Edith Millar bit her lip nervously. Should she have come here? It had been a moment of impulse, catching sight of her pale face in the hall mirror as she had been about to leave for the Mission, almost as if another person had suggested quite a different destination. Now all sorts of doubts assailed her as she stood uncertainly on the doorstep. A gust of wind rattled the few dry leaves left on the pavement and Edith glanced across at the railings that fenced off the swirling currents of the river Kelvin. She’d walked from Huntly Gardens across Byres Road and past the old BBC headquarters. Many a time she and George had played in studios there in the old days. But that was all in the past, she reminded herself. What she was doing here tonight was to make amends for that past, to try to salvage something for the future.
Glancing up at the light shining from the bay windows above, Edith saw that only one of them was without a twinkling Christmas tree, and she instinctively knew exactly whose window that was.
‘Come on up,’ he said, then pressed the buzzer to release the locked door. Maurice Drummond moved across to the window and looked down into the street.
There was no sign of Edith so she must be on her way upstairs. Sure enough the doorbell rang out its shrill note just as Maurice was heading down the narrow hallway.
‘Edith, how nice, come in,’ Maurice bent to kiss the cold cheeks of the woman who had been his piano teacher. She smiled up at him, drawing off her black gloves.
‘Hallo, Maurice,’ she said. ‘Have the police been here yet?’
‘You’d better come in,’ he murmured, ‘through here, into the lounge.’
Edith Millar’s eyes widened as she caught sight of the Chopin Etudes displayed on the open piano. ‘You still play, then?’
‘What made you think I’d ever stopped?’
‘Oh, Maurice,’ she sighed. ‘what did we do to you?’
Maurice Drummond frowned. ‘Nothing that I know of, Edith. And what makes you think the police have been here?’
‘But they have, haven’t they?’ She twisted the gloves in her hand. ‘I told them about Karen and you. About the baby,’ she added.
‘Edith,’ Maurice Drummond took her by the elbow and steered her gently into one of his armchairs. ‘I know you did. They told me.’
Edith looked up at him, a small frown creasing her forehead. ‘And you’re not angry with me?’
Maurice Drummond shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘They were bound to find out sooner or later, weren’t they?’
‘What about Karen? Do you still hate her?’
‘Oh, Edith, I never hated Karen. In fact,’ the Chorus Master said lightly, ‘I probably never stopped caring for her.’ He sat down and took the woman’s cold hands in his own. ‘There’s something else, though, Edith.’ He paused then took a deep breath, ‘Karen and I had another child together.’
‘What?’ Edith sat bolt upright, her hands pulling away form him. ‘Maurice, how could you do that!’
‘The usual way,’ Maurice laughed shortly. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the immediate look of disapproval in her face, ‘That affair didn’t last long either. Karen was too damn fond of her marital status to take any risks with me.’
‘You mean her daughter is …’
‘My daughter too. Yes, I know. I’ve known for years. She even called her Christina, can you believe that?’
‘But the boy, Christopher. You must have known who he was, what he was doing?’ she persisted.
‘Edith, what’s this all about? Just how much do you know about Christopher Hunter? You haven’t just come to ask me about my illicit love affairs, have you?’
‘No, Maurice,’ the woman said, her voice quiet yet controlled. ‘I’ve come to ask you about George’s affairs.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she added, ‘You see, I think I understand now why he was killed. And it’s all to do with Christopher.’
From the front room of Edith Millar’s home the phone rang out yet again into the darkness, its shrill insistence disturbing the silence. But no hand came to still the noise that jarred the dull air between the walls of the room. Eventually it stopped, the reverberation only a faint memory stirring the shapes of heavy furniture and the grand piano sitting sombrely in the bay window of Huntly Gardens.
It was after midnight when Maurice Drummond quietly closed the door behind him and slipped out into the street. The night mist had cleared from the river and now the moon was shining down, making tiny arcs of light along the swirling current. His heart began to thud as he jogged along the side of the railings in the direction of the taxi rank. Maybe he’d have a bit of a wait, after all it was Christmas week and all the bars and restaurants were filled with office parties whooping it up until the wee small hours.
