Prelude (10 page)

The right hand already knows what it’s doing and even the left hand is competent. But when I put the two together the difficulty factor grows exponentially. It’s like a complex version of that challenge of patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time. My brain issues different orders for both left and right hand and somewhere along the way the commands get mangled in my nerve endings. Time and again my fingers can do nothing more than stutter over the notes, trembling with indecision.

It is a seemingly endless round of repeating the right hand notes, the left hand notes, and then trying—and failing—to put them together.

Any other time, it might have been dispiriting. But I am at prayer and, when you are truly at worship, you are not even aware of the minutes and hours as they tick by.

My eyes are screwed up, a deep furrow on my brow as I try to make the fingering work better. Always with Bach it’s down to the fingering. If you don’t get that right from the start, you don’t stand a chance.

I’m concentrating so hard that I don’t even notice the knock at the door. I look up and India is already in the practice room, is walking towards me with that knowing smile, and in her hands are two steaming mugs of coffee. I was in awe—as if the Virgin Mary had suddenly appeared in person from behind the altar.

“Thought you could do with a break.” India skirts round the side of the grand piano and hands me a mug. “Are you white without?”

“Thank you.” That is all I can say.

“Cheers.” She slides light as gossamer into the armchair next to the piano.

Her eyes lock onto mine and all I can do is drink. It is a taste explosion. In four years at Eton I had never drunk anything but powdered coffee straight from the jar. This was the real thing.

“What have I been missing?” I say.

It seems as if her face is forever on the verge of breaking into laughter. “Freshly ground coffee,” she says. “I made up a thermos.”

I took another sip. “Fantastic.”

“Do you know the best part?” She cups the mug between her manicured fingers. “It’s making the coffee in the morning. Pouring in the beans, grinding them up. The smell’s better than the taste. Try it some time.”

“I will.”

After the first rush, I am starting to come down. I take in India’s clothes. A long, white cotton dress, brown leather sandals, and hair that gleams in the afternoon light. Simple, devastating beauty, and all I can do is gawk and nurse my coffee.

“Have you tried it black?”

I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

India leans over and stretches out her mug. For the most fleeting of moments I have a glimpse of her cleavage. Down my eyes dart and the image of pert breasts, tanned and cupped snug in a white lace bra, is freeze-framed in my memory.

“Thank you.” I accept her mug. As I bring it to my mouth, I can see the slight trace of her lipstick on the rim. I place my own lips on the same spot and sip. The taste of the black coffee is a kick to the roof of my mouth—tart and acrid, like a shot of raw spirit.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have it any other way again.”

“Don’t go overboard like you did with
The Well-Tempered
Clavier
.”

All I can do is smile, for I am so smitten with this woman that my brain has stalled.

I return her coffee cup. The electric thrill of her fingers. But something more than that—the dull throb of a warning bell. I look over to the door.

“Somebody there?” she asks.

“Don’t know.”

But I do know. For an instant I have seen Savage standing at the window, glowering in impotent rage as he watched us drink coffee together.

How he would come to hate me for it.

“It wasn’t that tall popper?”

“Don’t think so.” I try to sound smooth, easy.

“Sometimes it feels like he’s stalking me.”

India leans back, looking at me over the rim of her mug. There is nothing but silence, each of us alone with our thoughts, I wondering what’s on her mind, and she reading me like an open book.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says. “You were very kind the other day.” She nods to herself, musing. “Brave, too.”

“The least I could do.” I’m on autopilot, incapable of proper thought. On the surface, I appear to be having a normal conversation with the world’s most beautiful woman.

India is still looking at me, but her eyes are far away. “I don’t know why I play that piece any more. It always makes me cry.”

“I loved it.”

She sweeps back her hair over her shoulder and for a moment she looks far older than her years, as if just the memory of the music has aged her.

“Memories,” she says. “My music is an album of my past. Every piece comes with its own memory.” India stands up, opens a window and also the one next to it. For a few seconds, the room is filled with the sound of another Jumbo flying to Heathrow on the Eton flight-path. It’s a deafening roar, matching the rush of blood to my cheeks as India sweeps over to sit next to me at the piano.

“Move over,” she says. “Let’s see what you’re at.”

She hums the music as she scans it. My mind is descending into the abyss of total meltdown. It has become a mental reflex whenever India comes within a yard of me.

But there’s something different too. A new scent, not lily-of-the-valley but something more sharp, lemon and limey. I hesitate to go there. Could it be a man’s perfume?

My eyes sweep down to India’s fingers. She’s still wearing that diamond solitaire on her right hand. Does she have a boyfriend? Of course she has a boyfriend, or a lover, or someone at least to keep her warm in the cool of the night. How could it be possible that she has not been snapped up years ago?

But to that question, I don’t think I will ever know the answer.

