As one sits huddled before the fire on a frigid evening, recollections of bright, hot summers play about the senses, bringing flashes of warmth to the spirit. It has been a damp and harsh winter with many a night of half-sleep; unwelcome memories lodge themselves in the forefront of my thoughts, rehearsing and growing until they are unmoveable. A particular summer plays persistently in my mind’s eye as I stare into the gently hissing flames, like one of those strange moving pictures flickering in the dark.

—————

The journey from the city was less than a hundred miles, but the distance seemed like that between London and Bombay. After a year of productive and astounding mental exercise at university, I was to spend the long vacation at the humble country home of close relatives, whose main attraction was their possession of a deep-red grand piano in a large, sun-filled back parlour. *

The lady of the house, whom I will call "Madame" (no real names are used in this narrative) was a greying, ballerina-like figure whose French accent had been worn down by many years of English weather, and who passed a great deal of time outside visiting with her garden gnomes. Madame was quietly amused by my performances upon either the slightly mistuned piano or the well-worn strings of my violin; however, the gentleman of the house was quite annoyed by my persistence in repeating this practice throughout the evenings, and the "Master" would either insist on his favourite folk tune or the complete cessation of music, according to his unpredictable mood. Unfortunately, the couple’s agreement on any other issue was no more congruent than on this one.

I entrenched myself, my trunk, and my violin in a room at the end of the upstairs passage. The chamber was modest and dark but effectively private, with a view of the elaborate garden, and only the occasional thumping of boots on the stairs to disturb my introspection. Both the home and the nearby village possessed the standard benefits and comforts of life, without ostentation, and without challenge to the intellect. Although I was uneasy as a guest in this residence I did enjoy the brief respite from pursuing my studies; in all honesty, I had become accustomed over the past year to spending as much time at the opera, theatre, and concert hall as in the lecture hall, and I had even been able to perform as a violinist in one or two productions--but, of course, these entangled tales would fill another notebook. On any given school day I was just as likely to be staring at the notes of the F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy concerto than those of a chemistry experiment, and fingering my violin strings rather than a textbook on anatomy. My mother always did wish me to be a musician; my father’s disapproval may have weakened her musical desires, but it did nothing to dampen my own. Of course, the violin work to which I refer is the one in E-minor; I had not been able to forget the haunting theme of the Allegro molto appassionato since I was fortunate enough to witness one of Joachim’s* brilliant performances the previous winter. I was rather obsessed with memorising the entire piece, the problem being that I would occasionally become involved in a section only to realise that I had added my own embellishments. Improvisation always came to me more easily than memorisation; it is less difficult to compose than to absorb the thoughts of another, although, the process of analysing a composition is often even more delightful than playing it.

When not entranced by the muse I spent the balance of my time in either my room or the library, reading, idling and dreaming, as the young and aimless are wont to do. And when my hosts pressed for conversation I was suddenly taken by energetic fits that required long, solitary walks across the neighbouring fields with pipe in hand. These escapes brought forth external pleasures from the glowing, chirping countryside, and internal amusement from the constant inner voice which filled my head with warm memories, careless wonderings, and meandering musical phrases.

Meals were mandatory at my lodging place, and luncheons tended to be the most inconvenient. Although breakfast was generally unwelcome it could sometimes be received on a bed-tray brought up by Lisette, the maid-of-all-work, only ten years my senior but insufferably slow, rotund, and complacent. My joy in rebuking her was tinged with grief; she was the niece of our former housekeeper, who had been a warm, attentive and loving woman, and who had regrettably passed away last winter. Lisette inherited none of her aunt’s exceptional traits; she displayed an insufferable air of arrogance despite her position, and a cavalier attitude toward bothering to learn proper English. At the least, she seemed convinced by my pretended ignorance of French. After a dozen daily table feedings my storehouse of inoffensive small talk was completely depleted, and this endless chit-chat was made especially difficult by the master’s routine work-day appearances at lunch. One such conversation with my hosts, however, at last yielded an interesting prospect.

A typical luncheon required the presence of my pensive self, the gossiping Madame, the oblivious Master, and an incessant supply of food, provided by the plodding Lisette. I customarily chose the seat in front of the sideboard and across from the window, placing the lady to my right and the glimpse of nature square in front; the gentleman sat at the end of the table to my left, conveniently beyond my line of sight. My focus was usually divided between my place and the window, but toward the end of this particular meal I could not ignore the excitement glowing within Madame’s eyes as her fork and knife danced across her plate.

