Starburst (6 page)

“Do you want to try the second string now?”

Angélique did not reply, nor did she open her eyes, her fingers feeling instinctively for the next string. Madame Lafitte could tell from the expression on the girl’s face that this was indeed an effort with fingers as short as hers. She managed almost immediately one clear note before the moment was broken by the sound of the drawing room door being forcefully opened. Angélique’s mother entered the room, pulling on an enormous raincoat.

“That’s the study finished, madame. Again, I am sorry about my daughter’s behaviour and I can assure you that it will not happen a second time.”

Madame Lafitte did not give her a reply, but with a gentle smile took the violin from the little girl. She could tell, in that second, that a spell had been shattered, and she saw the longing in Angélique’s eyes as the violin was replaced in its case.

“Marie, why is Angélique here today? Why is she not at school?”

“There was a holiday today, madame. Oh, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I brought her. In future, I will—”

“I would like you to bring her here at any time that you possibly can, schooldays or not.” She turned and looked at the housekeeper. “Would you be able to do that?”

Angélique’s mother was perplexed by the request.

“Madame? I’m not sure what you—”

“It’s very simple to understand, Marie. Would somebody be able to bring Angélique to my house every day and then fetch her later?”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I want to teach her the violin.”

The housekeeper let out a short laugh. “The violin? Ah, madame, it is very kind of you, but you don’t want to bother yourself trying to teach my daughter—”

“Marie, what I do in my own time is my affair. So, the question still stands. Can someone bring Angélique to my house every day and then collect her at a later time?”

Angélique’s mother shrugged her huge shoulders. “There are six of us in the house. I suppose someone can walk her round, but it would depend on the shifts that the others work.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anytime. I am always here.”

“Very well, madame.”

Madame Lafitte put her arms around Angélique, who had come to stand enthralled beside her. The old lady planted a kiss on the side of her short dark hair, before whispering in her ear, “I think, Angélique, my dear, that one day you will become an exceptional violinist.”

And so it was that Madame Lafitte became the most important person in Angélique Pascal’s young life. It was she who gave Angélique her lessons until the ability of the ten-year-old outshone her own; it was she who arranged and paid for the teacher who continued to nurture her extraordinary talent, and together with whom Madame Lafitte put out a search for a full-size violin that had the same resonance and playing style as the one Angélique had been using, eventually tracking one down in a backstreet shop in Munich that held a scant but exceptional stock of stringed instruments, and subsequently purchasing it with little regard to its enormous price tag; it was Madame Lafitte who set up the interview and audition for the thirteen-year-old at Le Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris; and it was she who mollified the stupid prejudices of the Pascal family and made them understand that her attendance there would have no detrimental impact on their lowly finances, and that Angélique’s future promised much more than working in a furniture factory in Clermont Ferrand.

It was Madame Lafitte also who accompanied Angélique to Paris for the first time, the girl holding tight to her hand as they rode below the streets of the city on the Métro before emerging at La Porte de Pantin station in front of the inspirational white structure of the Conservatoire. Then, having watched Angélique being taken off for her audition, carrying the new, but equally treasured violin, the old lady had sat alone in the echoing foyer, drinking a cup of coffee whilst keeping the fingers of her free hand tightly crossed, watching the music students struggle along the corridors with bulky instrument cases and the leotarded dance students who sat in the chairs around her, chatting to their friends as they effortlessly stretched their legs into positions that would be unachievable for mere mortals.

It was a full hour and a half before Angélique eventually returned to the foyer, accompanied this time not by the young public relations woman but by a tall bespectacled young man wearing a dark green corduroy suit. When they reached the perimeter of the seating area, he put a hand on Angélique’s shoulders and spoke to her. The girl smiled at Madame Lafitte and pointed a finger in her direction. Settling Angélique in a chair, the man bought her a bottle of orange juice from an illuminated dispenser next to the wall, gave it to her along with a reassuring smile and approached the old lady.

“Madame Lafitte?”

“Oui, c’est moi,”
she replied, struggling to raise herself out of the awkwardly shaped chair.

“Oh, please, don’t get up,” he said, reaching down to her an elegantly shaped hand that bore the hallmark of a musician. “I am sorry that we have taken so long with Angélique. My name is Albert Dessuin and I am a teacher of the violin here at the Conservatoire.”

Madame Lafitte shook the hand and watched as the young man lowered himself into a chair on the opposite side of the table. She could not bear to wait for news of the audition.

“Monsiuer Dessuin, can I ask how Angélique got on?”

Dessuin leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his hands together in front of his chin. “Madame Lafitte, all I can say is thank you for bringing Angélique to the Conservatoire.”

