Part 20 (1/2)

'Don't the neighbours object?' I asked.

'No,' she replied rather firmly. 'I don't play late at night or before nine in the morning and no one has complained. In fact, the lady upstairs has said how much she loves to listen.'

'Will you play for me?' I asked.

'What, now?'

'Yes.'

'No,' she said. 'I'm not playing for you until you've cooked for me.'

'That's not fair. I would have cooked for you during the week if my car hadn't crashed.'

'Excuses, excuses,' she said, laughing.

'What's in your fridge?' I asked her. 'I'll cook for you now.'

'No you won't,' she said. 'We're going down the pub. I've had to bribe the barman to keep us a table.'

Going to the pub with Caroline on a Sat.u.r.day night was everything I had hoped it would be. The pub in question was The Atlas round the corner in Seagrave Road, and it was packed. Even though she had somehow managed to make a reservation, this was unquestionably a pub and not a restaurant like the Hay Net, our bleached wooden table being underneath the window of the public bar. Caroline sat on an upright wooden chair that reminded me of those at my school, while I fought my way through the crowd at the bar to choose a bottle of Chianti Cla.s.sico from the blackboard and chalk wine lists that were proudly displayed above the mirror-backed serving area.

The food was good and also imaginative. Caroline chose grilled whole sea ba.s.s with couscous salad while I plumped for the c.u.mberland sausages and garlic mashed potato. I wondered about the garlic and so, obviously, did Caroline. She used her fork to pinch some of my potato. I caught her eye as she was putting it in her mouth. For a moment we glanced deeper, into the inner soul, and then laughed as we both understood, unspoken, the reason why.

Caroline was excited about the Chicago trip and we talked about her job and especially about her music.

'I feel so alive when I'm playing,' she said. 'I exist only in my head and, I know this sounds stupid, but my hands on the bow and the strings seem somehow disconnected from my body. They have a mind of their own and they just do it.'

I sat there looking at her, not wanting to interrupt.

'Even if I have a new piece that I haven't played before, I don't really have to consciously tell my fingers where to go. I just look at the notes on the paper and my fingers seem to do it by themselves. I can feel the result. It's wonderful.'

'Can you hear what you yourself are playing with all the other instruments around you?' I asked.

'Oh yes,' she said. 'But I actually feel the sound I make. I feel it through my bones. If I press hard on my viola with my chin, my whole head becomes full of my music. In fact, I have to be careful not to press too hard as then I can't hear any of the rest of the orchestra. Playing in a great orchestra is so exhilarating. Apart, that is, from all the d.a.m.n people.'

'What people?' I asked.

'The other members,' she said. 'They can be so catty, so prima donna-ish. We are all meant to be one team but there are so many petty rivalries. Everyone is trying to be one better than everyone else, especially in their own section. All the violinists want to end up being leader and most of the other instruments hate the fact that the leader is always a violinist. It's like a b.l.o.o.d.y school playground. There are the bullies and the bullied. Some of the older members hate the younger ones coming along and getting the solo parts that they think they should have. h.e.l.l hath no fury like a pa.s.sed-over would-be soloist, I can tell you. Once, I even saw a senior member of an orchestra try to sabotage the instrument of a younger soloist. I just hope I never get to be like that.'

'Chefs can be pretty devious too, you know,' I said, and I wondered again if jealousy of my success had been the real reason for someone adding poisonous kidney beans to the c inner.

'But I bet you've never had to work with eighty or so of them at once, all trying to show that they're better than their neighbours, while at the same time having to come together to bring a score to life.'

'Maybe not,' I said. 'But it feels like it sometimes.'

She smiled. 'Now don't get me wrong,' she said. 'I adore being in a really good professional orchestra. It can be so moving and so wonderfully fulfilling. The climax to a work can be fantastic. You know, like Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture 1812 Overture with all the cannon blasts and everything, in the Royal Albert Hall with seven thousand people there, it's unbelievably exciting.' She laughed. 'Better than an o.r.g.a.s.m.' with all the cannon blasts and everything, in the Royal Albert Hall with seven thousand people there, it's unbelievably exciting.' She laughed. 'Better than an o.r.g.a.s.m.'

I wasn't sure how to take that comment. Practice, I thought. I just needed more practice. 'Wait and see,' I said.

'Is that a promise?' she said, laughing.

'Absolutely,' I replied, stroking her hand across the table.

We sat and finished our meals in contented silence, perhaps not wanting to break the spell, until a waiter came over to collect our empty plates. We ordered two coffees and I poured the last of the Chianti into our gla.s.ses. Neither of us gave the outward impression that we wanted to rush back to her flat and put my promise to the test. So much for outward impressions. Inside, I was desperate.

'So what are you playing in Chicago?' I asked her, putting my desperation back in its box.

Her face lit up. 'Mostly Elgar. We do his first symphony and also the Variations, which I love. There is also some Sibelius in the programme. His fourth symphony to be precise, but I'm not as keen on that, I find it too heavy. Very dark.' She screwed up her face.

'Who chooses what is played?' I asked.

'The directors and the conductor, I think,' she said. 'I don't really know. I expect the Americans had something to do with it too. I suppose the Elgar is there as it is quintessentially English. And, of course, there's the anniversary of his birth.'

Of course, I thought.

'Surely Sibelius wasn't English,' I said.

'No,' she said. 'Finnish, I think, but I'm not sure. But the Americans seem to like his stuff. Must be something to do with all that hards.h.i.+p and living in log cabins.' She laughed. 'Par too dark and gloomy for me.'

'Like treacle,' I said.

'Exactly, but less sticky.' She laughed again. An uninhibited, happy laugh.

'But it will be worth going just for the Elgar,' she said. 'Nimrod 'Nimrod was one of the pieces I had to play for my audition to the Royal College. I adore it and I play it every time I need some comfort in my life, which, I have to tell you, has been quite often. My music and especially my viola have been a huge support to me at times.' She stared somewhere over my head, but she wasn't really looking. 'I love my viola so much that I couldn't possibly live without it.' was one of the pieces I had to play for my audition to the Royal College. I adore it and I play it every time I need some comfort in my life, which, I have to tell you, has been quite often. My music and especially my viola have been a huge support to me at times.' She stared somewhere over my head, but she wasn't really looking. 'I love my viola so much that I couldn't possibly live without it.'

I was jealous. It seemed silly. Of course Caroline loved her music. After all, I loved my cooking. Could I live without that? No, I couldn't. Well then, I told myself, stop being jealous of a viola. It was an inanimate object. I tried hard to, but with limited success.

In time, we walked back arm in arm to her flat and both went eagerly to her bed, where I strived to make good on my promise.

She didn't exactly say that it was better than Tchaikovsky's 1S12, 1S12, but she didn't say it wasn't. Viola, eat you heart out. but she didn't say it wasn't. Viola, eat you heart out.

CHAPTER 13.

We woke early and lay dozing side by side in the bed, just touching occasionally. I rolled over and cuddled her but she didn't respond and I sensed that she was troubled.

'What's the matter?' I asked her.

'Oh nothing,' she said. 'I was just thinking.'

'About what?' I asked.

'Nothing important,' she said. But it clearly was.

I started to explore her body with my hands but she sat up. 'Not now,' she said. 'I want some tea.' And she proceeded to get up, put on her dressing gown and go down the corridor to the kitchen. I lay back on the pillow and wondered if I had said or done something wrong.

She returned with two steaming mugs of tea and got back into bed but she did not remove the dressing gown.