"I was speaking to Mrs. Elton at the market this morning," she bubbled. "You may know her--she lives in that lovely yellow house at the turn of the road. Well, she invited me round for tea this afternoon."

The Master gave no response except for a clinking of silverware.

"Mmmm," I offered, carefully chewing the Welsh hen and eyeing the strands of sunlight straining to break through the curtains.

She joyfully took her last bit of food and sipped from her wineglass, then fixed her large brown eyes on mine. "I asked if it would be all right to bring you along."

I swallowed the poultry with difficulty, and glared down at my nearly full plate. My fork swung nervously and swept the neat pile of peas into disarray. Lisette is generous to a fault, I frowned. Perhaps if she prepared less food, then she would require less fabric for her dress.

Madame smiled and brushed a wisp of greying hair from her bony cheek. "Don’t fret, dear; there will be someone else your age there. She has a lovely daughter called Jane, who, she tells me, is looking forward to meeting you."

The bite of hen caught in my throat and refused to descend, causing my eyes to water and lungs to convulse. I snatched up my glass and drank deeply to quell the coughing as an annoyed rustling sounded in my left ear. I turned and noticed that the Master had finished his plate in good time and hidden himself behind the thin local newspaper. He had already moved over to the second page, with his still, gripped fingers indicating a deep interest.

"What are you reading, sir?" said I, hoarsely, after the water washed the way clear.

"Uh," he grunted, "it’s that blasted pond."

"I beg your pardon?"

The paper lowered a few inches, revealing thin, grizzled hair and narrow grey eyes over its top edge. "The pond on the "Smith" estate. The council want him to drain it or fill it in, but he won’t oblige."

"Ah," I sighed, quite disappointed. I glanced over at the lady, who cast a querying look in my direction. I turned back to the hard eyes behind the paper.

"Why would they want him to eradicate his own pond?"

"They’ve decided that it’s too dangerous," said the eyes.

"Oh?"

"A boy drowned last month, and they’re trying to avoid any more accidents."

"I see." I took another sip of water and felt more able to breathe freely. "They are being rather careful, aren’t they?"

"Hmmp! It’s happened enough already!"

"It’s happened before?"

"Yes, altogether five boys have drowned in that pond. They dive into the water and hit their heads on the rocks at the bottom." The paper wavered and rustled. "The first boy eight years ago, the second one, hmm, five years ago, the third and fourth two years ago, and this last one--"

"Third and fourth?" I set down my glass. The newspaper jerked and shivered.

"Both found together. Smith says he cannot remove the rocks because they are too numerous and too large. Listen to this: ‘The doctor insists that he has done everything possible to restrict access to his property, including substantial fencing and vicious guard dogs, but remarks that the boys have always come to swim and dive in the pond, and will continue to do so despite any of his efforts to dissuade them. Smith firmly states his refusal to fill in the pond, citing its age and tradition, with sentimental value to himself and his family.’ Huh. Council are going to issue a grievance against him."

Something about the double drowning caught my attention, and became a curious riddle with no obvious answer. How do two boys dive into a pond and drown--simultaneously?

"Is the estate very large?"

"Mmm."

"But if there are fences around the grounds, and dogs roaming about, how do the boys get in?"

"You know how those ragamuffins are. No regard for private property. If it gets warm, and they have a mind to it..."

"Yes, but if it is so dangerous, why do they want to swim there at all?"

The squinting eyes stared down into the paper.

"Anything else I can get for you, dear?" the lady chimed in.

"No, thank you. He is a medical doctor, sir?"

"Hmm?" said the eyes. "Yes, he was a specialist in digestive disorders. Worked up enough of a pile to sell his practice and buy that estate."

"He must have servants to watch over the grounds."

"Mmm."

Madame picked up her glass and interjected, "Actually, I’ve heard that he has only a butler and a driver, and no other house servants. They say that Mrs. Smith is very peculiar and insists on attending to everything in the household herself. You know, I believe they’ve been married for a good ten years, and have no children." She wagged her head meaningfully, and ran her finger absent-mindedly around the rim of the wineglass.