The old lady felt her heart give a huge thump, and tears immediately sprang to her eyes. She opened up the blue leather handbag on her knees and extracted a white linen handkerchief. “Oh, I am so pleased you said that. She has a wonderful talent,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“I certainly believe it, and that is why we felt the need to discuss at length her future here.” The young man dropped his hands from his chin. “Madame, I have had a word with the
directeur
of the department and asked if he would allow me to take Angélique under my wing. I truly feel that I can make something wonderful out of this talent.”

The old lady shook her head slowly. “I have always believed this,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “from the first moment that I allowed her to lay hands upon that violin.”

“Oh, it is
your
violin. I wondered, because it is certainly a most beautiful instrument.”

“No, Monsieur Dessuin, I was talking about a small one given to me by my father many years ago. I shall always have that one in my house as a keep-sake. The violin she is using now I bought for her.”

Dessuin smiled at the old lady. “Then, what a wonderful gift you have made to her.” His face became serious. “Now, Madame Lafitte, what I want to say about Angélique is that I feel that one so young, and one who has—how can I put this?—has not had a great deal of experience of the outside world, should not be put into the system of staying by herself in a students’ residence.”

Madame Lafitte nodded. “This has been one of my great worries, also.”

“Good, so I hope the suggestion that I am about to make, which has been approved wholeheartedly by the
directeur,
will be acceptable to yourself as well. Madame, I live with my mother in a very large apartment here in the
quinzième
district, and we have customarily lodged some of the younger students from the Conservatoire. The girl who is with us at present is now of an age to move into the students’ residence, which means that Angélique could take over her room. It would be a most beneficial arrangement for her because it would facilitate my supervision of both her music tuition and the educational studies that she will receive here at the Conservatoire.”

“Monsieur Dessuin, that would seem the most perfect idea, and would certainly take a weight off my mind. Of course, I will be the one to recompense you and Madame Dessuin for this.”

Dessuin held up a hand. “Well, let us see what I can first arrange. For a girl from Angélique’s background, I am sure that there are grants available to cover such costs.”

Madame Lafitte tilted her head to the side. “Whatever you think, but if you cannot succeed in that, then I shall certainly meet all her costs. My husband and I were never fortunate enough to be blessed with children, monsieur. Circumstances and
la guerre
put pay to that. Maybe it was then the plan of some greater being that I should wait until my eighties before being called upon to nurture a child as I now do Angélique. She need never worry about money,
comprenez-vouz?
”

“Of course, madame. I can assure you that I will keep in close contact with you regarding all financial matters relating to Angélique.”

“I am very grateful, Monsieur Dessuin.” She tucked her handkerchief back in her handbag. “So when are you thinking that she might start?”

“Next month, in September. Is that reasonable?”

Madame Lafitte nodded thoughtfully. “I cannot give you a definite answer now, Monsieur Dessuin, because I must first talk to Angélique’s parents. However, I am sure I will be able to persuade them by then.”

“Well, that is the start of the year at the Conservatoire, and I can tell you, madame, that for once, I am very happy that it is starting so soon!”

Madame Lafitte glanced over to where Angélique sat, watching intently the comings and goings of the students around her. In her arms, she held the violin case as if protecting it.

Madame Lafitte smiled. “Now, I think, would be a good time to give her the news.”

Every week for the next six years, Madame Lafitte received a letter from Angélique, telling her everything about the particular piece of music she was playing, about the friends she had made, and about the walks along the banks of the river Seine and the visits to museums and art galleries she had made with Albert Dessuin. In turn, Madame Lafitte would read these aloud to Angélique’s mother, whom she knew had never received such a letter. Happiness seemed to radiate from these dispatches, so much so that it never occurred to Madame Lafitte that, not once, had Angélique mentioned her home life with Albert Dessuin and his mother. If she had but known about the tirades, the selfish hypochondria and the cold unfriendliness of the dreadful woman, the heavy clinking of bottle against glass that sounded from Dessuin’s bedroom as Angélique passed by late at night to go to the bathroom, then Madame Lafitte would have taken the first train to Paris to make other arrangements. But Angélique never included a word of this in any of her letters, frightened that such a disclosure might end her time at the Conservatoire.

It was two days before her eighty-eighth birthday that Madame Lafitte received the news from Angélique that she had won the Prix du Concours Long-Tibaud. In another letter from Albert Dessuin, which arrived on the same day, he announced to Angélique’s guardian that he had decided to give up his position at the Conservatoire and continue to teach Angélique and manage her affairs, as already she was being inundated with requests from concert halls around Europe to hear her play, and Dessuin felt that there was no way she could cope alone with such a pressure.

