The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (71 page)

‘He’s sounding more like Peer Gynt with every sentence you utter. How did he manage with no job?’

‘He was forced to earn some money to fund his alcohol consumption by giving private piano lessons. That’s how he met my mother. And sadly, not a lot has changed in the past thirty
years since then. He’s still a drunk, broke, an ageing lothario and completely unreliable.’

‘What a waste of his talent,’ I sighed.

‘Yes, tragic. So there we are. The potted story of my father’s life.’

‘But what does he do up here all day now?’ I asked as we climbed higher and higher into the hills.

‘I couldn’t really tell you, other than that he still takes the odd pupil, then promptly spends the money he earns from it on whisky. Felix is getting old, although that’s not
to say that he’s lost his charm. Ally, I know it sounds inappropriate given why we’re going to see him, but I’m worried he might hit on you.’

‘I’m sure I can cope, Thom,’ I said with a grim smile.

‘I’m sure you can. I just feel . . . protective of you. And I’m starting to wonder why I’m even putting you through this. Maybe I should go and see him alone and explain
the background first?’

I could feel the tension emanating from Thom and sought to ease it. ‘At present, your father is absolutely nothing to me. He’s a stranger. We’re . . .
you’re
taking a wild guess at what might or might not be. And if it is or it isn’t, it won’t be painful for me, I promise.’

‘I hope not, Ally, I really do,’ he said, slowing the car down and parking it close against a pine-tree-clad slope. ‘We’re here.’

As I followed Thom up the rough overgrown steps that apparently led to some form of habitation, I understood that this was a far more painful event for him than it was for me. Whatever lay at
the top of the steps, I’d still had a father who had loved and cherished me all the way though my childhood. And I certainly wasn’t looking for or needing another.

At the crest of the hill, the steps began to lead downwards and I saw a small wooden cabin nestled in a clearing amongst the trees. It reminded me of the witch’s house in the story of
Hansel and Gretel.

Standing in front of the door, Thom squeezed my hand. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready,’ I said.

I watched him hesitate before he knocked. Then we waited for a response. ‘I know he’s in, because I saw his moped at the bottom of the hill,’ Thom muttered as he knocked again.
‘Sadly, he can’t even afford a car these days and besides, he’s been stopped so many times by the police in the past, he seems to think a bike’s a more invisible mode of
transport. God, he’s so stupid!’

Eventually, we heard the sound of footsteps inside and a voice said something in Norwegian as the front door opened. Thom translated for me. ‘He’s expecting a pupil and thinks
we’re them.’

A figure appeared and I stared into the bright blue eyes of Thom’s father. If I’d been expecting a raddled old man with a bulbous whisky nose and a body that had been broken after
years of alcohol abuse, then I’d been wrong. The man standing on the doorstep was barefooted and wearing a pair of jeans with a large rip at the knee and a T-shirt that looked as if
he’d slept in it for days. I’d already worked out that he must be in his late sixties, yet he only had a smattering of grey in his hair, and few telltale lines of age on his face. If
I’d seen him on the street, I would have thought him at least a decade younger than he was.

‘Hello, Felix, how are you?’ said Thom.

He blinked at us in obvious surprise. ‘I’m fine. What are you doing here?’

‘We came for a visit. Long time, no see, et cetera. This is Ally.’

‘New girlfriend, hey?’ His eyes alighted on me and I felt him appraise me physically. ‘Pretty.’

‘No, Felix, she’s not my girlfriend. Can we come in?’

‘I . . . the housekeeper hasn’t been in recently, so it’s a mess, but yes, please do.’

I’d understood none of the preceding conversation of course, as they’d spoken in Norwegian.

‘Does he speak English?’ I whispered as I followed Thom inside. ‘Or French?’

‘Probably, I’ll ask him.’ Thom explained my linguistic disability and Felix nodded, instantly switching to French.

