Moonlight on the Thames Page 12

There were a few boats lined up waiting for the lock. She watched the giant concrete space fill gradually with water. There was a bench nearby and she headed over to it to do some stretches, push-ups, and tricep dips. When she was finished, the lock had nearly filled. A child on one of the boats waved to her. She waved back. It was too quiet. Her own thoughts began to creep back into her head.

  Nicola scrolled to the new ‘Rachmaninov piano’ playlist. She put it on, turned up the volume and started to run towards home.

  17

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Tanya’s voice had a frantic edge to it that he hadn’t expected. In fact, he hadn’t expected her to be here at all. It was Sunday morning and he’d been out walking for half the night. He’d walked all the way from the bar in Central London to the church, where he’d practised the piano into the early hours. Now, a hazy sun had risen above the horizon. It would be another short, cold day.

  ‘I’ve been out,’ Dmitri said. Absently, he walked over to the bookshelf and picked up the book of Russian fairy tales that his mother had found in a little second-hand bookshop on Charing Cross Road not long after they had come to London. The text was in both Russian and English, and the three of them had read the stories aloud, trying to improve their sense of written English. The book was illustrated with photos of Russian lacquer art: beautiful, whimsical images with bright, jewel-like colours against a black background. He opened the book and flipped through it, a sense of loss crashing over him like a wave. In his childhood, his father had liked making up his own versions of the classic tales. Dmitri had identified with the heroes: warriors like Ilya Muromets, Dobyrnya Nikitich, and Alyosha Popovich; the dashing and clever Ivan Tsarevich. Now though, he mostly identified with the host of other characters that were aptly named ‘The Fool’.

  Dmitri flipped through the book to the illustration of the Firebird, its tail a swirl of flaming orange and red as it swooped down from the sky to steal a golden apple.

  The story in this book was a variation on the one he’d heard as a child. Not all of the versions were happy. In this tale, a beautiful maiden had been enchanted by a sorcerer and transformed into the fiery bird. Young Ivan, lying in wait, grabbed hold of one of her flaming feathers. He rode to the ends of the earth on the back of a grey wolf, performing heroic feats in order to release the Firebird from her golden cage and break the enchantment. Naturally, the beautiful maiden and Ivan fell in love, and they lived happily ever after.

  Dmitri slammed the book shut and put his head in his hands.

  Tanya came over and banged a tea glass down on the table in front of him. ‘I will make your tea,’ she said. ‘And then you will tell me what the hell is up with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, too exhausted to argue.

  ‘I spoke to Phil yesterday,’ she said, filling the kettle. ‘He says you aren’t returning his calls. And Carole-Ann came to the bakery.’ She’d switched to Russian. He was definitely in for a telling-off. ‘She told me about the Oxford thing. That she told you about a month ago.’ Tanya turned around, her hands on her hips. ‘She told me you could get money to study there and get a doctorate in choral music. And I was so happy for you.’ She shook her head. ‘And then she said she was worried. That you hadn’t filled in the application or got the letters of reference yet.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, you know that.’ He got up and put the book back on the shelf. The idea of Carole-Ann bullying him through his sister was enough to make him want to throw the application in the bin. With all of its questions about his qualifications, his goals and aspirations, and his reasons for applying: ‘How will a Doctorate in Choral Music advance your career plans?’

  The kettle switched off. Tanya poured water into the ceramic teapot. He took the teapot from her and sat back down at the table.

  ‘God, I want to shake you sometimes,’ Tanya said. ‘I wish mamochka was here. She wouldn’t let you get away with this. I’m glad I’m leaving. So many times you’ve broken my heart, and now, you’re doing it all over again.’

  ‘Please, Tanusha.’ His head felt like it might split open. ‘I will apply for the job, if that will make you happy. You are right – I should have started by now. But I’ve still got time.’

  ‘Do you promise that you will do it?’ Tanya sat down at the table and took his hand in hers, tracing the line of his finger below his grey glove. ‘Promise, on the soul of your mama?’