"Oh?" I blinked, with all the innocence I could muster.

"If what I hear is true, she spends all her time hidden away in that huge house, and she’s hardly seen by anyone. But the queer thing is that the doctor is rather gregarious and loves to give dinner parties." She sipped thoughtfully; her French accent tended to bubble to the fore with the second glass of wine. "It could be that he’s ashamed of her, because I hear that she’s not very pleasant or attractive. Who knows what she must be like if they can’t even keep a maid! The situation seems rather strange, don’t you think?"

"It’s quite intriguing. If I may be excused, I should very much like to go for a walk around that estate."

"But dear, you certainly wouldn’t be welcome there, and besides, it’s much too far for a walk."

I folded my napkin into thirds, and placed it on the table. "Well, I’d like it, all the same."

The lady raised her eyebrows and turned her eyes expectantly toward the fingers stolidly gripping the newspaper; she waited for a telltale shift before she released her gaze and returned to the wineglass.

"I suppose you could," she muttered, and finished off the wine. Her usual acquiescent tone was clouded with an air of disappointment.

I suggested that I could share the carriage-ride into town as the master returned to work, and retain the services of the driver for the afternoon. (The village was only about three miles to the north, but the Master was not at the peak of fitness and took the coach as a rule.) This plan was reluctantly accepted, with the stipulation that I must not be late for tea. I murmured my agreement and made a quick exit from the table.

—————

The rambling, overgrown Smith estate was some distance from my residence--indeed, quite some distance from anywhere. This area had once been a desirable one but was circumvented by the building of the railway station on the other side of the village, and some of the old Georgian structures to the north lay abandoned and crumbling. This modest estate was tucked away in an entangled, overgrown tract, down a narrow and weed-infested road. From the black iron gate one could only see the silhouette of an ageing Tudor-style house tucked away behind the trees, as a sullied stone fence stretched out along the road and disappeared in both directions.

I left the driver with instructions to return to the gate in one hour, and my stroll began with the fence on my right side. The fence seemed solid enough; it stood about six feet high, and although it was not impossible to climb I supposed that it would be rather imposing if a small boy were on the opposite side with a large, sharp-toothed dog coming behind.

Ten minutes had not yet passed when angry barking approached from the distance, and three unfriendly Alsatians bounded to the fence with admirable speed; their snarling jaws snapped futilely behind the stone barrier. I continued my walk with noisy disapproval from the sentinels until I reached the limit of the property. As a test I extended a hand over the fence and discovered that the bite was not far behind the bark; three snapping muzzles sprayed my fingers with hot breath and cold slobber, voicing their frustration with piercing howls.

I withdrew and moved across the road in order to reduce the shrieking reprimands to rumbling snarls, and I followed the fence back to the other side of the property, the anxious trio shadowing every step. The grounds were heavy with shrubs and trees, some old, many newer, and from the ill-kempt condition of the foliage I was certain that the gardener was not overworked. The portentous pond must have been set far back into the grounds, since I could see no sign of it from the road.

I found a comfortable rock across from the front gate, and as I seated myself I reached for my tobacco pouch, which had become a frequent and comforting habit during the last fortnight. The act of smoking was not only conducive to contemplation, but was also, conveniently, disliked by my hosts.

As the smoke curled upward and disappeared into the gentle breeze I first considered the most obvious question: how did the boys get to the pond undamaged enough to swim in it? The swimmers would be required to run faster than the dogs, which seemed healthy and vicious enough to make such boy-hunting sport easy, or else the boys should have to creep through the grounds invisibly and more silent than squirrels. I wondered if there had been many instances of dog bite amongst the local boys, and if not, what sort of interesting method they used to avoid it.

My second pondering: why were the boys so adamant about swimming in this pond? I wondered if the adventure alone was enough to attract such attention, since this area was not known for its blazing heat, even in high summer. Often the denial of an action can increase its desirability; even the likelihood of injury can add a thrilling sense of danger. Perhaps the boys were participating on a dare or in some sort of competition. This would be rather difficult to sniff out, since my days of boyhood were clearly over, and I would have to approach the subject with creativity.