‘
Enchanté
, mademoiselle. You live in France?’ he asked as he led us through to a large but chaotically untidy sitting room, littered with teetering piles of tattered
books and newspapers, used coffee cups, and random pieces of clothing discarded carelessly on various pieces of furniture.

‘No, Geneva,’ I explained.

‘Switzerland . . . I went there once for a piano competition. It’s a very . . . organised country. You are Swiss?’ he asked as he indicated that we should sit down.

‘Yes,’ I answered, surreptitiously pushing an old sweater and a squashed trilby hat to one side to make room for me and Thom on the battered leather sofa.

‘Well, that’s a shame, for I was hoping we could discuss Paris, where I misspent my youth,’ he said with a hoarse chuckle.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Although I do know the city quite well.’

‘Not as well as I do, mademoiselle, I assure you. But that is another story.’ Felix winked, and I didn’t know whether to shudder or giggle.

‘I’m sure,’ I responded demurely.

‘Could we speak in English, please?’ said Thom abruptly. ‘Then we can all understand.’

‘So what brings you here?’ asked Felix, switching languages as he’d been asked to.

‘In a nutshell, Ally is searching for answers,’ said Thom.

‘To what?’

‘Her true heritage.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Ally was adopted as a baby, and her adoptive father died a few weeks ago and passed on some information that would help her find her biological family. If she wanted to,’ Thom
added. ‘She was given the biography of Jens and Anna Halvorsen, written by your great-grandfather, as one of the clues. So I thought you might be able to help her.’

I saw Felix’s eyes flicker over me again. He cleared his throat, before reaching for a pouch of tobacco and some papers and rolling a cigarette. ‘How exactly do you think I can
help?’

‘Well, Ally and I have discovered that we’re both the same age. And . . .’ – I watched Thom having an inner struggle with himself before he continued – ‘I
wondered if there was any woman you’d known . . . as a girlfriend, perhaps . . . that . . . well, had a baby girl around the same time as Mum had me?’

At this, Felix let out a bark of laughter and lit up his cigarette.

‘Felix, it’s not a laughing matter, please.’

I reached for Thom’s hand and squeezed it, trying to keep him calm.

‘Sorry, I know it isn’t.’ Felix recovered himself. ‘And Ally, is that short for Alison?’

‘Alcyone, actually.’

‘One of The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades,’ he remarked.

‘Correct. I was named after her.’

‘Were you indeed?’ he reverted to French suddenly and I wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate ploy to irritate Thom or not. ‘Well, Alcyone, sadly I know of no further
offspring of mine. But if you wish me to call all my former girlfriends and ask if they, unbeknown to me, begat a baby girl thirty years ago, then I’d be happy to do so.’

‘What did he say?’ Thom whispered to me.

‘Nothing important. So Felix,’ I continued in fast French, ‘don’t blame Thom for asking difficult questions. I always thought that this was a wild goose chase. Your son
is a very good person and he was only trying help me. I know your relationship has been difficult in the past, but you should be proud of him. Now, we won’t take up any more of your
time.’ I stood up, feeling I’d had enough of his patronising manner. ‘Come on, Thom,’ I said, reverting to English again.

Thom stood up too and I saw the pain in his eyes. ‘God, Felix, you really are a piece of work,’ he commented.

‘What have I done?’ Felix protested with a shrug.

‘I knew it was a waste of time,’ Thom muttered angrily as we walked quickly to the door to let ourselves out then started to make our way back up the steps.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Felix.

‘Forgive me, Ally, it was a shock. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Havnekontoret hotel,’ I said tersely.

‘Okay. Bye then.’

I ignored him and hurried to catch up with Thom.

‘I’m sorry, Ally, it was a stupid idea,’ he said as he unlocked the car door and climbed inside.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ I comforted him. ‘Thank you for trying. Now, why don’t we go back to your house and I’ll make you a calming cup of coffee?’

‘Okay,’ he said, as he reversed and we drove off at a pace, the small engine of the Renault roaring like an enraged lion at the unnecessary force of Thom’s foot on the
pedal.

