Epilogue
The Mother
It’s November, and Tracey Vallance is washing up after a very jolly Sunday lunch, humming along to Classic FM on her phone.
It’s many years since her offspring flew the nest, one by one, for university and jobs and life in different cities, so it’s always a treat when they find their way back home again.
Today, both daughters are here, as well as her dad, and everyone is on good form.
Paul excelled himself with the roast, her dad seemed to remember who everybody was and is now contentedly sleeping off the effort, and the girls.
Tears fill Tracey’s eyes as she replays the evident closeness between them that is back; the good humour and affectionate teasing.
She’s even put up with being called one of their silly nicknames all day; anything to make them happy.
The first bars of ‘The Swan’ by Saint-S?ens drift out from the speaker and she immediately dries her soapy hands on her jeans in order to turn up the volume, letting the plangent melody pour into her.
Goodness, this takes her back, she thinks with a happy sigh.
All the way back to the eighties, in fact, and her very first date with Paul, back when they both lived in London.
Miranda comes into the kitchen at that moment with a stack of dessert bowls, which she begins loading into the dishwasher.
There’s a difference about Miranda these days, Tracey thinks, eyeing her eldest daughter fondly.
Since coming back from her holiday, she’s seemed much happier.
Easier in herself.
Of course, that’s probably helped by the fact that she’s just picked up a cracking part for herself in Penelope , a new play (‘a feminist retelling of the Odyssey ’ apparently), which she is buzzing about.
The cast is all female, as is the director, and they seem to have bonded tremendously in rehearsals.
‘Iabsolutely love them,’ Miranda said over lunch just now, her face luminous with excitement as she described their days spent rehearsing, their frequent evenings out together, how the director has her sights on Broadway next and is promising to take them all over there if she can swing it.
Tracey is so glad for her; it’s all you ever want for your children, isn’t it, to see that light in their eyes, the enthusiasm shining out of them? Yes, and of course there was that intriguing moment earlier when Imogen started teasing Miranda about some man they’re referring to as ‘the Godsend’, don’t think Tracey didn’t notice it.
Miranda had turned very pink in the cheeks and looked down into her apple crumble with a secret smile.
Well! What was all that about? She’ll winkle it out of them later, she vows, when the men aren’t around.
‘This again!’ Miranda says suddenly, gesturing to Tracey’s phone.
‘You know when you keep hearing a piece of music all the time? Iswear this one is following me around.’
‘“The Swan”?’ Tracey says.
‘It’s one of mine and your dad’s favourites.
You must have heard us playing it a million times.’
‘They played it at Evelyn’s funeral,’ Miranda says, slotting spoons into the cutlery holder.
‘Then Iheard it in some advert or other on telly.
Then it popped up on my Spotify even though Inever listen to any classical music.
Don’t you think that’s weird?’
Tracey shrugs as she rinses a saucepan and puts it in the drying rack.
‘It’s a very famous piece,’ she says.
‘It’s special to a lot of people, Ibet.
Iwas just thinking before you came in, actually, about hearing it, the very first time Iwent out with your dad.’ She feels herself soften all over again, remembering that night.
‘Ahh, that’s nice,’ Miranda says, then goes to the kettle.
‘Gramps is awake, by the way; Isaid I’d make him a cup of tea.
Mind if Ijust. . . ?’
Tracey steps aside, leaving space at the sink for her to come in and fill the kettle.
‘Ididn’t know that about your first date with Dad,’ Miranda continues.
‘That’s very posh, going to a classical concert together.
Was he a bit slick, then, back in the day?’
Tracey smiles.
‘Not really.
One of his friends worked at the Barbican, he was always getting free tickets for things,’ she says.
‘All the same, it was very ro—’
‘The Barbican, did you say?’ Miranda is giving her a funny look, for some reason, standing there with the kettle in her hand.
‘And you heard this piece there? When was this, anyway?’
‘Turn the tap off, love, it’s full, look,’ Tracey says as water begins pouring out of the kettle’s spout.
‘Gosh, let me think.
The late eighties? Nineteen eighty-eight possibly?’
Miranda is still looking weird.
‘Oh my God.
Do you remember what the cellist looked like, by any chance?’
‘The cellist? No! How could I? Iwas too busy falling in love with your dad,’ Tracey says, steeped in nostalgia.
Before that point in the evening, she had enjoyed watching the musicians concentrating so intently and the spectacle of the conductor, and the music had been wonderful too, swelling around the auditorium.
But it was during this piece, ‘The Swan’, played only by the cellist and the pianist, that Tracey found herself unexpectedly moved.
More than that, actually; she felt utterly overcome, as if the music was speaking directly to a part of her that she didn’t even know was there before.
It was only as the piece ended that she realised she had reached for Paul’s hand at some point during it, as if the romance of the music had taken her over completely.
Then she’d glanced at him to see that he was smiling back at her, shiny-eyed, and he’d squeezed her hand in his.
It felt nice, she realised.
Right.
Certainly enough to sweep her through the rest of the concert, and all the way back to his small flat in Tooting, and his creaking double bed.
‘There’s a reason that your dad’s always joking we nearly called you Swanhilda, you know,’ she blurts out suddenly.
Oh dear, that’s lunchtime wine for you.
‘Sorry, forget Isaid that.
TMI, or whatever you and Imogen say.’
But to her surprise, Miranda’s laughing as if something has delighted her.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she says, putting the kettle down and suddenly hugging her.
‘That’s just made my day.
That makes me so, so happy.’
Tracey hugs her back, a little taken aback, not quite sure what’s going on but glad for her daughter’s professed happiness all the same.
The piece comes to an end– beautiful as ever– and Tracey sends up a silent prayer of gratitude to its composer, and also the cellist they saw that night.
They’ll never know the seismic part they played in Tracey’s life, she thinks, as she gives her daughter a final squeeze and lets go.
‘Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy,’ she tells her.
‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’