Madame Lafitte did not open, nor did she read, either of the letters herself. That was left to a young male nurse who sat on a chair close to the stroke victim’s bedside in hospital. When he had finished, he looked closely at her face and nodded. Good news, he thought to himself, for both her and for the doctors. The smile was the first sign of understanding she had given since being brought there.

T
he battered Transit van with the blown exhaust drove slowly through the confusion of streets, every one of them lined with identical stark-fronted, drab-harled houses, before coming to a halt at the entrance to a wide cul-de-sac. Terry Crosland rolled down the window and studied the street sign, just being able to make out the letters of Bolingbroke Close beneath a swirl of black graffiti. He swung the nose of the van around and reversed down the street to a point where he wouldn’t interrupt the game of three-aside football that was in progress. As he opened the door, a deafening bang resounded around the tinny confines of the van and he saw the football dribble past him on the pavement. Thumping the door closed, he went over to the ball, pulled it towards him with his foot and deftly flicked it up into his hands.

A young boy came running down the street towards him. “Sorry ’bout that, mister.”

“No ’arm done, lad.” Terry smiled at the boy and lobbed him the ball. “Any idea which is the Brownlows’ ’ouse?”

“Number seventeen, over there,” the boy replied, pointing to a house that seemed to have aged worse than others in the ten or so years of its life. “That’s Robbie Brownlow playing in goal for the opposition.”

Terry cast an eye towards the small figure that stood in front of the goal-chalked wall at the far end of the cul-de-sac. He was gazing up into the sky, seemingly more interested in the vapour trail of a plane flying overhead than he was in getting on with the game of football.

“Good, is he?” Terry asked.

“Nah,” the boy replied disparagingly. “That’s why we put ’im against the wall. We’d keep losing the ball if ’e was at this end.”

Terry watched the boy kick the ball back into play, and then walked across the road and entered the Brownlow property through a wrought-iron gate that a spare five minutes and a lick of black paint would have improved considerably. The pathway to the front door was blocked by a pile of large stones with weeds growing amongst them, a planned rockery never fulfilled, so Terry walked down the narrow passage with the high slatted fence that divided the twelve-foot gap to the adjacent house.

A quick glance at the back garden was more than enough evidence for Terry to realize that Gary Brownlow wasn’t in the habit of frequenting the gardening department of the local DIY store. He went up to the back door and knocked twice, and then turned away to smooth back his greased hair and give his quiff a quick remodel. By the time the door opened, he was standing with his hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans, the collar of his denim jacket turned up.

The woman who stood at the door was short and dumpy, her streaked hair shaped in a pageboy cut. She was wearing black leggings with a pair of scuffed white trainers, her large hips and big bottom well hidden beneath the tails of a blue cotton man’s shirt. Her face, however, was smooth-skinned, her cheeks healthily rosy, and the shape of her mouth and the slant in her eyes radiated humour.

“Well, if it isn’t Elvis ’imself,” she said with a laugh, and then began to move her fat little body in the twist, whilst singing the refrain of “Return to Sender” in a deep, sexy voice. When she stopped she stretched her hand up the side of the door, pouting her unmade-up lips provocatively. “If I’d known ye were coming round, I’d ’ave put on me see-through negligee.”

Terry smiled. “I take it that Gary’s not home, then.”

Crossing her arms beneath her huge bosom, Rene Brownlow raised her eyebrows and flicked her head back. “’E’s where ’e normally is. In the sitting room, watching telly. I doubt ’e’d notice if we had a
bonk
in front of ’im.” She dropped her hands. “Nor would ’e probably mind, come to that.”

Terry cleared his throat uncomfortably. He liked Rene, but he was, in nature, a shy man and could never quite cope with her totally up-front frankness. But that was why she had the reputation of being probably the best comedienne on the Hartlepool circuit, and consequently the heroine of the members of Andy’s Social Club, where she worked part-time behind the bar. Terry also knew from the general gossip in the club that her domestic relationship had been under a strain since her husband lost his job, but he certainly hadn’t come round to get mixed up in all that. Rene sensed his unease and heaved out a sigh. “So what can I do for ye, Terry me lad?”

“I need to ’ave a word.”

Rene leaned her back against the open door. “In that case, ye’d better come in.”

Terry walked past her into a tight-spaced kitchen, still cluttered with dirty pans and dishes from the evening meal. Rene squeezed herself between Terry and the small kitchen table.