  ‘I said I would do it.’ He jerked his hand away. He was aware of her staring at him as he took a sip of tea. She’d made it too sweet.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll do it.’

  Tanya poured herself a glass of tea and took a sip, blanching at the taste.

  ‘Too sweet,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I will make another pot.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ He put his hand out to stop her. ‘Do you remember how Papa used to take us to pick wild strawberries in the summer?’ he said, more softly.

  She set her tea glass down on the table. ‘Yes,’ she said, hesitating. ‘I think so.’

  ‘They were so delicious. The taste would just explode in your mouth, the juice would get everywhere. All over your hands, face and clothes.’

  ‘Mama would get mad at the stains.’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled wistfully at the memories and took another sip of the tea. ‘Those were good times.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the edge back in her voice. ‘But I do not miss those days at all. What we have, right here, right now, is enough. More than we – well, I – ever could have dreamed of.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m happy for you.’ He was aware of the ache inside him getting stronger. Once Tanya was gone for good… He didn’t want to think about it. ‘You know how they say that someone must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve to suffer in this one? For me, I know what I have done – in this life. But it feels like a different life, if that makes sense.’

  He could sense the anger coiling within her again from across the table. ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it,’ Tanya said.

  Dmitri sat back in the chair and stared hard at his sister. ‘Because of me, our mother suffered and our father is dead. I made Irina, a perfectly innocent girl—’

  He felt the sting of the slap even before the sound registered.

  ‘Shut up,’ Tanya said. She stood up from the table and turned away, facing the wall. ‘I feel like I’m talking to a child, a stupid, self-absorbed little boy. A little boy who has skinned his knee and wants someone to kiss it better. But you’re not a boy, Dima. Not for a very long time.’ She turned back, her dark eyes that were a mirror of his, now shiny with tears. ‘I have said it a hundred times, and I will say it one more time. But this is the last time.’ She came back over to the table and sat down. ‘Because I cannot bear to see you like this. Go to Oxford – go back to Russia – I don’t care—’

  ‘Tanya, please.’

  ‘You were the victim, not the cause of what happened. Mama did what any mother would do for her beloved son. And Irina…’ her face twisted like the word was sour, ‘Irina was a spoiled bitch.’

  ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t blame her for what she did.’

  ‘But you should blame her.’ Tanya’s voice rose again. ‘I do. She is not your precious Snegurochka from your precious fairy tales. Made of ice and snow, to melt at the first touch of a man. She was solid fucking ice.’ Tanya shook her head. ‘Do you think that if Mark was you, I would act as she acted? No. I would love him, care for him. Maybe even more than before.’

  ‘Stop it, Tan’ka,’ he said, his voice hardening. He didn’t need to hear this, couldn’t hear it. He was the one to blame, no matter what his sister said.

  ‘How many years have you wasted? How many more are going to pass by? When you look back on your life, will you be proud of what you have done?’ She picked up her glass and slammed it down on the table. ‘Will you be proud of the time you have spent with your choir, your books, your one-night stands? Never allowing yourself to love or find t
he love you deserve.’

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  ‘Have I?’ She got up from the table and came over to him, kneeling down. ‘I wish that were true,’ she said more softly.

  With a sigh, he put his arms gently around her and held her close, stroking her hair. There really was nothing more to say.

  Finally, Tanya pulled away and stood up. ‘I have to go, and you need a few hours’ sleep.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And a shower. And then, you must get to rehearsal. Carole-Ann said she tried to phone you yesterday but you did not answer.’

  ‘I was busy.’ He felt the hollow gnaw of regret as he thought of the day he had spent with Nicola – ‘The Heckler’. How Tanya would laugh if she knew. But he had already decided not to tell her. He did not want to laugh. He wanted to cry.

  ‘Yes, you are busy.’ Tanya shook her head. ‘Too busy to continue with this self-pity. You must prepare the soloists for the concert. That is the important thing you must do today. I will tell Phil that that is where you will be if he still wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Yes, OK,’ he said, lacking the will to argue.