I lick up the honey and ask no questions.

India starts to play the piece, both hands, a little slower than I remember it from the record, but note perfect. I can only sit with hands in my lap and marvel at the bounty that she bestows on me.

Very softly, she starts to talk. But it’s strange because, although her fingers are focused on the prelude, her mind is on something else altogether.

“I’ve never been surrounded by so many people before,” she says. “I’ve never been so lonely.”

I stare at the music. If only I could think of something sympathetic to say. But Eton is not the place to learn soft words for when someone bares their soul.

Her fingers continue to trip through the music. The rigid beat of the prelude has become the one fixed point in our firmament while all about us everything falls to pieces.

“I don’t know what I expected when I came to Eton. But I never expected anything like this.”

I can’t breathe for fear of breaking the flow. I stare at my faded blue jeans. A piece of dried egg crusting on my knee; grease marks at the ankle.

“Sometimes I imagine I’m a zoo animal.” For a second she turns from the music to stare at me, though still she keeps playing. “All by myself in a cage, with food and water and various ways of passing the time. Every day a thousand outlandish visitors come to inspect me. They look and they talk, but none of them are allowed to touch.”

“I thought it was the boys who were the zoo animals.”

The spell is broken. She looks again at the music. “What am I complaining about? I can check out any time I want— but you can never leave.”

“Nice line for a song.”

She sniggers, the first time I’ve seen her laugh like a schoolgirl. “I’ve been listening to
Hotel California
too much.” She plays the final bar, holding the last notes with the pedal. “I wonder what Bach would make of The Eagles.”

“I wonder what The Eagles would make of Bach.”

“Good.” She’s laughing now, leaning forward, head in her hands. It is infectious. For me, it’s like a dam-burst. Five, six weeks of keeping everything in, holding it together, trying to stop myself from falling at India’s feet.

At first I allow myself a little sly grin, pleased with my feeble witticism, then it’s a chuckle, a laugh, and then I catch sight of India. She’s shaking, shaking with laughter. I don’t ever recall seeing anyone like this before. Red in the face and her lips peeled back to reveal every one of her white teeth, and, for the first time in my life, I am howling with laughter, laughing at her, at Bach, at Eton, at the whole ridiculousness of it all, and the tears are streaming down my cheeks. But where once I might have been mortified, it now feels natural to be crying in front of India.

She rocks backwards and forwards, catches a glimpse of my scarlet face and wet cheeks, and lets out a shriek of release, and our laughter is so loud that the room is awash with yelping noise. But I don’t have a care; I’m hardly aware that our knees are touching, that she’s holding my hands, and that every time we catch each other’s eye we both break into a fresh peel of laughter.

I don’t know how long it goes on for. Anything could set us off. My stomach muscles ache from laughter, ache as if they’d been physically pummelled, and, when we are finally spent, we are still tittering at the memory.

The most incredible release—better, I think, than sex. That kind of wild infectious laughter can never be planned, can only come naturally. I’ve had many memorable lovemaking sessions, but the number of times that I have laughed like that, laughed till my throat was hoarse and my muscles ached? I can count them on the fingers of one hand.

India’s face is flushed and she’s still giggling as she wipes away the last of her tears. “The nicest thing to happen to me all year.” She retrieves the coffee mugs. “I’ll never forget it.”

Nor I.

And that is how I will always remember India, with tears in her eyes and a laugh so exuberant that it could draw the birds from the trees. Not for me the memories of the dog days when India was beset by the past and trying to cope with my rabid jealousy, or even those flickered moments of sexual ecstasy on her face.

For me, the way that I would always like to remember India is of her on that lazy summer afternoon, next to me at the grand piano, and with that bewitching laugh that defied even the Gods to blight her happiness.

PRELUDE 3,

C-sharp Major

I WAS FIDDLING with my bowtie. But it was finicky, like tying a knot behind your back.

In theory I knew exactly what to do. But the practice of tying a white bowtie with my neck corseted into a starched wing-collar was tortuous. It was like my hands were in mittens, my grubby fingers tweaking and poking until I was left with nothing but a limp rag round my neck. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and I was still nowhere. The once pristine bowtie was sweat-grey at the edges.

I was going to be late, I knew it. I charged to Jeremy’s room where he was pinning a dyed-blue carnation to his tailcoat.

He raised his eyebrows. “Very fetching.”

“You couldn’t finish this damn thing?”

“Of course.”

I sat on the bed as he tugged the knot free and started afresh. “She’ll eat you up the moment she sets eyes on you.”

“We’ll see.”

Jeremy cinched the last piece of the tie home and squared it off. “I suppose you might as well make the most of being allowed to wear a bowtie on the Fourth.” He cupped my cheeks in his hands and kissed me on the forehead. “You’ll blow her out of the water.”