But Maurice Drummond was in luck tonight. There was one single cab outside the Botanic Gardens, the driver lounging outside, his cigarette smoke rising in the cold night air. The cabbie looked up as Maurice slowed his pace to a walk then flicked the rest of his fag across the street as they made eye contact.
‘Where to, pal?’ he asked and Maurice told him.
Glasgow was alive with revellers as the cab made its way down Great western Road towards the city centre. Term time might be over for a couple of weeks but the entire student population seemed to have taken to the streets. A group of lads in Santa hats with luminous bobbles flashing suddenly lurched off the pavement, causing the taxi driver to swerve and swear at them.
‘Bloody neds!’
‘Aye, Merry Christmas tae you an’ all, Jimmy!’ came the reply as they passed the laughing figures.
‘They don’t care, so they don’t,’ the taxi driver grumbled. ‘Different story if they’d ended up under ma wheels,’ he added gloomily.
Maurice Drummond did not answer him, staring instead at the passing tenements, wondering if he would find what he was searching for at the end of this journey.
As he paid the taxi driver, giving him an extra tip because it was Christmas, Maurice noticed two figures leaving the mouth of the close across the road. He drew back into the shadows, pulling his coat collar up around his ears, watching the pair make their way towards the twenty-four hour shop on the corner. One of them suddenly threw back his head in a spontaneous burst of laughter, his face revealed by the street lamp above him. Maurice’s heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest. The very sight of that smile caused a physical pain. And it was doubly cruel that the smile was not for him but for the younger man whose red-gold hair shone like a halo beneath the light. If only he had been alone, he thought, then everything would have been so much simpler.
Maurice watched as the two men linked arms and drew closer together. Then he shuddered. It was too much to bear, this love of his. He had to do something tonight. And he’d never have a better opportunity than this. He waited until they were out of sight then crossed the road. There were eight names against the security buzzers. Maurice pressed one after the other until a distant voice asked who he was.
‘It’s Chris from upstairs,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘I forgot my key.’
There was a grunt from the unseen occupant on the first floor flat then a low thrumming sound that signalled the release of the lock. Maurice glanced along the street then pushed open the door, creeping quietly up the stone stairs until he reached the flat he wanted. He was in luck; the front door was unlocked, showing that his guess had been correct: they were only out for a quick errand.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Maurice Drummond slipped inside the flat and made his way along the corridor until he found the room he wanted.
He saw the violin first. Instinctively he lifted the instrument out of its case and cradled it in his arms. Chris had held this violin night after night as he’d watched and listened to his son making sweet music. More than anything he wanted to wait here and let the boy find him, tell him all the things he’d longed to say over the years.
The unmade bed stopped him in his tracks. This was where Christopher had been making love to another man. Was it also the place where he’d made love to George Millar? Edith’s words came back to him suddenly like knives. The horrors of the past few weeks that he’d pushed into the deepest recesses of his mind resurfaced with startling clarity.
He couldn’t do this, he simply couldn’t.
With a groan of despair he put the violin back in its open case. Feeling in his pocket, he took out the gift-wrapped present he’d brought. Maybe he could just leave it here? He tried to picture his son’s puzzled face as he opened the gift in the morning. Or would he keep it until Christmas day? Whatever, it would be a surprise he wasn’t expecting, that was certain.
Maurice’s fingers were on the handle of the door when he heard voices from the close below. He was trapped! They’d find him here and he’d have to explain why he had come. Sweat broke out on Maurice’s forehead as he envisaged the looks of incredulity and even pity on their faces. Hurriedly he pulled open the door of the bathroom next to the front door, praying that they would pass him by.
The voices grew louder and then the front door was opened and closed with a bang. Maurice stood stock still as footsteps passed him by only inches away. Surely they could hear the sound of his heart hammering?
At last the voices disappeared along the corridor and Maurice heard another door opening then music began to spill out from the far end of the flat. Holding his breath, Maurice slipped out from the bathroom and quietly turned the handle of the door. Mercifully there was no creak as he opened the door and crept outside, pulling it quietly behind him.
Saying a prayer to whatever spirit had been on his side, the Chorus Master felt his way down the steep stairs like an old man. Out in the street once more he sank back against the stone walls of the tenement, tears of shame pricking his eyelids.