As these deliberations danced in my head I was filled with a smouldering, simmering exhilaration, as though the heat from the rock under me had set my spirit alight. The long days of boredom evaporated with the smoke; an inviting, unexplored path opened up before me--

A churning, crunching sound broke my thoughts. The unwelcome coach rattled down the road and approached my stone-like figure, kicking up clouds of dust and thoughts of tea.

—————

I sat back in my chair, unmoving, studying the interlocking patterns of lace framing the open window. A warm breath of air moved across my face and into the room, a breeze sufficient to exchange the sweet, stifling air inside the cosy house with equally stifling outside air. Distant wisps of white cloud against blue-grey sky drifted through the slice of non-curtained daylight; I longed for a few wisps of smoke to circle up and around my head.

"More cake? There’s plenty to go round," a harsh, provincial voice intruded.

"Thank you, but no, madam," I intoned, nodding in her direction. "It was entirely delightful, but rather rich for my miserly appetite."

Years of practice had left me able to respond to essential phrases of a conversation whilst paying the least possible attention to it. I returned my focus to the window.

Our hostess turned her attention to the chair on my left. "I don’t suppose you would...?"

"Ah, but no, my dear, you know that I cannot take too many sweets," replied Madame, rearranging the doily under her teacup with slender, darting fingers.

"For you, dear?" insisted the robust woman.

"Yes, mother, just a small piece. It is too delicious to refuse," Jane obliged, although her tone belied a complete disinterest in food. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she took a tiny sip of tea with full, gently curved lips, then set her cup on the saucer with a gentle rattling noise, a sound which caused her cheeks to flush with embarrassment.

I tightened my lips with unspoken contempt. This little gathering fully deserved my initial scepticism; I had long since lost any tolerance for social airs, and only kept occupied on these occasions with making judgements of character based on immediate observations. Our hostess for this afternoon, a square-shaped woman with deep-set eyes, displayed a voice of more than necessary volume and a manner of insecure authority, and most of her comments were dressed up in a rather forced gentility. Since three-quarters of her chattering referred to her three older and comfortably married daughters, I concluded that her behaviour was the means to an end, one which did not interest me in the least.

Although I had no use for the matriarch and her plans, I had eventually found interest in observing Jane’s similar disregard for the mind-numbing conversation. I am familiar enough with the glances and shy smiles of flirtation, and I could recognise none of these on Jane’s face. She spoke obligingly only when spoken to and showed little response to her mother’s obsession with rich food and bouncing grand-babies. Her speech was just soft enough to force one’s attention to hear it, and her dancing, expressive voice reminded me of someone quietly humming a folk song. A few auburn curls framed her pale, faintly freckled face, the rest tucked away behind. Her eyes were more difficult to observe as they were consistently aimed at the bottom of her teacup, which would wobble precariously in her left hand. She had spent the previous twenty minutes nibbling at her first slice of cake, speaking tersely about horses, and asking leading questions about the best methods of pruning flower bushes, which resulted in lengthy and self-involving replies from the two older ladies.

"I make no claim to be a great gardener, myself," Madame happily chatted, "although I do find that it improves my painting. Not only do I better my knowledge of plants and their structure, but it also seems to increase the strength in my hands."*

"That is quite fascinating. Isn’t it, Jane? Jane is also very interested in gardening and painting. In fact, that painting up there, over the piano--she made that one last year. Isn’t it lovely?"

I glanced up. The canvas was washed with green, blue and yellow foliage, all swirling around a tiny, grey-white maiden in the lower right. I was surprised by its strong colours, and the freedom of its composition; the lone figure seemed to be swimming in an ocean of colour.

Madame bobbed her head with practised concurrence. "What a joy it is that the skills of the hands should bring such warmth to the heart. It is a happy coexistence: the painting, gardening and playing of the piano all improve my--oh, what is the word?--my dexterity."

"Ah, yes," boomed our hostess, slicing a large piece of cake, "and the young man here certainly must possess a remarkable talent for dexterity. I have heard so many wonderful things about your performing abilities, my dear."

I nodded politely, staring at the fluttering, dusty curtains, which resembled a dying moth in the sunlight. Out of one eye I noticed Jane reach awkwardly across the table with the plate held in her left hand, although her mother was seated to her right.

