A Parachute in the Lime Tree (11 page)

When she had finished playing, she sat there for a moment, dazed, as though she’d swum too deeply underwater and had almost forgotten that there was a surface to it at all.

‘You’re freezing, Elsa,’ Lottie said when she got back to her seat. ‘Look, you’re shaking like a leaf.’ She shoved the hot water bottle onto Elsa’s lap. Gradually, she was able to make sense of the random sounds in the hall, a dry cough, the rustle of a sweet paper, a child’s whine. She was aware, too, that people were looking at her. A man who was leaning against the wall smiled at her. One woman pointed her out to her friend. The next competitor seemed agitated, standing at the side of the stage while she mouthed something at a woman in the audience who appeared to be telling her to hurry along.

‘Poor thing, having to play after you,’ Lottie said, pinching Elsa playfully on the arm.

Winning made her happy, until she reminded herself that she was Elsa Frankel from Berlin who had no right to be happy. Lottie was happy, though, and she raised Elsa’s arm like a prizefighter’s, until she was able to shuffle it back down again.

The rain was tumbling from the gutters, rushing through the drainpipes outside the lecture room windows. It was hard to believe it was still raining, thought Charlie. It seemed to have rained all month long. Professor O’Malley stood before a large anatomical chart, cane in hand, his tweed waistcoat buttoned tight across his belly. He traced the route of the phrenic nerve on his endless journey through the byways of the human heart. The cluster of ducts and paths and lines was like a little life, pulsing with alternatives.

Charlie ached to be done with his studies, to leap out into the real world and find his own way. He knew that sometimes the way opened up for a man without his giving it a moment’s thought. Forging one’s own path was a finer thing, he believed. He admired the lad who would prospect in a river, join a wagon trail, travel far in search of new things.

At home in Foynes, he often marvelled at the flying boats coming in to land. Once, he stood and watched the people disembark. There was a sheen to those people; they seemed warmed by a different sun. It seemed a miraculous thing, to take to the sky in such a machine and then to step onto land again in another place entirely.

He glanced around at his fellow students. Many were doctor’s sons, just like he was himself. There was Ringrose, Des Hennessy, and two or three more in the immediate vicinity. It wasn’t that they’d been conscripted into medicine: not exactly, not like those blighters in the North who might be conscripted soon enough into the fight. Most were there willingly. All the same, he wondered how widely his fellow students had looked around for an alternative.

When the lecture was over, students clustered at the front door. Bobby Coyle and Des Hennessy were lighting up, their backs bent against the driving rain.

‘I reckon the golf’s off,’ said Bobby. ‘It’ll be a bog out in Portmarnock.’

The three of them headed off towards O’Neill’s, where, on race days, Bobby used one of the snugs as his office, fielding queries and dispensing tips. Charlie whistled through his teeth as they barrelled along Grafton Street, heads down against the rain. ‘There’s no bloody end to this weather. I tell you, when this is over, I’m off to the Transvaal like a shot.’

‘You’ll be taking up the German, so,’ said Bobby. ‘The way your man Rommel is headed, it’s German they’ll be speaking there by the time the war’s over.’

‘All I know is I’ve seen enough rain to last me a lifetime.’

‘It’s a whole new kettle of fish out there,’ said Des. ‘Dengue fever and dysentery and God knows what. There’ll be a deal more book-learning before you’re any use out in Africa.’

‘How’s the volunteering, Bobby?’

‘Not a bother.’

‘Not a rifle, more like.’

‘Well we’ve a new lot of Springfields arrived last week. We’d give them a run for their money anyhow. Mind you, it’s patchy.’ Bobby dragged the base of his glass back and forward over the beer mat. ‘In some places, it’s just a farce.’ He took a swig from the pint.

‘I heard about one unit up in Dundalk. All they had was a couple of powder-and-ball efforts. Last seen action in 1798.’

‘Sure that’s nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘I knew a lad was given a blunderbuss. Fellow says he felt like Captain Hook. Just shows you, whatever MacNeill might think with his Division up there facing North, the British could walk over the border tomorrow if they wanted to. Knife through butter.’