“I can only hope.” I was rushing out of the room now, straining like a greyhound in the traps.

“And what of Angela? And what of India?”

I laughed cheerily. “Those fantasy girls are just going to have to fend for themselves for a few days.”

Yes, indeed they would.

For I was going to Windsor Station to meet the girl who could make my dreams a reality: Estelle.

I know that it makes me sound capricious, that I could so easily switch my allegiances without a second thought. But that is the way of schoolboy fantasies. I still dreamed of India. I still gazed in adoration at Angela in English classes. But it was Estelle who wrote me love letters, Estelle who was available, Estelle who called me up, Estelle who wanted to kiss me, and Estelle who had alluded to doing a lot more besides.

In just under a month of letters and phone calls, our infant relationship had reached a critical mass. When I think of it now, it all seems so quaint, so old-fashioned, that it makes me laugh out loud. For the fact is that, through letters alone, I appeared to have acquired a girlfriend. Nothing had been consummated, no love had been declared, but, as I walked to the station, I did feel like I was on a promise.

I’d been looking forward to it for days. I didn’t quite know what I was going to do when I saw her on the platform, but I knew that I was definitely going to do something. A hug, certainly. A kiss on the cheek? On the lips? I was not sure of the correct etiquette.

The build-up had been intense. I was like a submariner in the week before he returns home to his loved ones. Testosterone was blazing through my system. My beard growth had doubled. I was in a perpetual blue swirl of pheromones.

How I ran.

Flying down the High Street, past Hills and Saunders the photographers, and the various school outfitters, Welsh and Jeffries, New & Lingwood and Tom Brown, then over the Thames bridge and a jink down to the station, my coat streaming behind me like Struwwelpeter’s great, long, red-legged scissor-man.

Eton to Windsor station is about a mile and you can run it in eight minutes if you are in good trim.

But just try it on a summer’s day. Try doing it in waistcoat and thick black tails with a tight, white collar round your neck.

I made it just as Estelle was walking past the ticket collector.

I must have looked like the wild man of the woods, my coiffed hair matted with sweat, tie askew and face like a fat strawberry. Estelle’s jaw just dropped.

The sweat was steaming off me and I could feel it dripping down my face and seeping into my collar.

I cupped my hand round her waist and gave her a damp kiss on the cheek. She didn’t recoil. But she didn’t respond either—it was like her system had shut down at the shock of seeing me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” She took a step back to inspect me. “Been for a swim?”

“Sauna.”

“I thought you had to take your clothes off beforehand.”

“A minor detail that may just have slipped my mind.” I mopped at my forehead, but it made no difference. I was bathed in sweat.

“You look like you could do with a drink.”

“I’d love that.”

How thoughtful Estelle was.

She was a very considerate woman, would have made somebody a wonderful wife. I would love to know what happened to her. But the horrid truth is that, within the day, our little ship would already have foundered on the rocks of my jealous rage.

We went to the station café, where I had lemonade and she had tea. I’d taken off my tailcoat and unbuttoned my waistcoat, and gradually I could feel the breeze start to dry my sodden shirt. And gradually, too, I started to take in the wonder of Estelle, who, after a month of letters, was finally sitting in front of me. She was the perfect epitome of girlhood, with skin as ripe as a downy peach. She just had a trace of lipstick; she didn’t need any makeup to highlight her cheekbones or her lustrous eyes. She just glowed. Sun-kissed hair oozing down her shoulders, a beige two-piece suit, creamy stockings and brown court shoes. A dream.

And the wonder of her was that I could touch her. For the first time in my life, I could do more than just feast my eyes on a girl. I could stretch out my hand and stroke her fingers, or her knee, or her face. I could play with her hair and nuzzle her neck; I could even lean over and kiss those pink lips.

And I did just that. Leaned over and kissed her, my mouth slightly open, hoping for a hint of a reaction. But there was none—no responding pressure, no parting of her lips. We stayed like that for a second before she pulled back.

And the unsettling thing was that Estelle didn’t even allude to it. She carried on with the conversation as if I’d dabbed a piece of lint off her shoulder.

“So tell me about this June the Fourth,” she said. “My mum told me it’s up there with Ascot and Henley.”

“News to me.” I stared at the bottom of my glass, fiddled for the slice of lemon.

“But it’s more than just a school parents’ day . . .”

“I suppose it used to be. Fifty years ago it was a huge Society event. All the blue-bloods would descend on Eton
en
masse
to inspect their sons at play.”

“But why’s it on the fourth of June?” Estelle persisted. “What are we celebrating?”

“George III’s birthday.”

“Was he the founder?”

“No,” I replied. “He just liked the school. He was mad. Apparently he’d walk up and down the High Street chatting to the boys. If he didn’t recognise one, he’d go up and ask them, ‘What’s your name? Who’s your tutor? Who’s your Dame?’ And then, whatever their reply, he would always say, ‘Very good tutor, very good Dame’.”