Back at Froskehuset, Thom disappeared for a while, clearly wanting to be alone. I understood now how deep the pain of the past went for him. Felix’s rejection had left an
ugly festering scar which, having met Felix, I doubted could ever be healed. I sat on the sofa, passing the time by looking through the old handwritten sheet music of the piano concerto that Jens
Halvorsen had written, which was placed in an untidy stack on the table in front of me. And as I idly scanned the first page, I noticed some numbers written in small lettering in the bottom
right-hand corner. My brain did its best to fumble back to my schoolgirl lessons, and I took out a pen and translated the numbers in the back page of my diary.

‘Well, of course!’ I said out loud with a whoop of triumph.
This might cheer Thom up
, I thought.

‘Okay?’ I said when Thom eventually reappeared.

‘Yup.’ He sat down next to me.

‘I’m so sorry you’re upset, Thom.’

‘And I’m sorry I introduced you to him. Why did I expect him to be any different? Nothing and nobody changes, Ally, and that’s the truth.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, but listen, Thom,’ I interrupted him, ‘sorry to change the subject but I think I’ve just discovered something very exciting.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, I suppose you just assumed that this concerto was the work of your great-great-grandfather, Jens?’

‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, what if it wasn’t?’

‘Ally, his name is on the front page of the original sheet music.’ Thom looked at me in confusion and pointed to it. ‘It’s sitting there in front of you. It says it was
written by him.’

‘What if the piano concerto you found wasn’t by your great-great-grandfather Jens, but actually by your grandfather, Jens Halvorsen Jnr, more commonly known as Pip? What if this was
The Hero Concerto
, dedicated to Karine, which was never played? And that for reasons you explained yesterday, perhaps Horst put it away in the attic, because he couldn’t even bear to
hear it again after what had happened to his son and daughter-in-law?’

My thoughts hung in the air and I waited for Thom to catch them.

‘Carry on, Ally. I’m listening.’

‘I know you said that the concerto sounded Norwegian, and yes, it has influences certainly. And I’m no music historian, so don’t quote me, but the music you played me yesterday
just didn’t fit with what was coming out of the early twentieth century. I heard strains of Rachmaninoff and, more importantly, Stravinsky in there too. And
he
wasn’t composing
his seminal works until the 1920s and 30s, well after the first Jens Halvorsen died.’

There was another pause, and I watched Thom as he thought about what I’d said.

‘You’re right, Ally. I suppose I just assumed it was the first Jens’ work. Old sheets of music are just old to me, whether they’ve been around for eighty or ninety or a
hundred years. I found so much sheet music up there in the attic that was definitely by the first Jens Halvorsen, I just presumed the concerto was by him too. And it doesn’t call itself
The Hero Concerto
, does it? You know, the more I think about it, the more I have a feeling you might be right,’ Thom agreed.

‘You told me that the whole official orchestral score was almost certainly blown away when the theatre was bombed. This,’ I said, pointing to the sheets, ‘was probably
Pip’s original piano music, written before he’d even decided on a name for it.’

‘My great-great-grandfather’s works up to this one were far more romantic and derivative. This has fire, passion . . . It’s different from anything else I’ve heard that
he wrote. My God, Ally.’ Thom gave a weak smile. ‘We started with your mystery and it now looks as if we’re dealing with mine.’

‘As a matter of fact, there’s irrefutable proof,’ I pronounced and even I could hear a smugness to my tone.

‘Is there?’

‘Yes, look.’ I pointed out the small letters inked at the bottom right-hand corner of the page.

‘MCMXXXIX.’ I read the letters out loud.

‘So?’

‘Did you do Latin at school?’ I asked him.

‘No.’

‘Well, I did, and those letters stand for numbers.’

‘Yes, even I know that much. But what do these represent?’

‘The year 1939.’

Thom was silent as he digested what it meant. ‘So, this
was
my grandfather’s composition.’

‘From the date on it, it must have been, yes.’

‘I . . . don’t know what to say.’