  She kissed his cheek and stood up. ‘And tonight you will start on the application.’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  18

  Nicola barely even realised that she was home. She’d been lost, utterly lost, in some strange world that she hadn’t known existed. Dangerous and unfathomable, but also indescribably beautiful. Instead of going inside, she stood around the back of the mews staring down at the perpetual motion of the river, the complex shades of grey, white, black. The final movement of the piano concerto came to an end, the crystal notes dying away like the fleeting moments of a dream. She took off her headphones before the next piece could begin. It was too much to feel, too much to allow inside of her when, right now, the one thing she wanted to do was get back to normal. Accept that ‘normal’ was perfectly adequate. More than enough.

  She went around to the cobbled yard and let herself into the house. The bag of knickers was by the door where she’d put it this morning on her way out. Taking it into town and dropping it at Oxfam would kill an hour or so. She could get lunch at the new place that did green protein smoothies, do a little shopping, call her sister – maybe even her mother. Surely, that’s what she did every Sunday, though for some reason, she couldn’t remember. Yesterday was a line drawn in the sand, with everything that came before being erased by the tide. Except, she was determined not to think about yesterday. Or listen to Rachmaninov. Ever again.

  Nicola showered, plaited her wet hair, and got dressed in jeans and a cashmere jumper. As she was closing the door of the walk-in wardrobe, she noticed a few bits and pieces of clothing that she no longer wore, or that held too many memories. The dark red suit she’d worn the night she and Ollie had hooked up. A sparkly blue velvet wrap dress from Whistles that had been unwrapped so many times it made her feel like a package misdelivered in the post. She took them out and shoved them into another carrier bag. Then there were the shoes. Nicola loved her shoes and spent a fortune on them. Most of them she couldn’t bear to part with, even if she could remember some occasions of wearing them – and nothing else – when she’d been with Ollie or others. It was worth clearing some space in the wardrobe, though, so she added a few pairs she hadn’t worn in ages to the carrier bag, and went downstairs.

  On her way out the front door she checked her phone, half hoping there would be something urgent from work that would occupy her for the rest of the day. There wasn’t. There was, however, a text message from Ollie. Even though she’d deleted his contact details and the message came up as an unknown number, she recognised it immediately.

  You OK, babe? Thinking of you.

  Nicola deleted the message with a surge of anger. Ollie may be thinking of her – but Dmitri most certainly, was not. He was probably at church right now, conducting a choir, happy and uplifted in the music. He had that and she had… her life. She forced him out of her mind. He and his choir could go to hell – along with his sad story, his wasted talent and his music.

  Nicola put on her coat and shoved her phone into the pocket. She grabbed the bags of clothing and lingerie and went out the door.

  It was only a few minutes’ walk to the high street. As she made her way along an alleyway lined with expensive shops and restaurants, she looked in some of the windows. If – and in her mind it was still a big IF – she did go over to Jules’ house for a ‘family Christmas’, then she’d need to buy a few gifts. Soaps, candles, bath salts, knitted hats and scarves, wine. It didn’t really matter what it was, as long as it was wrapped up and under the bloody tree. She could get Jules a nice handbag from a client that had recently acquired a designer leather goods company. And a ‘Timeless’ watch would be perfect for Teddy or Jules’ husband, or both. At least her job made it easy to source Christmas presents.

  Nicola kept walking past the nice shops and turned on to the high street, going towards the station. The street was busy with shoppers, families with expensive prams and well-dressed couples. Richmond was one of the most well-heeled boroughs of London. Yet, as she walked, she was aware of the occasional dark shape huddled in a doorway. Even here, there were homeless people. Like Dmitri and his family had been once. Like the people at the shelter yesterday, so transformed by the simple gift of song. She didn’t look at them as she passed, or give them money. There seemed to be a lot more of them than she’d ever noticed before.

  Finally, Nicola turned on to the Quadrant. Ahead of her was the Oxfam shop. An old man was rummaging through a pile of plastic bags piled in front of the door. The shop was closed. The sign next to the door said it opened at noon. She checked her watch. It was only half eleven.

