Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘Come on,’ Melanie said, ‘I’ll need to drive you to the station before the snow gets too deep. And before Piers gets here.’

‘You go on ahead. I’ll stay here for a few minutes. I’ll catch you up.’

I watched my beautiful ex-sister in her long black coat – no Hepburn or Garbo could have held a candle to her – stepping, as I imagined, out of my life. I thought of drowning myself in the lily pond, or hurling myself from the top of the pagoda. But I knew I couldn’t do that to her.

Outside the Gardens I followed the pavement where it led, and found myself in Richmond. I happened upon the library and in a quiet corner looked at the papers she had given me, turning them over and over to be sure.

I arrived back at the house two hours after she’d left me in the cafeteria. I thought she’d gone already and looked for the key under the pot. It wasn’t there. Then the door opened.

‘I waited for you to come.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Thoughts passing through my mind, I suppose.’

‘No Piers?’

‘He… rang to say he’s still rehearsing. I thought I’d make some tea.’

‘Tea?’

‘Yes, tea. To bring you back to reality.’

While Melanie went upstairs I stayed to put my coat on the hall stand. Funny how things choose their time to happen. The tag at the collar broke and I bent to pick the coat up. There on the floor behind the stand, pretty much obscured from view, was a framed picture, face to the wall, covered in dust. I remembered it that way since my childhood, but had never given it much thought. Now I was curious and turned it round.

It was a not very good painting of a man seated at a piano, hands raised from the keyboard, as if about to receive applause. A crony of my mother, no doubt. A tear, imperfectly repaired with adhesive tape, snaked its way across the canvass. I turned it back against the wall and went upstairs. Back in the salon I tried the keys of the piano, bringing Melanie from the kitchen.

‘I didn’t know you played.’

‘I don’t, but I always wanted to learn. She would never let me even touch the keyboard, whereas you…’

‘Had lessons and got nowhere. Well you can still learn. In fact you can have the piano, as it’s mine now.’

‘Still miserable recompense.’

‘I suppose.’

They were the stalling words of someone relieved enough to tease, though I could see no change in her expression.

‘While you were away I went through her papers again.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought there were issues we needed to resolve.’

‘Like who I am, as if I care?’

‘You will care. You know she kept all her correspondence. You want us to look?’

Two hours later there was still no sign of Piers and dozens of Berenice’s letters lay strewn across the floor.

Suddenly Melanie said, ‘I think I might have found something. Look at this. Read it.’

The letter had been typed, probably, as I later realised, to obscure any admittance of emotion. I read: My Dear Berenice. I have written this so that it will be waiting you when you arrive in London with little Eugene. I fervently hope you will be able to read it well before your first concert as these words will not be welcome. To come to the point, I will not be honouring my agreement to follow you to London after my last recital here in Budapest. Such is the power of love over fidelity. I have done my best to shield you from my affair with Clementine, but can no longer spare you distress. I will leave the public arena for a while, and it is best that neither you nor anyone else will be able to find me. What, then, about little Eugene? Though I have tried hard to persuade her, Clementine will not countenance looking after my son and sadly I have capitulated. I will send you all his papers, and a substantial sum of money has already been paid into our account with Coutt’s, which will continue in your name only. I am also shipping the Bechstein that has been in our flat here. So you see I do have a conscience. We have had good moments together, Berenice, in spite of your intransigence and temper, but they are best put behind us. Cherish my son if you can – after all, the public has come to think of him as yours – and who knows, he may have his father’s musical talent. Be brave, Berenice. Affectionately, Anton Kessler.

‘So what happened to Kessler?’ I asked.

‘I thought everyone knew that. He died in a plane crash. In fact… there’s a newspaper cutting here somewhere. Yes, here. There’s even a photograph of him. Look.’

I tried hard not to believe that the eyes under the black mane were those I saw in my shaving mirror each morning. We went downstairs and I turned the painting around.

‘Not a bad looking man, was he, with his dark hair?’ Melanie was smiling now.

‘But why would she…?’

‘Out of sight, out of mind. Obviously she couldn’t bring herself to hide it completely.’

‘You think she did that… that cut?’

‘Let’s not go there, Eugene.’

Upstairs again, Melanie was peering intently at the newspaper article.

‘It seems they never recovered the plane from the sea. It can’t have been long after that that Berenice married Richard Harrington… my father… and took his name. Probably she never told him you were not her natural son. I guess she just wanted to regularise the situation by having you formally adopted. She was not to know he’d up and leave her – and us.’

‘Then why didn’t she tell me?’

‘I suppose to block out the past. You can see why she hated men.’ Distant flames flickered in her beautiful eyes. ‘But it’s still our secret. Ours, Eugene. Ours to do with as we please. It’s… it comes down to… what you want me to be. ’

She was right. But this was a momentous issue. Thoughts I couldn’t make sense of were queuing for resolution. I needed time to think. We didn’t have time.

‘What will you say when Piers arrives and sees all this… waste paper… on the floor? You remember Eugene, my acquaintance of indeterminate genetic status?’

‘Piers has no interest in our family.’ Again I saw the teasing smile.

‘You’ve told me nothing about him – or yourself for that matter. There’s a whole decade missing.’

The smile left her face. ‘You know all about me Eugene, all about me that is worth knowing. You want to know what happened after we parted? I’ll tell you. I got to drama school by embroidering my credentials. I made it in the theatre through my looks and by cosying up to the tabloids. I got financial security through people like Piers, who have fat wallets and fancy having what passes as a celebrity on their arm. And where has been the satisfaction in all that? You tell me. Okay, that’s me. Now you.’

‘Alright,’ I said, ‘let’s start at the beginning. That night you went to Aunt Isabel. Did Berenice tell you what happened when the police returned? The gardener’s allegations? But she’d been to see him, you see, and got him to change his story. And the deal for keeping my… our… slates clean? That I got myself out of her hair and kept away from you. That’s why I ended up at law school in the States, where I’ve managed to make living. And there was one more powerful reason for staying away.’

‘What?’

I’d gone too far, but there had to be no secrets between us now. My head told me to say no more but her wide eyes prized it from me. ‘She threatened to write you out of her will.’

‘Me? But she loved me.’

‘But she hated me more. In that instance she was a profound judge of character, Melanie. Knowing what I’d decide.’

It was dark outside and the snow was still falling. I went to the window to pull the curtains, but drew back, because the snow in the lamplight was beautiful.