Eva Ibbotson - The Morning Gift

And soon Mr Hoyle’s notebook began to fill up with useful anecdotes. Dr Levy told how he had assisted with the removal of an anchovy from the back of the Archduke Otto’s throat; Paul Ziller described being hit by a tomato during the premiere of Schönberg’s Verklärte Nacht and von Hofmann recounted the classic story of Tosca bouncing back from a too tightly stretched trampoline after her suicidal leap from the ramparts.

But it was at the Willow’s waitress, as she too shared her memories, that Mr Hoyle looked most eagerly, for he knew now what was missing from his story. Love was what was missing. Love and youth and a central theme. A young girl waiting for her man, working for him. Who wanted suitcases when all was said and done? Love was what they wanted. Love in the Willow Tea Rooms… Love in Vienna and Belsize Park. If only she would talk to him, he would sell his story, he was sure of that.

And Ruth did talk to him; talking about Heini was her pleasure and delight. As she whisked between the tables with her tray, she told him of Heini’s triumphs at the Conservatoire and how he had been inspired, in the meadow above the Grundlsee, to write an Alpine étude. He learnt of Heini’s passion for Maroni, the sweet chestnuts roasted everywhere on street corners in the Inner City — and that at the age of twelve he had played a Mozart concerto based on the song of a starling which surprised Mr Hoyle who had thought of starlings as raucous despoilers on the roofs of railway stations.

‘But you’ll see, he’ll play it here,’ said Ruth, ‘and you must absolutely promise to come!’

An hour later, Mr Hoyle closed his notebook and took his leave. Nor was he slow to show his gratitude. Coming to clear the tables at closing time, Ruth found, under his plate, a crisply folded note which she carried joyfully into the kitchen.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘Just look! Can you believe it? A whole ten-shilling note!’

‘You’ve got enough, then?’ asked Mrs Burtt.

‘I’ve got enough!’

The piano was expected in the middle of the morning, but Leonie had been up since six o’clock, cleaning the rooms, reblocking the mouseholes, polishing and dusting. By seven o’clock, she had begun to bake and here she was destined to run into trouble.

Leonie was relatively indifferent to the arrival of Heini’s piano, but Ruth was bringing her friends to celebrate and that was important. Not Verena Plackett, who did not figure large in Ruth’s accounts of her days, but Priscilla Yarrowby and Sam and Janet, and the Welshman who had discovered the piano in an obscure shop on the way back from the rugby field.

If her husband had been with her, Leonie would have found it difficult to provide suitable refreshment, for the food budget was desperately tight, but the absence of the professor — much as she missed him — meant they had been able to eat potatoes and apple purée made from the windfalls Mishak collected on his rambles and save.

Leonie accordingly had saved, and bought two kilos of fine flour… had bought freshly ground almonds and icing sugar and unsalted butter and the very finest vanilla pods — and by nine o’clock was removing from the oven batch after batch of perfectly baked vanilla Kipferl.

At which point her plans for the morning began to go wrong. Leonie wanted Mishak to stay and meet Ruth’s friends — she always wanted Mishak — but what she wanted Hilda to do was go to the British Museum and what she wanted Fräulein Lutzenholler to do was go up the hill and look at Freud.

She had reckoned without the power of the human nose to unlock emotion and recall the past. Hilda came first, stumbling out of the bedroom in her dressing-gown.

‘It is true, then,’ she said. ‘I smelled them, but I thought it was a dream.’ And she decided that as it was a Saturday, she would not go to the museum, but work at home.

Fräulein Lutzenholler, her fierce face tilted in disbelief, came next, carrying her sponge bag. ‘Ah, yes: the piano,’ she said and added the dreaded words, ‘I will stay here and help.’

By the time the scent of freshly ground coffee came to blend with the warm, familiar scent of the thumb-sized crescents, it was clear that not only would no one voluntarily leave Number 27 that morning, but a great many others would come. Ziller, of course, had been invited, but presently Mrs Weiss arrived in a taxi and Mrs Burtt, whose day off it was, and then a lady from next door murmuring something ecstatic in Polish.

Thus Ruth, arriving with her friends, came to a house redolent of all the well-remembered smells and the sound of eager voices, and stopped for a moment, caught by the past, before she ran upstairs and threw her arms round Leonie.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have baked, but how marvellous,’ she said and rubbed her cheek against her mother’s.

Anyone Ruth was fond of would have been welcomed with warmth by Leonie, but in Pilly she detected, beneath the expensive clothes and Harrods handbag, just the kind of poor little scrap she had protected in Vienna. As for Sam, he was so overawed at being in the same room as Paul Ziller, all of whose records he had collected, that he could hardly speak. Even without the arrival of the piano, the gathering had all the makings of a splendid party.

But punctually at 11.30, the piano did arrive.

‘Easy does it,’ said the removal man, as removal men have said throughout the ages, trundling the upright down the ramp and into the house — and ‘steady there’, as they fastened ropes and pulleys to raise it to the top floor.

Steadiness was difficult. Fräulein Lutzenholler had escaped from the sitting room and was giving advice; Hilda hovered… But at last the job was done and the keys handed, with a courtly bow, to Ruth.

‘No, you unlock it, Huw,’ she said — and everyone felt the rightness of the gesture, for it was the huge, monosyllabic Welshman, doggedly searching the music shops of London, who had found, in a distant suburb near the college rugby field, exactly the piano Heini wanted: A Bösendorfer, one of the last to come out of the old workshops and famous for its sweetness of tone.

‘It makes it real now,’ Ruth said softly, touching the keys. ‘I can believe now that Heini is coming.’

