K = Chapter ten and eleven

The Piano Teacher

Chapters 10 and 11

by

Kim West

10

Denise had arrived back from the family's annual holiday in Southend a
day after the funeral. She had bought Edward a jar of sand and
seashells and in her innocence of the debacle, she ran straight off to
give them to him. There was no reply. The house was closed. It was the
same again the next day. She conjectured that Edward must have gone to
visit relatives, but that evening when her mother broke the news to
her, as related to her by the Postmistress, Denise passed out. At this
stage there was no notion of murder in the air. The news was simply,
but devastatingly, that her old piano teacher had suddenly died. That
day she went to stare into the eyes of Eartha Dublaine, who sat in
Edward's window seat, but wouldn't let her in.
It would have been impossible for her parents to gauge the depth of
Denise's feelings or to guess the extent of the effect this news would
have on her. In their eyes, Edward Stenton had been a great man who had
taken a special interest in their talented daughter. They knew she was
very dedicated to her piano lessons.

On her return from the house at Windsor Avenue, Denise went to bed for
days and slept. Her mother sat by her bed by day and her father by
night, like sentinels of their daughter's sanity. After this she
appeared pale, quieter, but seemed to have adjusted. Their daughter
was, in fact, an utter mystery to her parents, not that they would ever
had admitted to this. Denise seemed to have blocked the strongest of
her feelings successfully for the present. She had been expertly
trained. It was what this family did with small feelings, like those
niggling familiar sensations father found when mother produced
identical meals every Sunday. Somewhere deep down he yearned for a
change from this ritual, like the surprise appearance of bangers and
mash out of their Tuesday slot, Nestling over the top of such reckless
possibilities was the comfort of gravy and the reassurance offered by
meat, two veg, Yorkshire pudding and the continuity of it all. He could
never really dream of suggesting any changes, but his regular sigh as
the Sunday dinner arrived, always causing mother to look up, touches
the implication of a man packing his feelings down tight.
"Thank you mother. That was grand. As usual," he would always confirm,
Denise concurring. Mother could once more glow modestly, proud of her
success at maintaining their household round.

This small family held to an unwritten protocol that there would be no
sense in expressing negative feelings. If things itched, they endured
the itching until it stopped. If mother actually secretly yearned to
live an exotic and extravagant life, that was something she would tell
no one. These ideas very tightly reigned in, found their outlet in the
soap operas she engaged with.

So Denise was left entirely to her own devises with her newly shattered
world. When she awoke further to a terrifying recognition that Edward
had not "died suddenly", but at the murderous hands of Eartha Dublaine,
a huge shocking anger surged in her. She felt inadequate and powerless,
by dint of not having become in any formal way included in his life.
Had she been his wife this would never have happened. Had she been his
housekeeper, that Dublaine woman could not have intruded. She raged.
Had she not gone on holiday, she could perhaps have saved him. She held
tight to a mask of normality, but internally things were shifted beyond
repair. No way to return to those wonderful moments with him, other
than in her imagination and her memory. Splinters or fury jabbed into
her, making her rehearse and re-rehearse the actions of that dreadful
woman, until she had to pull them out and bury them deeper to escape
them. She howled and ached. She tore inside. She was in agony. Yet she
was only quiet and withdrawn to the world outside.
The suddenness of such appalling news had been like travelling on a
train into a tunnel with one life and coming out the other side with
another. Denise had woken up one day to find that she was so alone and
the one she adored brutally denied her. Things seemed to slip just out
of her grasp. She felt weaker and weaker as childlike, she sat in her
bed, rubbing and rubbing at her eyes and repeating the words:

"Go away you nightmare and let me wake to the real world," as her
flesh crept with the fearful certainty that this was the real
world.

11

In a state of internal dislocation a year drizzled by. To her parents
and others, Denise seemed eventually to adjust and even to accept. A
mundane existence provided a weekly round and daily coping rituals. She
drowned her grief in the ordinariness of things and thus made a blend
with the world around her. The dullness of her working round seemed to
have subdued her grieving.

She received her invitation two weeks before Steph's party, their
alterations to Edward's house now completed. Her mother had placed it
beside her cup at the breakfast table and both parents watched
inquisitively as she carefully cut open the envelope with her knife and
pulled out a mauve card:

"Please come to our Housewarming Party Denise.
Bring a bottle
7.00 till late. Saturday 9th September."

On the card, there were balloons and merry uncorked champagne bottles
in pink and gold. There was the address of her old piano teacher made
new by the prefix of Steph and Harry's full names and titles. There was
a shudder in Denise's heart, as her mother enquired quietly,

"What is it dear?" Denise handed the invitation over for scrutiny. It
was a garish thing to arrive in this modest home. A household
accustomed to straight laced Christmas cards from distant relatives and
the next door neighbour, or cards which were loyally emblazoned; "Happy
Birthday Dear Father" or "Happy Mothers Day to a Wonderful Mum", or
even that one which recently offered. "Congratulations on Passing Your
Driving Test", after Denise's third attempt at this landmark. But a
party invitation from someone who was almost a stranger felt awkward
and unsettling. Her father picked up the paper and shook it out, to
break the silence. Denise took back the card from her mother and left
for work.

She tortured herself during the next week trying to decide whether or
not to go. Initially she had felt a resounding, "Not if they came and
dragged me there." This mellowed to; " I don't think so". After a week
of such certainty she then started to waver as curiosity gnawed, aided
by her mother's unshakeable insistence that of course she was going
because it was rude not to. Three days before the party, she decided
she would go but would leave early.