“And the school liked him so much, they celebrate his birthday every year?”

“He’s also the reason why we all look like apprentice undertakers.”

“Undertakers?” she said. “I was just thinking that you look quite . . . dishy.”

It was then her turn to surprise me. She leaned over and kissed me. For a split second her lips parted and I felt the tip of her tongue dart against my lips.

Satisfied, she leaned back in her chair.

“I’d been hoping you’d do that,” I said.

“Good.” And she did it again, arms snaking round my neck and lips locking to mine, her head tilted to the side as she dabbed her tongue against my teeth.

Extremely erotic. In full public display, with the crowds milling around the station.

I spent a couple of minutes in the toilets, trying to slick down my hair and adjust my uniform, then we walked back to the Timbralls. I carried her overnight bag and every step of the way I had a silly grin plastered to my face, for clutching onto my arm was a prize above all others: a
bona fide
girlfriend. I basked in Estelle’s reflected glory. It was the first time I’d walked down the High Street holding hands with a girl. My girl. There was not a boy, not a master, who could have walked past us and not registered that fact. You can forget stick-ups, bowties, sponge-bag trousers and fancy silk waistcoats. The only status symbol worth having on June the Fourth was a girl on your arm.

The plan was that at noon we’d meet my father and stepmother before they went downstairs for drinks with Frankie. While they tucked into the sherry, Estelle and I would entertain ourselves as best we could.

We’d then all meet up for a picnic and a stroll round the playing fields. After a final Absence at 5.30 p.m., my father would whisk us all back home to Chelsea. Estelle was to be spending the night, and I could only dream of what might happen when my parents were in bed and we had the chance to get better acquainted.

But let’s not jump the gun.

Estelle and I were ambling back to the Timbralls. I gabbled. My hand, damp as an oily flannel, clutched tightly onto Estelle’s fingers.

I pointed out the boys’ houses, the upper chapel, the tuck shop, and Tap, the school pub.

“And there’s the Burning Bush,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, you know . . .” She trailed off.

“You’ve been doing your homework!” I was irrepressible.

She made a smooth recovery. “Hours of it.”

We moved onto other things. But, later, I did recall that conversation. Had she really done her homework? Or had someone told her about the Burning Bush?

Or had she, just by chance, been to Eton before?

When we arrived at my room, I carried Estelle over the threshold as if we were newlyweds. I only wished I’d had a camera to record the exact moment when a woman bounced on my bed for the first time.

“I think I’m going to like it here,” she said.

“Are you going to be a regular fixture?” I sat beside her, arm snug round her waist.

“Might be,” she laughed. “Though you could do something about those posters.”

“If only I had a picture of you.”

“What’s with the Labrador poster?”

“Oh that?” I kissed Estelle’s neck. “Haven’t I mentioned Labradors before?”

“And I’d always taken you for a poodle man.”

“A poodle for pleasure.” I gave her a tickle and she squealed. “But a Labrador for ecstasy.”

She snorted with laughter, and was still snorting when there was a brisk rat-a-tat at the door.

I leapt off the bed and was brushing down my clothes before the door-handle had even turned. Immediately, I could feel my vocal chords constricting, as if my chest were being bound with wrought iron bands.

My parents seemed to fill the room.

My father was in a tweed Savile Row suit, which immaculately disguised the slight paunch he’d acquired since leaving the army. He carried himself as if he were about to be presented to the Queen, back ramrod straight and shoulders squared. Around his mouth and eyes were scores of tell-tale smokers’ wrinkles.

My stepmother was still the svelte society beauty that she’d been ever since I’d first met her ten years ago. She wore a Chanel outfit that must have cost a term’s school fees. Her face was a stunning contrast with my father’s, for, where his skin was corrugated with lines, she had hardly a wrinkle. I never found out if it was down to her daily beauty regime or if she’d been off to Brazil for a nip-and-tuck.

She did have a name—Edie—but I never used it; to me she was never anything other than my stepmother. She offered me a moist cheek to kiss.

“Kim.” Her gaze lingered over the trainers that had been kicked under the bed and the mound of papers strewn by the window. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this bother.”

“Hello boy,” my father said. He cuffed me a light blow on the shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Estelle.”

“And you too Sir,” she said. She bobbed.

My stepmother had been staring out of the window, but turned to inspect Estelle. Glacial.

“Much been happening boy?” my father asked.

“Beavering away,” I said. “You know me.”

“Glad your school fees aren’t being entirely wasted.”

I smiled. There was an awkward silence. I registered that he was wearing a black tie. “You’re in mourning?” I asked.

“Colonel H. Jones.” He turned to Estelle. “Did you hear about it last week?”