  The old man looked up at her and grinned. He didn’t have a single tooth in his mouth that she could see, and even from a metre away she could smell his sour, unwashed skin and clothing. She gave him a deep frown. There was no way she was going to leave a bag with her unmentionables in it while he was here poking around.

  Nicola walked past the shop and crossed the street. Wasn’t there another charity shop just up the road towards the A307? She didn’t know the name, but she went down the side street where she thought she’d seen it. She passed a second-hand bookshop and a nail salon.

  At the end of the street, just before Paradise Road and the lanes that led up to the Vineyard and Richmond Hill, she spotted the shop, painted red, with a white sign that read ‘Care – Charity Shop’. Care. She didn’t know the charity, but the door to the shop was open. Someone must be inside; she could be rid of her bags and be gone. She walked up to the window. The display had a frightening-looking female mannequin with a painted face and a blonde wig. It was wearing a hideous ethnic-print summer maxi dress and a necklace of chunky beads. Totally off-putting, and totally wrong for the Christmas season. Behind the mannequin, the shop was cluttered and in disarray.

  Hefting her bags, Nicola went inside. Just inside the door, she almost collided with a girl, who looked to be in her early twenties, with long black hair, dark eye-makeup, and a pierced lip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said, ‘I’ve got to close the shop for a few minutes. The manager had to pop out. I’m not allowed to have anyone in here when it’s just me.’

  Nicola frowned. ‘I’m here to donate some clothing.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ the girl said. ‘It’s just, can you come back when—’

  ‘No,’ Nicola said. ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘But I really need to close up.’

  ‘Are you a volunteer here?’ Nicola asked frostily.

  ‘Yes, I’m getting some work experience.’

  ‘And what exactly does this charity – Care – do?’

  ‘Well,’ the girl hesitated for a moment like she was trying to recall something memorised by rote, ‘they provide temporary care to people who are homeless, or refugees waiting to be rehoused, or who need a—’

  ‘We,’ Nicola cut off the s
piel. ‘You’re a volunteer here, so it’s we provide. Not they. If you’re working here, you need to be a part of it. Own it.’

  The girl gave her a look like she had two heads. ‘OK…’ she drawled. ‘But I need you to go. I’m supposed to lock up.’

  ‘The hours posted on the door say that you’re open on Sunday from eleven a.m. to five. It’s now eleven-forty. So you’re open.’

  ‘But Charles said we need two people here at all times.’

  Nicola could tell the girl was a little thick and a lot clueless. On the other hand, at least this shop had better hours than Oxfam. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘I get it. So why don’t we say that I’m volunteering for your charity, for the next ten minutes while I’m in your shop.’

  ‘Umm… I don’t know… You’re supposed to fill out a form.’

  ‘I’m not going to bother with that,’ Nicola bristled. Kolya, at the shelter, had said the same thing. It sounded ludicrous when she was the one giving up her time. ‘Now, you take these bags up to the counter, and I’ll do you a favour – help you price them. Some of the clothing is quite expensive.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The girl perked up a little.

  ‘And by the way,’ Nicola said, growing increasingly annoyed, ‘that dress in the window is hideous. You need something that is going to attract holiday shoppers. Where are your charity cards and gift wrap? Where’s your Christmas lights and tree?’

  The girl looked blank. ‘I don’t know. Do we need those things?’

  ‘If you want to make money for your charity, then yes, you do. Here…’ Nicola rummaged through the bag and found the blue velvet wrap dress. ‘Put this on the mannequin. And, for God’s sake, give her some bling. Don’t you have any jewellery or glittery handbags – that sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ The girl seemed completely bewildered as she went to change the dress on the window mannequin.

  ‘Why don’t I have a look around and see what I can find?’ Nicola said in a low hiss. ‘This place needs a complete overhaul. It’s pathetic. You’re already off the beaten track. You need to be better than the rest. A destination. Not a complete tip.’