“’Ere, let me clear ye some room,” she said, quickly stacking up some plates and moving them to the sink. “’Ave a seat there.” She pointed to a small plastic-covered stool. “Like a cuppa?”

“Aye, that would be grand.”

Rene gave the water level in the electric kettle a cursory check by swishing it around. “’Ow d’ye take it?” she asked, flicking on the switch.

“Milk and two sugars, please.”

Rene let out a low growl. “Ooh, I like a man with a sweet tooth.” She shot Terry a smile, but it went unreciprocated. She shook her head. “I’m only joking, ye know, Terry. I can’t ’elp it. It’s the way God made me.”

Terry nodded. “I know.”

Rene plopped a tea bag into a mug. “And bloody ’ell, it’s ’ard enough trying to keep joking round ’ere at this very moment in time.”

“Aye, probably,” Terry replied.

Rene pulled a stool away from the table with her foot and sat down. Instinctively, Terry shot a look at its thin wooden legs and wondered if it was going to be able to take the strain. He turned his eyes away before Rene had a chance to notice and, as a form of diversion, pulled a pepper pot across the table and began spinning it around in his fingers.

Rene leaned over and took it from him and pushed it to the far end of the table. “Ye’re worse than the kids, y’are. Always find something to fiddle with when they’re going to tell me something…bad.”

Rene emphasized the last word and watched closely for Terry’s reaction.

“No, it ain’t bad, Rene. Far from it…I think.”

“In that case, let’s be ’aving ye, then,” she said, getting up from the stool and pouring hot water into the mug.

Terry rubbed his hands on the legs of his jeans, as he always did to settle himself to talk. “Well, it’s like this, lass. The lads down at the club ’ave been ’aving a whip-round for ye.”

Rene frowned questioningly at him as she slowly stirred sugar into the tea. She placed the mug in front of him and resumed her seat. “For what reason?”

“We’ve arranged for ye to go up to Edinburgh in August.”

“Edinburgh? Why on earth would I want to go up to Edinburgh? Are you and the lads trying to tell me the act’s that bad, ye want to banish me to Scotland?”

“No. Listen, Rene, it’s for the Edinburgh Festival—or for the Fringe, to be exact.”

“The Fringe?” Rene shook her head. “I’m sorry, Terry, ye’ve lost me, lad. I don’t understand what ye’re saying ’ere.”

“’Ave ye ’eard of the Fringe?”

“If we’re talking about ’aircuts and the neat finishing on Candlewick bedspreads, then I ’ave. If not, then ye’ll ’ave to enlighten me.”

Terry scratched at the side of his face. This was not going as easily as he had hoped. “The Fringe, Rene, is part of the Edinburgh Festival. It’s the name for a whole load of different acts put on in different venues all round the city. There are all sorts of plays and reviews and things—and also comedy shows.”

“So what are ye saying?” Rene asked quietly.

“We think ye should go up there and put on a show.”

Rene let out a short laugh and stared incredulously at Terry. “Ye’re joking!”

“No, far from it.” He leaned forward on the table. “Listen, Rene, ye’re a bloody wonderful comedienne, but ye’re never going to get anywhere just staying ’ere in ’Artlepool. The lads down at Andy’s think ye could make it big, and the Fringe is known for being a really good launching pad for people like you.”

“People like me?” Rene exclaimed. “You and the lads ’ave lost the plot, you ’ave, Terry.” She got up and began to slide dishes with a clatter into the sink. “People like me don’t do that kind of thing. We live in ’ouses with unemployed ’usbands. We go to the supermarket and ’ang around the shelves where all the stuff that’s past its sell-by date is stacked. We take the kids on a Sunday to Ward-Jackson Park to feed the ducks with stale bread because we can’t afford to go to the cinema complex down at the Lanyard. We don’t even entertain the idea of leaving ’Artlepool. I mean, a ’oliday for me would be spending a weekend with the ‘codheads’ round on the ’Eadland!” She threw a washing-up cloth with force into the sink. “We can’t afford to have pipe dreams, Terry, about making it big and getting our names up in lights. It just don’t work that way.”

“Who says it don’t? What about people like Jim Davidson and Jimmy Tar-buck and the like?”

“Oh, yeah? They made it big ‘on the Fringe,’ did they?” she asked sarcastically.

“I’m not sure of
that,
exactly, but they both came from pretty ’umble rootings as well.”

“I know that, Terry, but they are them and I am me.” She sat down heavily on the stool and let out a sigh. “Ye know, I’m really touched you and the lads ’ave done all this for me, but go back and tell them to spend their money on something more worthwhile”—she let out a quiet laugh—“like getting something better than an ’ole in the ground for the ladies’ toilet in the club, for a start!”