Charlie wondered if Bobby really believed that anyone could defend Ireland if it came to the bit. But Bobby had moved off the subject. By now, he was preoccupied with the arcane ailments that seemed constantly to plague his horses. Des was telling him he’d be better off in the veterinary field, and it was clear that even Bobby could see he had a point.

Now that the golf was off, Charlie was at a loose end. He had little time for the horses himself, and his eye lit on a Feis Ceoil poster pinned to the snug door. He could hardly believe it was that time of year already; the spring weather had been so bad. He’d always enjoyed a bit of music, even though he’d refused point blank to learn the piano with his sisters. Singing, that was more his style. He had a light tenor voice and lately he’d been going along to the Rathmines and Rathgar. Billy Fitz had told him they were always short of tenors and that there was a great social life to be had, with so many girls in the chorus. There seemed to be three classes on this afternoon, one of them for
Lieder
. He had a soft spot for a bit of
Lieder
and he remembered then that a chap from the Society, Ulick perhaps, had entered one of the singing classes at the Feis. More than likely, there’d be a crowd there to cheer him on. Charlie made his mind up there and then, and the thought that he’d escaped an afternoon exploring the left ventricle cheered him up no end.

He left the others poring over the afternoon’s runners at the Phoenix Park and crossed the river to the hall in Abbey Street where the Feis was being held. When he got there, the hall was already full and he had to stand in one of the side aisles. On the stage, a trestle table was laid with a thick velvet cloth. There was a row of highly polished trophies and an extravagant arrangment of lilies. On one side, an accompanist was sorting through sheet music in preparation for the next competitor. On the other, two ladies in kilts took turns to change the competitor numbers displayed on a wooden easel. The adjudicator was an elderly man with a face like a weasel. Seated on a raised
platform in the centre of the hall, he presided like an ugly little god. On his desk was a flat round bell, which he slapped now and then with the palm of his hand.

The first singer had a pinched face and wore a tight-knotted tartan tie. The adjudicator tapped the bell after a few bars, which struck Charlie as unnecessarily brusque, even for a reprise. It was only when Ulick sauntered out onto the stage, and a great whoop went up, that Charlie realised that half the Society seemed to be up there in the front few rows. Ulick gave someone the thumbs up, then settled his gaze on the middle distance as he prepared to sing. The adjudicator gave Ulick no more than a raised eyebrow for his trouble; another R&R man got no discernible reaction at all. In the case of one plump little man with prominent teeth, the adjudicator rubbed irritably at the end of his thin nose, as though he was allergic to the sound the man was producing.

Charlie’s concentration wandered to a trio of girls on the other side of the aisle. He wondered if they were pianists; they were sitting with their hands on hot water bottles wrapped in large ragged towels. The younger two might have been twins, with their long thin faces. The third girl, though, was older. Eighteen, maybe even twenty like he was himself. The two younger girls began to giggle as the little adjudicator mounted the stage and cleared his throat with elaborate emphasis. But it was the girl nearest the end of the row that Charlie wanted to see. He craned his neck to get a better look. Her thick hair fell around her in heavy waves. On each side, a lock was drawn back, and they were tied at the crown of her head in a long blue ribbon. She looked delicate, too pale to be healthy. A little anaemic, perhaps. Her eyebrows, which formed a single heavy line over the bridge of her nose, gave her an appearance of intense concentration.

The adjudicator waxed lyrical for such a weaselly looking man. He said the standard of performance easily surpassed
anything he’d experienced at festivals across the water. There was a collective murmur at this; the little god had hit the right note. Charlie was more interested in the girl. He imagined her consulting him at the surgery, coughing delicately but fatally. She caught him gaping at her, and it was a moment before he realised that the man being presented with the prize was none other than Ulick himself. Acknowledging his supporters, he spotted Charlie and saluted. The girl decided Charlie was worth a second look. She smiled this time, now that he was a winner’s friend.

‘Would all competitors for the Esposito competition for pianoforte please form a queue with their entry cards to the side of the stage.’

