The Victor

Almost there!

Dropping back a gear, the engine growls as we labour up the final climb. Stomach knotting, jaw clenching, my hands lock around the leather encased steering wheel. Strains of classical music crescendo as we crest the rise and there it is! In all its glory. Unchanged since that last visit. Exactly as I left it. Indelibly etched in my memory. A gasp escapes from the passenger seat. Always the same… the reaction, the place.

Like hawks, we hang in the air. Gazes locked on that distant point. Paradise. Perfection. At least from this perspective.

Gravity hungrily claws at us, dragging us down the steep decline, back into shadow.

Breathe! I unsteadily remind myself. My vertigo is definitely due to the sudden, but anticipated drop. I dare not turn my head, fearing a disorienting spiral into oblivion. Grieg’s “Hall of the Mountain King” deepens the sense of impending doom, tempo rapidly picking up, becoming almost frenetic. Teetering on the brink of consciousness, a soft cough reels me back — into the car — into this instant. Wheels crunch on gravel. Motion ceases. My head clears as the car engine falls silent, except for the quiet ticking as it cools.

The fragile illusion of peace is fractured by a light piercing our cocoon of darkness. Creak! Slowly, the familiar, solid oak door swings ajar. And so, it begins…

Second thoughts arrive too late. Shoulders squared, spine stiffened, I face my fate. Car doors open and close in tandem… a reassuring show of solidarity.

A figure clad in a crisply starched uniform materialises in the doorway, patiently awaiting our approach.

My ice encased heart thaws a touch. Ingrid. Uninvited pleasant memories sneak past the impenetrable defences I’ve constructed.

“Welcome home, Miss Angela,” she murmurs.

Home! Now there’s a thought!

“Thanks Ingrid. This is my husband Ross,” I explain, although the introduction is surely superfluous.

Awkward silence stretches until I impulsively pull the housekeeper into a warm embrace. Tension and time melt away.

“It’s been far too long,” I imagine she whispers.

“Where is he?” bursts from me? Discretely dabbing her eyes, Ingrid leads the way to the parlour. Of course he’d be there! Our ‘special occasions only’ room. Trapped in a surreal movie, we draw nearer, ever nearer to this one moment I wish to forestall, at all costs. Like those before me, my efforts are powerless against the torrent of time.

Too soon, I approach the open coffin where my dear father’s lifeless body rests, dressed in his favourite charcoal three-piece suit. Not a hair out of place. I distractedly notice his hair is no longer jet black but shot through with silver threads. He looks at peace, at least that’s what I tell myself. Precious little he saw of it — here — in this ‘Paradise’. My composure crumples, tears brim and overflow, trickling unheeded down my cheeks. Ross wordlessly draws me into the comforting circle of his arms.

“Angela! I didn’t expect you! Come!” My mother’s coldly imperious voice cuts the air, simultaneously chilling the room by several degrees… as always. Glancing up, I snag a glimpse of my High Society mother’s stiletto heels exiting the room.

Time warps, shrinks, history repeats. She has spoken. She will be obeyed. She expects — no — demands immediate, unquestioning obedience.

One fleeting decade ago, I fled from her and her ironclad expectations. My precious father, not so. Now, his escape is complete. Final. I will miss him, but I can’t begrudge him this belated peace.

Tap, tap, tap… her confident strides echo down the long hallway. Signature French Perfume lingers in her wake.

Struggling against the vortex of memories threatening to swamp and drown me, I turn and head in the opposite direction. Unbidden, my feet lead me back to that day, ten long brief years ago. Back to my place of refuge and solace.

Soon, I stand in front of the carved wooden door, hand hovering near the ornate key patiently waiting in the lock. Smooth as silk, it turns. As a sleepwalker, I twist the knob. In a wink, I’m inside, gliding across the parquetry floor, my father’s pride and joy. I fondly recall how greatly he admired his Black Bean and Tasmanian Oak timber flooring laid in herringbone pattern.

Dust thickly coats the once pristine surface. A musty odour pervades the gloomy room. I stifle a sneeze threatening to erupt. Drop sheets posing as ghostly figures are scattered hither and thither. There — in the far corner of the room — the focus of my recurring dreams, hunches in embarrassed disgrace.

Like a timid toddler approaching a terrifying beast, I cautiously close the distance across the vast expanse. Fragmented memories of heated arguments and torrents of tears mingle with episodes of blissful transportation into heavenly places.

Drawing back the drop sheet — hand trembling — I lift the fallboard exposing ivory keys on the waiting baby grand piano. The room, piano, this moment… indeed my life, all hold their breath in anticipation. Involuntarily, my hands lightly rest on the zebra stripped keyboard, automatically homing in on Middle C.

Devoid of any volition on my part… a puppeteer manipulates my fingers. Rusty at first, they limber up with astonishing swiftness — gingerly running up and down scales, fingering exercises and arpeggios — becoming more deft, tempo fluidly increasing at a rapid rate. Melody lines are freed from imprisonment in the far reaches of my mind. Like a massive dam being breached, an avalanche of bottled-up memories burst forth with each note ringing round the long-neglected room.

I recollect lengthy hours alone, but not lonely… immersed in practice sessions, lost in the unimaginable beauty of majestic pieces swirling on the air currents in this room and mansion. Fond reminiscences of fingers flying through Bach’s “Toccata” warm my heart. How unfathomable! How could I have ever borne turning my back so completely on such a true love?

*

Continuing to caress the ivory keys, a flashback replays on repeat. One vivid scene remains permanently engraved on my mind. My mother triumphantly bursting into my haven, proudly brandishing an official looking document.

“We’ve done it! You’re off to study at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music! Next step, the world stage! You’ll be famous, a household name!’ she crowed.

Aghast, I cried out “No! You know I could never play for an audience! I’d rather die!”

“Don’t be foolish! You’ve been accepted! You will leave in a fortnight’s time! I’ll hear no more of your ridiculous nonsense,” she blithely retorted.

*

Back then, my only recourse was to flee far from my mother’s selfishness, her desire to vicariously live out her dreams through me, regardless of their toll. Hours later, in the still of the night, I had crept out, turned my back on my family, my life and my music.

The amputation had been excruciating and permanent… until now. I believed I had escaped, triumphed over my callous mother and her heartless schemes.

Now, I wonder. Just who had won, and at what cost?

Once more, I am enraptured by the delights so generously bestowed on me, by my precious piano. Shafts of hope and happiness penetrate that long neglected ‘room’ in my soul. I owe it to myself — and my father — to again embrace my special gift. It’s worth shouldn’t can’t be measured by the size of an audience, but rather, by the joy it brings.

*

Written for The Forgotten Room Challenge.