‘Stand back,’ says Conor, so we do. Only Lily laughs when he tries and fails to force the door open by running at it. Rose surprises us all then, with a well-aimed kick that causes the door to fly open. But nothing is as shocking as what we see next.
The piano is still playing, because it’s one of those pianos that can play itself.
My father is lying on the floor beneath it, with an empty whisky glass in his left hand. His conductor’s baton has been snapped in two, and tied to his right hand with a red ribbon. His eyes are wide open and he appears to have vomited blood.
I feel numb, and sick, and confused.
But I am certain of one thing: my dad is dead.
Frank
Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.
His self-centred ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.
An unexpected pregnancy resulted in marriage and three girls,
But instead of seeing his family, Frank chose to see the world.
His orchestra was his one true love, and he thought they loved him too,
But those out-of-work musicians just needed cash and something to do.
Frustrated as Frank became about his own music not being performed,
He carried on touring, though failure was boring, still hoping to be adored.
While the family who truly loved him was abandoned and alone,
It was all too late, when he accepted his fate: he might have been happiest at home.
When the time came, no one knew who to blame when he was found poisoned by his drink.
It was hard to feel sad for an absent dad. His grieving girls didn’t know what to think.
Fourteen
31 October 1:05 a.m.
less than five hours until low tide
Rose switches off the piano and I’m glad. The sight of it playing all by itself with my father lying dead beneath it is an image I wish I could wipe from my memory forever. I notice that one of the piano keys has gone, like a missing tooth in a musical smile, almost as though the piano itself is laughing at us. The rain outside lashing against the glass windows serves as white noise while we stand and stare in silence.
‘He must have done it,’ Lily says quietly, as if scared he might hear her accusing him. ‘He must have killed Nana because he was so upset about her will. Then he drank himself to death because of the guilt. Didn’t he even joke last night that his preferred form of murder would be a sharp blow to the head? That’s exactly how she died!’
My dad is many things, but I’m certain that a murderer isn’t one of them.
‘Why would he move Nana’s body?’ I say. ‘And where is she now? And what do the note and the VHS tape in the kitchen mean?’
Conor steps forward. ‘This doesn’t look like suicide if you ask me.’
‘Nobody did,’ Lily replies. ‘Are you sure he’s . . .’
‘Dead? Yes,’ says Rose, closing my father’s eyes. She takes the empty whisky glass from his hand and sniffs it, before doing the same with the empty decanter on top of the piano. It seems like an odd thing to do.
‘Why would he tie his conducting baton to his own hand?’ Conor asks, looking at the rest of us as though we might be dangerously stupid.
‘Why did he do any of the daft things he did?’ Nancy snaps, wiping a trickle of tears from her face with a pretty embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve. It has a letter B on it, and I presume it must be Nana’s, or Trixie’s, though nobody ever calls my niece Beatrice. ‘This all feels like a bad dream . . . it can’t be real,’ my mother says, in a voice that sounds too small for her. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Why are you so upset?’ Lily asks. ‘Just because you chose to share your bed with him last night – which is disgusting, by the way – have you forgotten everything else that Dad did? He abandoned you years ago. He abandoned us all.’
‘How can you speak like that when the man is lying dead on the floor? He was your father and I loved him . . . even when I didn’t like him, I still—’
‘I’m not going to pretend he was ever dad of the year just because he is dead.’
‘I didn’t raise you to behave like this, Lily.’
‘You barely raised me at all, and he certainly didn’t have much to do with it. I was mostly brought up by strangers at boarding school. You dumped us here on Nana most holidays, while my so-called father spent his time with “musicians” half his age.’
‘The man is dead, show some respect.’
‘For him?’
‘For yourself,’ Nancy says. My mother always has an argument under construction – sometimes several at once – and if I had a hard hat, I’d wear one. Lily wouldn’t dare answer back if she hadn’t had so much to drink tonight. Just when I think it might be over, Nancy throws another verbal brick. ‘He stayed as long as he was able.’