He didn’t know a great deal about the piano and after a couple of performances he wondered why he was sacrificing his drink with Ulick and the others. But then the girl with the blue ribbon left her seat. She looked like she was used to this game; she bowed as she reached centre stage, then took as long as she needed to settle herself at the piano. She fiddled with the knobs on either side of the stool to adjust the height, then flexed her fingers over the keys. Charlie felt for those fingers. He wondered were they still warm enough or had she been sitting in the wings so long that the benefit of the hot water bottle had worn off. He held his breath as her hands seemed to hover over the keys a moment before plunging down into melody.

By the time she had finished playing, even the little ladies in the kilts who marked off the competitors were gawking up at the stage. A woman in a brown pillbox hat who’d been knitting furiously throughout the singing class had laid the knitting to one side. When she stopped playing, the girl herself seemed dazed. As she rose from the stool, she gripped onto the side of the piano to steady herself. Her two young companions – sisters maybe – clapped energetically and the hall was alive with gasps and excited chatter.

He overheard the usher remark to the woman with the knitting, ‘They’re quare piano players. There’s no bating them at that caper.’

Charlie didn’t take in either of the performances that followed hers. The result was a foregone conclusion anyway. When the adjudicator presented the girl with a large silver urn, he lost sight of her face a moment and found himself straining to catch her again. He searched for her name in the programme and by the time he looked up, Elsa Frankel had left the stage and the adjudicator was presenting second and third place medals. The aisles were clogged with competitors arriving for the next class. There was no way of getting through and he watched the three girls disappear through the back door. He was mad at himself for not having gone over there when he’d had the chance. He could have paid her a compliment, instead of just staring at her like she was something in a specimen jar.

That evening, back in his digs, Charlie was restless. There wasn’t much room to pace but he couldn’t sit still. While he recited to himself the anatomy of the heart, he marched back and forwards across the space between his narrow bed and the desk he’d moved to face the window. Once he had it off pat, he threw himself onto the bed and all the springs twanged. All he could think of was Elsa Frankel: who she was and where he could find her again. He ran a bath without getting Mrs Curran’s permission and scrubbed vigorously at his back to get the circulation going. Even after he’d soaked in the bath for so long that Mrs Curran came banging on the bathroom door, he still felt agitated. Despite the banging, he lay on in the water and contemplated his wrinkled fingertips. He wished he knew the name of the piece she played. It was beautiful, but it was also the saddest thing he’d ever heard. Like a great snowy plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see.

Next morning, Charlie ate the breakfast that Mrs Curran made him every day, winter or summer: fried eggs with crispy edges, sausages, rashers, white pudding, black pudding. The only other lodger, another Surgeons man, had left at the end of the Michaelmas term but Mrs Curran still served up the same quantity of food. He’d no idea where she managed to get all the eggs and pork, unless she had people down the country with a farm. When he asked her once, she just tapped the side of her nose and bustled off again. He didn’t really want it but he hadn’t the heart to tell her that. Once he’d hinted that she really didn’t need to cook every morning but she wouldn’t have it. ‘It’s all included in the price, Mr Byrne. Room
and
board.’

So, each morning, he ate what he could. He drank the strong tea awkwardly because his fingers were too large to fit into the delicate handles on Mrs Curran’s pink and gilt cups. She never sat down for breakfast herself, but shuttled between kitchen and breakfast room, munching on morsels from the sideboard, relaying the latest news from the wireless she kept on the kitchen shelf.

‘More bombs, Mr Byrne.’ She’d just offered him more toast, so it took a moment for the word to register with him. He looked up to see her neat barrel of a body disappear through the kitchen door. Her head protruded through the hatch in the wall. ‘Belfast, Mr Byrne. Bombed again.’

Mrs Curran was a woman of few words. Charlie thought she might be from the North herself. ‘You don’t have people up there, do you Mrs Curran?’

‘Indeed I do not,’ she said and bustled off.

They said no more about bombs and Charlie headed off towards the college. The news of Belfast left him feeling melancholy as he walked towards St Stephen’s Green. The day was fine; a season away from the day before. His first lecture was not for an hour, so he stopped and bought a copy of
The Irish Times
in the hope of finding a report on the previous day’s competitons at the Feis. He went into the Green and sat for a while on a bench by the duck pond, skimming through the pages.