‘Come on, try it,’ said Leonie, filling plates for the removal men, who thought they could leave now but found themselves mistaken.

Though one of the world’s best violinists was in the room, Ruth sat down without embarrassment and played a Schubert waltz — and Ziller smiled for it always touched him, this passion for music which had been hers since infancy and transcended all limitations of technique.

‘I suppose you wouldn’t, sir… I mean… you wouldn’t play?’ Sam, nervous but entreating, had come to stand beside him.

‘Of course.’

Ziller went to fetch his violin and played a Kreisler piece and a Beethoven bagatelle — and then he and Ruth began fooling about, giving imitations of the customers in the Hungarian restaurant trying not to tip the gypsies who came to their table — and presently a quite extraordinary sound was heard: a rusty, wheezing noise which no one had heard before: Fräulein Lutzenholler’s laughter.

It was Pilly who spoiled it all, poor Pilly who always got everything wrong.

‘Oh, Mrs Berger,’ she said impetuously, ‘please, please won’t you persuade Ruth to come on the field course with us? We want her to come so much!’

Leonie put down her coffee cup. ‘What course is this?’

Silence fell as Ruth looked with deep reproach at her friend and Pilly blushed scarlet.

‘It’s at Professor Somerville’s place,’ she stammered. ‘We’re all going. In three days’ time.’

‘I have heard nothing about this,’ said Leonie sternly.

‘It doesn’t matter, Mama,’ said Ruth quickly. ‘It’s just some practical work that happens in the autumn term, but I don’t need it.’

Leonie ignored her.

‘Everyone is going except Ruth?’

Pilly nodded. Desolate at having upset her friend she moved towards Uncle Mishak, as those in trouble go to lean against the trunks of trees and her eyes filled with tears.

Sam now entered the lists. ‘If Ruth hasn’t mentioned it, it’s because of the money. It costs quite a bit to go, but Pilly’s father has offered to pay for Ruth — he’s got more money than he knows what to do with and everyone knows how Ruth helps Pilly, but Ruth won’t hear of it. She’s as obstinate as a mule.’

‘It is Professor Somerville who is giving this course?’ Leonie asked.

‘Yes. And it’s the best in the country. We go to Bowmont and —’

Ruth now interrupted. ‘Mama, I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’m not taking money from Pilly and I’m not going and that’s the end of it.’

Leonie nodded. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. ‘To take money from friends is not good.’ She smiled warmly at Pilly. ‘Come, you will help me to make more coffee.’

Only when the students were leaving, did she take Sam aside.

‘It is Dr Felton who makes the arrangements for this course?’

‘That’s right. He’s a really nice man and he’s very keen for Ruth to go.’

‘And Professor Somerville? Is he also keen that she goes?’

Sam frowned. ‘He must be, she’s one of his best students. But he’s odd — they both are. I’ve hardly heard him and Ruth exchange a word since she came.’

Leonie now had the information she wanted. On a practical level, her course was clear — but how to deal with her obstinate daughter?

‘Mishak, you must help me,’ she said that evening, as the two of them sat alone in the sitting room which was in no way improved by the presence of the piano.

Mishak removed his long-stemmed pipe and examined the bowl to see if a few shreds of tobacco still adhered to it, but they did not.

‘You are going to sell your brooch,’ he stated.

‘Yes. Only how to make her go?’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Mishak. And Leonie, who had intended to do just that, hugged him and went to bed.

Quin had never had any fault to find with the behaviour of the people who worked at Bowmont, but as he drove through the village and up the hill, it seemed to him that everyone was in an unusually genial and benevolent mood. In spite of the rain driving in from the sea, Mrs Carter who kept the post office, the blacksmith at the forge and old Sutherland at the lodge, came out to smile and wave and several times as he stopped, his hand was shaken with a cordiality which seemed to hint at some particular pleasure lying in store for him in which they shared.

‘But you’ll be wanting to get along today,’ said Mrs Ridley at the farm when they had exchanged a few friendly words. ‘You’ll not be wanting to waste any more time, not today.’

Arriving at the house, he found Turton in a similar mood. The butler called him Master Quinton, a throwback to some twenty years ago and told him, beaming with good will, that drinks would be served in the drawing room in half an hour, giving him plenty of time to change.

This alone indicated more formality than Quin usually permitted, for he made it clear that when he came for the field course, he was here to work, but as he went inside he found further signs that all was not as usual. The hall at Bowmont, with its arbitrary collection of broadswords, incomprehensible tapestries and a weasel which the Basher had stuffed, but without success, was not a place in which anybody lingered. Today, though, in spite of his aunt’s conviction that warmth inside the house spelled softness and decay, the ancient deposit of pine cones in the grate had been replaced by a fire of brightly burning logs, and though flowers were seldom cut and brought indoors, Frances preferring to let her plants grow unmolested, the Chinese vase on the oak chest was filled with dahlias and chrysanthemums.

But it was his aunt’s attire as she came forward to welcome him, that confirmed his fears. Frances always changed for dinner, which meant that she replaced her lumpy tweed skirt by a slightly longer one of rusty silk — but there was one outfit which for decades had signalled a special occasion: a black chenille dress whose not noticeably plunging neckline was covered with an oriental shawl. It was this that she was wearing now, and Quin’s last hope of a quiet evening to prepare for his students vanished.

‘You look very splendid,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Do we have visitors?’

‘You know we do,’ said Aunt Frances, coming forward to give him her customary peck on the cheek. ‘I wrote to you. They’ll be down in a minute — you just have time to change.’