It could have been her coming out party for all the excitement this
event was causing her parents. They seemed enormously and so
embarrassingly proud of their daughter's invitation. A year had passed
since Edward's murder, yet privately Denise was still vividly awash
with conflicting emotions. In her year of quietness she had now become
almost socially reclusive. She had forged a way on foot back into that
train tunnel and had been desperately trying not to come out. She knew
that Edward Stenton's house was going to be entirely different. She had
only seen it from the outside, on little detours she had taken on her
way to catch the bus. She wondered if other of his family members would
be there. She wondered how easy it would be to avoid thinking about his
horrible death. Would she again feel his presence?

That afternoon, she rang to confirm her attendance and Steph seemed
delighted.
"Oh Denise, I'm so pleased. There are so many people who want to meet
you."
These words made her spirits droop. As she replaced the receiver, her
mother came out of the kitchen fumbling with her purse.

"Denise, your father and I have a little put by and we would like you
to go and get yourself something new for the party. Lord knows, you
deserve this." Her mother pulled out three twenty-pound notes and
placed them into Denise's hand.

"Now your dad says take the car and make sure that you're back by five
o'clock."

She thanked her and drove to town. Her mother's simple ways earthed
her. Finding herself, uncharacteristically, in an exclusive little
boutique, she flicked through rail upon rail of beautiful clothes. She
found that she was thinking, as usual, of Edward. She wondered how he
would have liked to see her dress and tried to excavate memories with
which she could frame his possible preferences. He had dressed in
darker tones of green and rust. His music room curtains were burgundy
brocade. She pulled out a selection in these shades and retired to the
changing rooms, turning down help from the assistant, who seemed to
take this sort of independence quite personally and sulked and fidgeted
by her counter, awaiting the opportunity of a more outward-going and
compliant lady customer.

Denise was unaccustomed to the mirror's full-length view, which the
privacy of the tiny cubicle she entered allowed. She had never looked
at herself in her underwear before. She quickly grabbed a jade coloured
silk dress and swished it over her head, as she glimpsed something
old-maidish in her appearance. This dress was a vast tent upon her
twig-like form and as she struggled to remove the noisy cumbersome
thing, she cursed it loudly. The sulking assistant, still without a
real customer to be of service to winced but stoically moved to
reiterate her offer.

"Can I be of assistance now, madam?"
"No," came the curt response.

Feeling the colour rise in her cheeks, but ever mindful of her proper
place, the assistant took in a sharp snort of air through her nose,
pursed her lips tightly and minced painfully back to her counter on
4-inch heels and un-fashionable seamed stockings.

Meanwhile, Denise sat dejected in her cubicle, dreading the ghastliness
of the next dress. A deep breath later, she squeezed into a burgundy
strapless number. The zip would not meet and her rather sensible bra
hung out of it at the front. She realised that she had not looked at
sizes in her haste to choose colours that he would approve. This was a
nightmare. She felt like Goldilocks in the three bears' house.

"This ghastly dress is too big and this ghastly dress is too small,"
she muttered, much to the discomfort of the already perturbed shop
assistant, who could hear her.

Denise felt that her luck so far must mean the third dress would be
"just right". It was not however, as it hung in gloomy droops of dull
brown around her shapeless figure, needing a more jaunty curvaceous
form to realise its potential.

"Oh God!" she exclaimed, as she turned to see herself thus
unflattered.

"Oh God!" she shouted angrily

"Is madam alright?"

"No."

"Can I help?

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"These dresses are all the wrong size."

"I can help you with that."

"I don't like them."

The shop door opened and a tall woman and her daughter strode in.

"Perhaps if madam pops them out to me, I can suggest something more
suitable."

The three ghastly dresses were unceremoniously shoved one by one
through a tiny gap in the curtain. The assistant received this armful
with the very best of good grace, turning to also welcome her new
customer with a friendly wave.

"If I can be of assistance madam, please let me know," she called
politely, but the tall woman ignored her.

Returning to her now captive client, the assistant established details
of size and occasion and proceeded to gather her own selection with
confidence. Each one was presented to Denise very discreetly, through
the tiny gap.

"This one madam could be very flattering. Try it on and see what you
think."

Ghastly dress after ghastly dress was thrust through. Purple and amber
seemed to be this woman's favourite colours. Trapped in her underwear,
waiting for the persistent woman to choose some other creation for her
to humiliate herself with, she began to weep.

"I don't like purple!" she wailed

"Madam. Try this green one. It might just do the trick," as a luminous
green and pink chiffon number popped itself through the gap, slumped
off its hanger and flopped onto the floor like an unwanted clown.
Denise sat, head in hands, rocking back and forth.

"No! no! no!" she cried with passion.
The tall woman and her daughter quickly left the shop. The assistant
cleared her throat, straightened her suit jacket, and allowed her head
to wobble a little.

"Madam, may I suggest that you try shopping on another day when you are
feeling a little better?"

Denise somehow managed to gather her wits, dress in her own modest
tones and come out to face her.

"I am so sorry, Madam," muttered the assistant, still clutching the
green and pink chiffon number in one hand, as she opened the shop door
for Denise, who was by now mute.

Denise wandered around the town for a while recovering, until in a
chain store window she found a bottle green two piece. Quickly, and
with the minimum of communication, she purchased it. She did not feel
that she had found the treasure of beautiful dress, but the outfit had
instantly won favour by reminding her of the colour of Edward's old
jumper. At home, her mother nodded with approval and declared it "very
smart".