‘I just want you to be like other women your age …’
‘Well, Idon’t,sohaud your wheesht,mither,’ I say in my best Scots, covering her mouth with my hand, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Away you go, or you’ll be late for the concert.’
‘Bye, smiler,’ says Dad, pressing his icy cold lips to my forehead. ‘I’m so proud of my wee girl.’ Lowering his voice he continues, ‘And though she may not say as much, your mother is too.’
‘Really?’ I ask,that longing for approval never far away. ‘You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?’
‘You should have heard her during the interval, telling anyone who’d listen that that was her daughter up there. Couldn’t bloody well shut her up.’
* * *
Wien Westbahnhof(Vienna West Station) – the following week
‘Do not turn around,’ a stern, heavily accented Eastern European warns me.‘And listen carefully to your instructions. You will be met by Smollensky under the clock at Passau station. The code word is “loon”.’
‘Oliver, youSchwein! You almost had me going then,’ I say, spinning on my heels and batting him playfully with my bag.
‘The Salzburg train leaves from platform six, I believe,’ he says, removing his shades and consulting Gerhard’s list of directions. ‘Wechange at somewhere called … Attnang Puchheim for Bad Aussee.’
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Mags, appearing at my side with three delicious-smelling coffees. ‘So sweet of Gerhard to invite us.’
Austria has more saints than you can shake a ski pole at, and thanks to one of them, whose name I can’t now remember, Monday is a public holiday, so Gerhard has invited us to his country house inStyria. (Alan is joining a group of his celeb friends in Kitzbühel for a couple of days on the piste and Jason is meeting his future in-laws.)
We climb aboard (and I meanclimb.Tight jeans are a definite no-no when getting on and off Austrian trains). The whistle blows and we are on our way.
As we gather speed, the cityscape soon gives way to country hamlets, snow-laden pine trees, onion-domedchurches, Babybel cows and frozen lakes. We thunder through inky-black, craggy tunnels and on, up into the mountains.
* * *
It’s early evening and dark by the time the train pulls into Bad Aussee station. The squeal of brakes, the slamming of doors, footsteps crunching on tightly packed snow, the dimly lit, deserted station, the guard in peaked cap and greatcoat, all evoke a mood of winterromance. I am transported back to Zhivagoville once more.
After a long absence, Yuri and I are to be reunited at last …Lara, my love! HE CALLS, HIS VOICE FULL OF LONGING. Yuri! I TUMBLE INTO HIS ARMS, MY WARM TEARS MELTING THE ICICLES IN HIS MOUSTACHE AS THE HAUNTING NOTES OF ‘LARA’S THEME’ ARE PLUCKED OUT ON THE BALALAIKA …
‘Fritz!Nein!Komm’ her!’
I am rudely awoken from my dreamyRussian fantasy by a crazed terrier in a tartan coat, which has launched itself at me from the darkness and is becoming a tad too friendly with my leg.
‘Aaw, he’s so cute,’ I say, politely patting Fritz’s head, but secretly wishing I could shake him off and send him spinning into the stratosphere.
‘He must like you,’ says Gerhard, sliding down the hood of his enormous parka and grabbingthe terrier firmly by the collar. ‘Willkommento Bad Aussee!’
Fritz and bags safely loaded behind the luggage grille, we set off in Gerhard’s Jeep Cherokee for Pension Dachstein, named after the Dachstein Glacier, which towers over the little village, like an ever watchful bodyguard.
Gerhard’s house is charmingly rustic: logs piled up outside, hand-painted, alpine furniture, huge, exposedbeams, and a green-glazed tiled stove. The fire crackles and the air is filled with the smell of damp oak, mixed with cinnamon.
We squash around the beautifully laid table. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling and beeswax candles flicker on the windowsill.
Dinner is traditional and home-cooked. We discover during the evening that Gerhard’s skills are not only confined to directing and cooking:as well as drama, he tells us he studied botany at university and is in the process of patenting his herbal spa products made from alpine plant extracts. He gives each of us samples of his latest creation: bath salts made from locally mined salt and crushed pine needles. ‘You are … how does one say? My guinea pigs,ja?’
‘If I turn up tomorrow looking like Johnny Depp, you’ll know you’re ontoa winner,’ says Oliver with a broad smile. But that’s not all. This is the best bit: Gerhard is also one of Austria’s leading Elvis impersonators. (I’d always thought there was something of the Fifties rock ’n’ roll about him.) After a few Schnapps, we persuade him to fetch his guitar (disappointingly, he refuses to don the white suit and the black, high quiff wig).
We sing along to The King’shits in a mixture of German and English, and Fritz demonstrates that as well as a strong sex drive, he possesses a musical ear and a sense of rhythm as he howls and prances on his back legs. But when we start singing and dancing to ‘Hound Dog,’ he gets overexcited again and is banished to his basket in the utility room.
* * *
The sun is coming up over the Dachstein by the time our partyis over and, arm in arm, we steer one another across the road to our Pension.
My room is pleasantly warm, the embroidered sheets pristine, the mattress firm but not hard, comfortable but not squishy, and the traditional loden wool blanket as warm as a sheep (not that I’ve ever cuddled a sheep). I close my eyes and wait for sleep to arrive …
Now, one of the annoying things about being thewrong side of forty is the digestion issue. I used to be able to eat/drink like a Stone Age woman without a second thought. Back then I believed Gaviscon was for windy grannies. Now it’s as essential a part of my travel kit as deodorant. Only it was discovered in my hand luggage and confiscated by airport security.
Pulling on my slipper socks and Arran sweater, I stagger out onto the balcony,hand clutching my stomach. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with freezing alpine air.
I close my eyes and imagine Francesco is beside me. I can almost smell his subtly sensuous aftershave, feel his breath in my ear, his stubble on my cheek. Without warning, a builder’s burp is expelled into the sylvan silence, ricocheting across the glassy lake. I slap my hand over my mouth, looking aroundin shame. In that moment I am aware of muffled voices below. Eek. Did they hear?
Realising with a start that it’s Oliver and Mags, I retreat into the shadows. I lie down in the half-light, like a starfish, and gaze up at the painted ceiling, the dying flames from the bedroom fire throwing a pale, intermittent light onto the cows and alpine flowers, making them look as if they’re dancing …or is that the Schnapps?
I’ve always envied those who find their soul mate. But I’m realising that even for those lucky ones, love can be complicated, because there’s no guarantee of a Happy Ever After, is there? Forty-six years ago, Mags and Easton vowed to stay together in sickness and in health. But what if the unimaginable happens? It’s one thing falling out of love and separating; youcan shout and scream at an unfaithful partner, tell yourself that it’s all for the best, that they weren’t worthy of you anyway, but what if they get sick and can’t remember who you are? You still love them, for sure, but they’re no longer the same person, and the relationship you once had has gone, never to return.
You can grieve for someone who’s dead, but for someone who’s still alive?Do you put your own life on hold, waiting for the inevitable to happen, comforted only by memories, too riven with guilt to move forward? Is it better to have loved and pay for the happiness further down the line, or is it better never to have loved at all and be spared a heart-crushing situation like theirs?
