right.’

His legs were too short to reach the pedals, and he liked it sometimes when I sat beside him and managed them on his behalf. I squeezed in beside him and waited for him to begin.

He played well – remarkably well for a child of his age – but usually he played well for anyone and no caveats mentioning his tender years were necessary. His playing was extraordinary, not so much for his technical skill but for the emotion he conveyed. I always felt that Robin played from inside the music. But that afternoon, in the television studio, he did not. His performance was self-contained and inhibited. Before the audience he neither felt the same emotions nor conveyed anything much to his listeners beyond the bare notes. The audience was appreciative and applauded with abandon – but I knew that they were clapping a circus act. They would have done the same if a dog had thumped out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ with its paws – they could not tell Robin was an astounding musician. I understood the problem. Robin usually played for himself alone. Until that excruciating afternoon he’d had no interest in communicating his music to anyone else. He had never experienced an audience before, only eavesdroppers, and he was not ready to let anyone else in.

As the applause faded, Robin was led back to his dressing room. I followed but, after his parents arrived, I returned to the studio and hovered at the back behind the cameras. The young girl from yesterday was waiting to perform. She looked terribly pretty, a nodding peony in a flouncy pink frock, her black hair plaited into pigtails. In one hand she clutched her teddy bear – dressed in an outfit matching her own. As she was given her cue, she rushed over to the stand-in presenter, hugging her tightly.

‘Would you like to see me play the piano backwards?’ she asked the pretend judges, smiling, two perfect dimples appearing in the middle of each rosy cheek like a clever magic trick.

‘Yes, please,’ said one of the judges at the table. Mike and Jocasta gave a thumbs-up.

I noticed that a special raised piano stool had been brought in – no tumbling off cushions for this child – and she perched carefully with her back to the keyboard. Reaching around, she played a ditty. It was a neat trick. Silly but the audience roared its approval.

‘How about upside down?’ she asked.

The audience applauded as she lay on the piano stool and stretched up to tinkle on the keys. It was the sort of thing I’d have done in years gone by to entertain my own brothers, but it was a trick for other children, not a display for adults. But again the audience whooped. I felt unutterably drained. This was not my world.

Mike stepped forward, clapping. ‘That was great fun, Keira. Now, will you play us something?’

‘I’d love to,’ she replied, dimples reappearing like cherries on a Belgian bun.

This I was interested to witness. She sat down carefully at the piano and, after a studied pause, launched into Chopin. Her teacher had chosen well. The piece was fast and her technical ability was reasonably good, masking the coldness of her playing. Everything lay in neat rows, tidy and characterless. At the end of the first movement, I had no more knowledge of her personality than I had at the start. Yet her performance was accomplished. She smiled and swayed as she played, creating an elaborate illusion of engagement. She chattered sweetly at the end of the piece and, when she dropped her music during her curtsey, let out a little ‘Oops-a-daisy’ and giggled, to the audience’s delight. She wasn’t half the musician that I knew Robin to be, but she was a consummate performer.

As she made her teddy bear bow to the judges’ table, I knew with quiet certainty that the producers would not choose Robin to be on their television show.

—

I was correct in my assessment. After an hour Mike popped by the dressing room to inform us. Robin was devastated.

‘But I’m better than her,’ he sobbed after Mike had left. ‘I heard her before and I’m better.’

‘You are better,’ I said. ‘But you don’t want to play on a silly television show.’

‘I do want to play on a silly show. I do. I do.’

He lapsed into hiccuping sobs as Clara rubbed his back. Ralph sat at the dressing table in the corner, saying nothing at all.

‘You play the piano wonderfully, Robin,’ I said. ‘But you don’t know how to play the audience.’

He gazed at me blankly through a fog of snot and tears. His swollen eye streamed.

‘Will you teach me?’ he asked.

‘No, I won’t,’ I said and he began to cry again.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Daddy,’ said Clara, which I thought was a cheek, considering all I’d put up with.

‘Let’s go and have some ice cream,’ I said.

‘I think you were marvellous,’ insisted Clara, rumpling his hair.

I took them to Claridge’s. Ralph had a supper meeting, or so he said. I suspected he wished to avoid me and my disapproval. We sat in an elegant salon amongst ladies taking late-afternoon tea. Robin looked happier after his second chocolate ice cream while Clara looked happier after her second glass of Chardonnay. I was exhausted by it all and desperate to go home to Dorset. Clara chattered on soothingly about how it was all good experience and how of course he’d play Carnegie Hall one day. I wished she’d stop. I knew it was all kindly meant – she wanted to comfort him, but she offered promises that were not hers to make. When she declared that she was certain he’d play all the great concert halls and that he would, in time, love playing before an audience, she meant only that she wished it. None of us knew; we merely hoped.

I remained cantankerous and thoroughly out of sorts. I worried that they’d stolen something from Robin, something that I’d need to work hard to help him recover: the simple and unconscious joy of playing for one’s own pleasure. I watched as Robin shook his head politely: no, he didn’t want more ice cream or any more pop to drink. He didn’t want to stay up late and watch cartoons or any of the cornucopia of treats Clara offered him. I looked at my grandson and understood. He had an ache inside, but ice cream wouldn’t ease it.

‘Come,’ I said, standing and holding out my hand.

Robin took it and trotted out of the room with me. I led him through the glitzy ocean liner of an entrance hall, past the reception desk with its fleet of uniformed staff, and ushered him into the restaurant. It was not quite six o’clock and there were no diners. The glittering room had that empty, expectant air, like a concert hall before the arrival of the audience. Waiters checked place settings. The sommelier sailed towards us.

‘My apologies, sir. The dining room is not yet open. If I could make you a reservation for later on?’

‘Another time perhaps. May we borrow the piano for a minute or two?’

He studied us for a moment and then smiled. ‘Of course, please.’

I led Robin over to the grand piano. I avoided coming here if I could. It reminded me too much of Edie. This was one of our places and it had not altered very much since our first visit. The grand dining room remained an art deco delight; every wall was mirrored so that the room twinkled and glinted. Waiters flitted from table to table, lighting candles so that in the dozens of mirrors each flame became a constellation.

‘Sit down at the keyboard and close your eyes.’

Robin did as I asked.

‘Now, pretend we’re at home. It’s only us.’

He opened his eyes and glanced at the gliding waiters in their black and white.

‘Don’t mind them. They’re not in the least bit interested in you.’

He closed his eyes again.

‘Let your mind drift. Let music drift into you like water.’

Apparently unaware of what he was doing, Robin raised his hands to the keyboard and, after a minute, began to play. He played as if he were in a dream. Beethoven’s Little Appassionata seeped into the room, filling it with drowsy colour. The waiters stopped fussing around the place settings and paused, unable to do anything but listen. The door opened and I saw Clara slip inside. I noticed two guests peer into the room after her, drawn to the music like moths.

I walked over and said quietly, ‘The dining room opens at seven,’ shooing them away. I did not want them to see that it was a child playing the piano.

Firmly closing the door behind them, I turned to Clara. ‘One day we’ll open the door and he can hear the applause. One day, but not yet.’