The Women of Pearl Island by Polly Crosby

Author:Polly Crosby [Crosby, Polly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008497439
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-09-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Marianne

Winter 1927–8

December washed over the island in a fine mist that drenched you before you’d taken two steps out of the house. Marianne relished the weather, enjoying the way it swallowed her up as soon as she went outside. Out there, she could pretend she was far away from the mysteries that were locked up inside the house. But by mid-December, the winds had intensified, keening through Dogger Bank like the cries of a hundred bereft children, and Marianne conceded that it was too wild outside even for her.

She and Nan sat by the fire in the sitting room, working on a jigsaw composed of hundreds of butterflies’ wings. At this time of year it always took a long time to thaw out after the Sunday service, the chapel so cold that their breath plumed above them into the air like a sea mist. From downstairs, deliciously delicate wafts of gebakken sole drifted up from the kitchen, and Marianne found her stomach rumbling in anticipation of the thin slivers of fish.

Nan went over to the piano, putting her hand covetously on the burnished lid that covered the keys. ‘Do you play?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard it since I’ve been here.’

‘No,’ Marianne said, getting up and following her over. ‘It belonged to Great-Grandmama. She always slapped my hand away when I asked to have a go. She said my fingers were far too fat to play well.’

Nan took Marianne’s hand in her own, examining her fingers. Nan’s own hands were slight and pale and perfect.

‘They look fine to me,’ she said, squeezing her hand briefly. She touched the gleaming piano lid, stroking it as if it were made of gold. ‘May I?’ she asked.

‘Of course. I didn’t know you played.’

‘I don’t. Not very well, at least. My mother taught me a few songs when I was little.’ She sat at the stool and lifted the lid, taking in the long stretch of keys before her. They were an unusual shade of brown, with thin, rigid lines running down each one. The smaller keys were dark blue and shiny. Nan looked up, puzzled.

‘Oh, it was commissioned for my great-great-grandmother,’ Marianne explained. ‘The keys are baleen and mussel shell.’

Nan nodded, and placed her fingers on them lightly. With a quick inhalation of breath, she began to play.

The piano had not been touched in a long time, and it was in need of a tune, but the soft, sad notes rose into the room. The sound was silvery, like sea water might sound, and Marianne watched, mesmerised.

When she stopped playing, Marianne said, ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Shall I teach you?’

‘What, with my fat fingers?’

Nan laughed, and shifted along the seat so that Marianne could sit down.

They spent the afternoon absorbed, the notes flowing from the piano, laughing at their mistakes. At one point, Mama came into the room to listen, stopping at the door so as not to disturb them.

When they had finally had enough, Nan closed the piano’s lid, and Marianne wriggled her stiff fingers, finding a sort of satisfied pleasure in the ache that thrummed through them.

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