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Authors: Rose Tremain
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And one by one his real worries seemed to accumulate. Supposing I go deaf, he thought, I couldnât carry on if I was deaf. And he took himself to the doctorâs to have his hearing tested.
âYou must expect a certain loss,â the doctor told him. âYouâre sixty, arenât you? Bound to be a certain loss at your age.â
And that was all he could say, nothing to reassure him, nothing to take away this particular fear. And so it grew.
The same year, 1901, Queen Victoria died. People wept. And one morning in a big house where Greg arrived to tune the grand piano, he noticed that the whole household were wearing little black armbands.
âA death in the family?â Greg asked the butler.
âOh no,â the man explained, âitâs for Her Majesty.â
Greg nodded, felt ashamed just for an instant that he hadnât got one on, and yet thought to himself how remote they all must have been from the tiny, plump Queen in her widowâs mantillas. Never even seen her, probably, unless theyâd gone with the crowds to the Jubilee or to a state opening of Parliament. And yet they mourned, kitchen maids and all. He supposed that the death of Victoria made them feel insecure, they wore their armbands like a uniform, proud to be soldiers of her army and crossing the line of the twentieth century in uncertainty. Greg felt sad for them. What wouldnât he have given to cross over into a new age with years of vigour and work inside him. But he was old. His era was over.
And he couldnât work well any more, with all this worry. He stood at the piano with his ear pressed down, tapping and listening, tapping and listening, listening but not hearing, not like he used to, hearing with a certain loss, normal at his age, quite normal . . . But it wasnât just sound that was slipping away, it was his life.
As he sat there looking at the ivory keys, he tried to direct the rage he felt towards himself. For where else could he spend it? Not with God. God was a doctor he had never been able to afford. The door had stayed shut. Other patients came and went and sometimes they came out smiling. But not him. He cursed himself over and over for what he had failed to do. Music might have saved Annie, he thought now. Why hadnât he helped her and encouraged her, found her a new teacher? Where might she be now, had he done that?
So Greg shouldered a burden of guilt, a burden heâd never thought would be his to carry. He had always been so certain, so wise, he believed, so sure he was doing and saying, undoing or not saying, all for the best. Just shows, he thought.
For what could his Annie do? She was skilled at nothing but her music and it was a long time now since she had practised. She wasnât even a very passable cook. Couldnât lay a fancy table. And her sewing, theyâd taught her sewing at the school, but it had never been a thing she was competent at. She might find work in a shop, like Betsy, but whatever would she do with little Jack? Iâm sorry, dear, Mrs Collard would say, Iâd like to take you on, but a little one of that age, grubby fingers into all my braids and elastics . . . No, Iâm sorry, Annie, but I couldnât have the liability . . .
Greg played. One of the gentle, familiar Chopin waltzes Annie had dreamed over. Not much more than two years ago, was it, that heâd listened to her playing it? Or was it three? That day when her music teacher had got married â how long ago was that? He didnât know. It seemed to Greg that a whole lifetime had passed since then.
III
âI donât remember my grandad, you know,â said Sadler. âFunny.â
He was back at the kitchen table, on his second cup of tea â a cup of tea that tasted so much nicer because Mrs Moore had made a pot with proper tea leaves and sat there with him drinking it.
âWhyâs that, Mr
âYou must expect a certain loss,â the doctor told him. âYouâre sixty, arenât you? Bound to be a certain loss at your age.â
And that was all he could say, nothing to reassure him, nothing to take away this particular fear. And so it grew.
The same year, 1901, Queen Victoria died. People wept. And one morning in a big house where Greg arrived to tune the grand piano, he noticed that the whole household were wearing little black armbands.
âA death in the family?â Greg asked the butler.
âOh no,â the man explained, âitâs for Her Majesty.â
Greg nodded, felt ashamed just for an instant that he hadnât got one on, and yet thought to himself how remote they all must have been from the tiny, plump Queen in her widowâs mantillas. Never even seen her, probably, unless theyâd gone with the crowds to the Jubilee or to a state opening of Parliament. And yet they mourned, kitchen maids and all. He supposed that the death of Victoria made them feel insecure, they wore their armbands like a uniform, proud to be soldiers of her army and crossing the line of the twentieth century in uncertainty. Greg felt sad for them. What wouldnât he have given to cross over into a new age with years of vigour and work inside him. But he was old. His era was over.
And he couldnât work well any more, with all this worry. He stood at the piano with his ear pressed down, tapping and listening, tapping and listening, listening but not hearing, not like he used to, hearing with a certain loss, normal at his age, quite normal . . . But it wasnât just sound that was slipping away, it was his life.
As he sat there looking at the ivory keys, he tried to direct the rage he felt towards himself. For where else could he spend it? Not with God. God was a doctor he had never been able to afford. The door had stayed shut. Other patients came and went and sometimes they came out smiling. But not him. He cursed himself over and over for what he had failed to do. Music might have saved Annie, he thought now. Why hadnât he helped her and encouraged her, found her a new teacher? Where might she be now, had he done that?
So Greg shouldered a burden of guilt, a burden heâd never thought would be his to carry. He had always been so certain, so wise, he believed, so sure he was doing and saying, undoing or not saying, all for the best. Just shows, he thought.
For what could his Annie do? She was skilled at nothing but her music and it was a long time now since she had practised. She wasnât even a very passable cook. Couldnât lay a fancy table. And her sewing, theyâd taught her sewing at the school, but it had never been a thing she was competent at. She might find work in a shop, like Betsy, but whatever would she do with little Jack? Iâm sorry, dear, Mrs Collard would say, Iâd like to take you on, but a little one of that age, grubby fingers into all my braids and elastics . . . No, Iâm sorry, Annie, but I couldnât have the liability . . .
Greg played. One of the gentle, familiar Chopin waltzes Annie had dreamed over. Not much more than two years ago, was it, that heâd listened to her playing it? Or was it three? That day when her music teacher had got married â how long ago was that? He didnât know. It seemed to Greg that a whole lifetime had passed since then.
III
âI donât remember my grandad, you know,â said Sadler. âFunny.â
He was back at the kitchen table, on his second cup of tea â a cup of tea that tasted so much nicer because Mrs Moore had made a pot with proper tea leaves and sat there with him drinking it.
âWhyâs that, Mr
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