"One might almost think that he has made a deal with the devil to play so fantastically!" Madame laughed, a bit too loudly and too long, and I could not prevent my facial muscles from contracting momentarily. "He is so talented that in future I would not be surprised to see him leading an orchestra in the performance of his own compositions. But he certainly does not play as much as he would like, do you, maestro? In fact, with three musicians here, we must put on our own music recital! We could have a lovely violin sonata, and play Chopin etudes. Jane, do you know any Chopin? Of course, you can play whatever you like. Oh, but I have some charming pieces for piano four-hands--you could play them with me!"

"Oh, no--I’d rather not, really," Jane stammered.

I turned my head away from the window to observe this novel show of spirit more closely. Jane’s cheeks were flushed, and her hazel-green eyes were wide.

"I beg your pardon, but I am much too...too nervous to play the piano in front of people. I would very much enjoy your performances, if you would like to play, of course, but, em..."

Her voice trailed away into mortified silence, and her eyelids dropped. She placed her plate down on the table with great care and took up the fork in her left hand.

"Jane is shy," thundered her mother, re-arranging the silver utensils, "although she has no reason to be. She is a very talented piano player as well; she just needs more practice, that’s all."

I watched Jane aim the fork awkwardly, break off the tiniest bite of cake, and guide the fluff of crumbs to her lips. Her sincerity and defiance sparked a reaction within me, and I found it impossible to resist an interjection.

"I am glad that you still enjoy riding horses, Miss Elton, even since your accident," I remarked, picking up my teacup and eyeing its remaining contents.

All movement stopped, including the gently waving curtains and, I believe, the breathing of the three women present. It was the first unsolicited comment from my lips since our arrival. Apparently the remark was accurate, but rather more sensational than I had expected. I looked up from my cup to receive a surprised look from Madame, a confused frown from our looming hostess, and a growing look of alarm upon poor Jane’s face.

"Why, I...I do. I..." Jane glanced at her mother, whose face grew darker by the moment.

"Oh?" the large woman growled, drawing the word out until it faded away in the musty air.

"Well, yes, I have ridden a little..." Jane’s fork shook, suspended over the forgotten wedge of yellow cake.

"She still rides, yes, but she is very, very careful," the woman announced in a voice fit to be heard in the garden, and scowled briefly at Madame, who responded with a slight, mystified shake of her head. "And no jumping."

"Yes," nodded Jane; it was more a whimper than a word.

"Of course," said I, with a clear memory of a recent afternoon’s walk in the neighbourhood, observing the young lady’s distant figure cantering gently across the fields with more than one hedge left behind in her path.

"I was not aware," the woman glared at Madame, "that you had spoken to him about Jane’s little mishap."

The lady’s mouth was open. "I didn’t speak of it, Anna, not a word--"

I raised a hand to waive off her protest. "I beg your pardon, madam, I did not mean to intrude into private matters. I merely deduced the accident from the existence of the injury, which appears to have occurred within recent months, and now prevents Miss Elton from holding a plate or cup in her right hand, which is either weakened or limited in range of motion. Also, her right sleeve is looser than the left, which indicates some muscular atrophy. She has adapted admirably, but has not yet become proficient at drinking tea with her left hand. In addition, I noticed the favouring of the right leg as she walked and carefully took her seat, which is consistent with a fall onto the right side."

I took in the remains of my cup whilst the ladies cast desperate glances around the table. Jane seemed hopelessly immobilised save for the trembling fork in her hand; it touched the plate for a moment and vibrated with a gentle buzz.

I swallowed the last drops of tepid tea. "I once had some disabling pain in my left shoulder, which caused me to lay down my violin for many weeks. These things pass, however, and can be overcome through sensible action and mental persistence, which can have a remarkably positive effect." I placed my cup on the table and looked over to the stately grand piano; sheets of music were stacked neatly on its closed lid, showing the slight dullness of collected dust.

"As you have given horses a second chance, please do not allow yourself to declare the piano a lost cause." I offered a warm smile to white-faced Jane.

The two older women sat transfixed. The large one’s scowl had faded to nothing, the petite one displayed a hopeful expression. But Jane lowered her head and gazed into her plate, her face deeply, and completely, despondent.

"Well," offered Madame, smiling thinly, "with such a gift for diagnosis, he would certainly make a remarkable physician, would he not?"

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