Island of the Heart
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
THE LAST CHORDS sang their way triumphantly into the echoing silence, and Sandie Beaumont lifted her hands from the keyboard as the applause began.
The adrenalin which had carried her through the performance was already starting to subside as she rose and bowed to the clapping audience. She kept her hands hidden in the folds of her violet taffeta skirt to disguise the fact that they were shaking.
Listening intently, she tried to judge the audience reaction to her playing. It was enthusiastic, but was it the kind of acclaim accorded to a winner? Sandie wasn’t sure.
She deliberately avoided even a glance towards the row of judges seated behind their table at the front of the auditorium. She would know their verdict soon enough.
‘It’s not the end of the world.’ That was what one of her fellow contestants had said as he’d left the waiting-room backstage where they were all assembled an hour earlier.
And in a way it wasn’t. It was a piano contest in a newly established music festival, that was all. A first rung on the ladder to such glories as the Leeds Piano Competition.
But for me, Sandie thought, as she bowed again, and made her way with forced composure off the platform, for me, it could easily be the end of everything.
There was a long mirror at the end of the corridor leading back to the dressing-rooms. She’d been too nervous to use it on her way to the platform, but she paused now to glance at herself, swiftly and clinically. Too pale, she thought. She should have used more blusher. In the dim light of the passage, with her silvery blonde hair hanging straight and shining below her shoulders, she looked almost ghostly.
But the dress was wonderful. It had been an extravagance, but it was worth it, accentuating, as it did, the colour of her own violet eyes. It had made her feel good, given her the confidence to believe that everything was going to be all right. As if a career in music, as she’d always dreamed, was actually within reach.
Her hands balled into fists of tension, and she swallowed as she turned away. Well, she would soon know. She’d been the last competitor.
Back in the big room, where the others waited, no one was saying much. They were all on edge now, anticipating the call which would take them back on stage for the adjudication. Most of them seemed to know each other already—to be able to judge the standard they were up against. She, Sandie, was the outsider, the unknown quantity. The local girl taking her first step towards national fame—or instant obscurity.
Her parents had been quite adamant.
‘My dear, you don’t realise the kind of odds you’re up against,’ her father had said. ‘Yes, you’ve got talent, I don’t doubt, but that’s not enough to make you a star at international level. You may be Mrs Darnley’s prize pupil, but what does that really mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sandie had returned desperately. ‘But you’ve got to let me find out.’
Her parents exchanged uneasy glances. She knew what they were thinking. They were remembering Sandie’s grandmother, the Alexandra for whom she had been named, whose considerable musical talent had never taken her further than the orchestras of second-rate touring variety shows and seaside concert parties. For years she’d soldiered on, declaring her big break would come—only it never had, and the realisation that it never would had led to increasing bouts of depression until her death, still in early middle age.
They don’t want that to happen to me, Sandie thought. They don’t want me to break my heart, searching for some big time which may never come.
Aloud, she said, ‘You’ve got to let me have my chance.’
‘Then we will.’ Her father knocked out his pipe in the ashtray. ‘Mrs Darnley’s entered you for the festival. If you can win it, you shall have your chance—music college and the rest—whatever it takes. If you don’t win, then you give up all thoughts of a career as a pianist. Is it agreed?’
‘All or nothing—just like that?’ Sandie stared at them pleadingly. ‘Mum, I …’
‘Your father and I are in total agreement.’ Mrs Beaumont spoke more gently than her husband. ‘It’s for your own sake, darling. After all, Sandie, you’re nineteen now. Most professional musicians started training years before you did.’
‘That’s hardly my fault.’ Sandie remembered the uphill struggle to persuade her parents to allow her to have piano lessons at all.
‘No,’ her mother agreed. ‘But you can’t blame us for being cautious. It’s time you put all this nonsense behind you, and trained for something—settled down. If it has to be music, you could always teach. You don’t have to go on being a legal secretary, if you really hate it so much.’ She gave Sandie an anxious smile. ‘And you can always play the piano for your own amusement.’
Sandie had winced.
Mrs Darnley had been sympathetic, but had refused to take up the cudgels on Sandie’s behalf.
‘Your parents are doing what they feel is right,’ she said. ‘I can’t argue about their natural concern for you. And they could have a point.’
Sandie stared at her. ‘But I thought you believed in me,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Don’t you think I can make it?’
Mrs Darnley sighed. ‘Sandie, you’re the best pupil I’ve ever had, but that’s all I can say. You’ve outgrown me, my dear. From now on, you need specialist coaching that I’m not qualified to give you—master classes. It all costs money, and if your parents aren’t prepared to make a contribution …’ She left it at that.
Now, weeks later, Sandie looked under her lashes at her fellow competitors and wondered.