Terry shook his head. “No, it’s you going to Edinburgh or nowt.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’ve paid the money and booked the venue.”

“Ye never ’ave!”

“So if you don’t go, we’ll all be out of pocket.”

“But why the ’ell did ye pay before telling me about it?”

Terry simply smiled at her, a knowing look on his face. Rene flicked back her head, understanding everything.

“You knew there wasn’t a chance of me considering it otherwise, isn’t that right?”

“Something like that,” Terry replied quietly.

Rene leaned her elbows on the table and rested her forehead in the palms of her hands. “’Ow long’s it for? A couple of nights or summat?”

“Three weeks.”

Rene shot upright. “Three weeks! Terry, I can’t go up to Edinburgh for three weeks. For a kick-off, I couldn’t afford it!”

“That’s all been taken care of.”

“Oh, bloody ’ell, Terry! This has not been thought through at all! I mean, I couldn’t just ’ead off and leave the kids to fend for themselves, could I?”

“What about Gary? ’E’s not working.” Rene had her mouth open, ready to set off again with another stream of reasons-why-not, but was cut short by Terry’s raised hand. “Rene, don’t find excuses for this one. We can work around it. You ’ave a real gift, lass, for making people laugh. Doesn’t matter who they are or where they come from, ye could make anyone laugh. Why keep it for ’Artlepool when ye could make yerself some decent money elsewhere? It’s only three weeks out of yer life, and if it doesn’t work out, well then, ye ’aven’t lost out on anything, ’ave ye?”

Rene did not reply, but sat biting at her bottom lip.

“But,” Terry continued, “if you let this chance slip, ye could go regretting it for the rest of your life.”

The door leading from the kitchen into the front of the house opened and a tall skinny man, dressed in baggy jeans and a checked lumberjack’s shirt, open to reveal a grubby white T-shirt, leaned his shoulder against the door pillar. “What’s going on in ’ere, then?” he asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette and exhaling the smoke through his hawk-like nose.

Rene smiled at the man. “Ye know Terry, don’t ye, Gary? Ye’ve met him at Andy’s.”

The man nodded his head briefly in greeting. “Terry.”

“Nice seeing ye, Gary.”

Gary walked over to the sink, ran water onto the stub of his cigarette and threw it into the bin. He turned around and leaned his bottom against the kitchen sink and folded his arms. “So what gives ’ere? Voices were raised that much, I could ’ardly ’ear the telly.”

“Nowt, really,” Rene replied, narrowing her eyes at Terry in a bid to stop him from even starting on an explanation. Terry chose to ignore it. He had come this far and he needed an answer before he went off to do his paint job.

“What d’ye think of Rene as a comedienne, Gary?”

“She’s damned good,” Gary replied with a flick of his head. “Makes us all laugh, any road.”

Terry shot a look at Rene. “Aye, that’s what I was telling ’er.”

Gary snorted out a laugh. “So that’s what ye’ve come round to tell ’er, is it? That she’s a funny person?”

“No, not exactly.”

“So, what’s yer explanation for being ’ere, then?”

“Gary!” Rene reproached him tentatively, detecting the edge of hostility in his voice. She took in a deep breath. “Right, then. I’ll do the explaining. Some of the lads down at the club ’ave put money in a kitty to send me up to Edinburgh in August to do me act at something called the Fringe.”

“Oh, aye?” Gary said, taking a cigarette packet from the breast pocket of his shirt. “And what ’ave ye said?”

Rene glanced at Terry. “I’ve told ’im that I can’t make a decision right now.”

Gary put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He took a deep drag. “What would ye ’ave to do?”

“Just do me act.”

Gary shrugged. “Why not, then? Ye could take the train up and get back next day.”

Rene looked at her husband. “It would be for three weeks, Gary.”

“Three weeks? No way, then! Ye can’t go off and abandon yer family for three weeks, especially not in August! That’s when Robbie and Karen’ll be getting ready to go back to school. Who’s going to manage all that?” Gary took another long drag from his cigarette and shook his head. “A nice thought, Terry, but it wouldn’t work out at all.”

“Excuse me,” Rene exclaimed, her voice rising in volume, “but is there any good reason why you shouldn’t look after Robbie and Karen? After all, ye’re not doing owt else at the moment.”

Gary leaned over, inches away from Rene’s face, his eyes pierced with anger. “It’s not my bloody fault I don’t ’ave a job. And anyway, what would ’appen if I got a job while ye were away? Who’d look after the kids then?”