guess? Why not have a go now?’
Joyce was chewing her lips. ‘Well, dear, I don’t know …’
‘Come on! Just a little try. You’ll be rusty, of course, but a bit of practice’ll sort that out. Haven’t you missed it?’
The instrument was dreadfully out of tune. Sara pulled the dressing table chair to the middle of the room, sat down with the cello and after several minutes managed to get it in tune without breaking any strings. Gently she handed Joyce the bow, which she took from her as if the varnish were still wet. With a slight bouncing movement in her wrist she accustomed her arm once more to itsweight and balance. Her fingers had found their correct places on it instantly. She looked at Sara with nervous hope and Sara smiled encouragement. ‘I remember how you played,’ she said. ‘You were wonderful, technically brilliant. It’s impossible to forget how, once you’ve played like that. It’ll come back to you, I know it will. You remember the Bach Toccata, Adagio and Fugue in C? Suppose you try the Adagio. Go on.’
She helped Joyce into the seat, easing the cello towards her thin shoulder. Joyce set her lips in a brave line and adjusted her posture until she was sitting proudly straight. With her right hand she was gently stroking the honey-coloured wood of the instrument, reacquainting herself with its sleek hollows, her fingers remembering how beautiful it was. She tapped softly on the strings with her left hand and smiled at the sound, which seemed to invite her to play. She smiled hopefully up at Sara. Perhaps she was right. She could never forget how to play an instrument like this. The Adagio. Of course she remembered it, it was not even difficult. Joyce opened and closed her left hand several times, flexing her stiff fingers, tipped back her head, still smiling, and taking a breath as if she were going to sing, placed the bow tenderly on the string. With a last nervous, excited glance at Sara, she drew it across in the stately, sombre opening notes of the piece. Sara listened, unable to look at her. There was no mistaking it: the sound which was rising from the beautiful, long-neglected cello now in the arms of one of the country’s most celebrated cello teachers was, truly and indisputably, absolutely bloody terrible.
The banging of the front door interrupted the noise and also allowed Sara, coward that she knew herself to be,to skip off with an apologetic smile without having to say anything. Andrew was in the kitchen, looking around crossly with his hands on his hips as if he were somehow angry with the room.
Sara raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Trouble?’
Don’t ask me how I am, will you?
Andrew nodded, his face softening, acknowledging to her that none of it was Sara’s fault.
Actually, it is. You make me so angry I can’t think straight
.
‘What? What’s the matter?’ Instead of hugging him, Sara stood with her arms folded.
Go on, hug me. Tell me I’m doing a great job looking after Joyce
.
‘I’ve cocked up, that’s what’s the matter,’ he said, rather aggressively.
Fat lot you care, you’re so selfish
. ‘We’ve got the bloke who did it and I cocked up the arrest. Possibly even the conviction.’ He sank into a chair and turned away from her. Still she did not come and hug him. Perhaps she would if he held out his arms to her, but he thought on balance he would not and besides, she had already moved away and was topping up the teapot from the kettle.
‘Tell me,’ she said in a tired voice, reaching into a cupboard for a mug.
I’ve got problems too, you know
.
Andrew sighed and groaned. ‘How long have I been doing this? After all these years, I can’t believe that I got such a basic thing wrong. Maybe that’s the point, it’s Bridger’s job, all that stuff, it’s so long since I did it. I suppose you just get out of practice.’
Why aren’t you sorry for me?
‘Why did you do it, then? Why didn’t you leave it to Bridger?’
Why are you so stupid
Joyce was chewing her lips. ‘Well, dear, I don’t know …’
‘Come on! Just a little try. You’ll be rusty, of course, but a bit of practice’ll sort that out. Haven’t you missed it?’
The instrument was dreadfully out of tune. Sara pulled the dressing table chair to the middle of the room, sat down with the cello and after several minutes managed to get it in tune without breaking any strings. Gently she handed Joyce the bow, which she took from her as if the varnish were still wet. With a slight bouncing movement in her wrist she accustomed her arm once more to itsweight and balance. Her fingers had found their correct places on it instantly. She looked at Sara with nervous hope and Sara smiled encouragement. ‘I remember how you played,’ she said. ‘You were wonderful, technically brilliant. It’s impossible to forget how, once you’ve played like that. It’ll come back to you, I know it will. You remember the Bach Toccata, Adagio and Fugue in C? Suppose you try the Adagio. Go on.’
She helped Joyce into the seat, easing the cello towards her thin shoulder. Joyce set her lips in a brave line and adjusted her posture until she was sitting proudly straight. With her right hand she was gently stroking the honey-coloured wood of the instrument, reacquainting herself with its sleek hollows, her fingers remembering how beautiful it was. She tapped softly on the strings with her left hand and smiled at the sound, which seemed to invite her to play. She smiled hopefully up at Sara. Perhaps she was right. She could never forget how to play an instrument like this. The Adagio. Of course she remembered it, it was not even difficult. Joyce opened and closed her left hand several times, flexing her stiff fingers, tipped back her head, still smiling, and taking a breath as if she were going to sing, placed the bow tenderly on the string. With a last nervous, excited glance at Sara, she drew it across in the stately, sombre opening notes of the piece. Sara listened, unable to look at her. There was no mistaking it: the sound which was rising from the beautiful, long-neglected cello now in the arms of one of the country’s most celebrated cello teachers was, truly and indisputably, absolutely bloody terrible.
The banging of the front door interrupted the noise and also allowed Sara, coward that she knew herself to be,to skip off with an apologetic smile without having to say anything. Andrew was in the kitchen, looking around crossly with his hands on his hips as if he were somehow angry with the room.
Sara raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Trouble?’
Don’t ask me how I am, will you?
Andrew nodded, his face softening, acknowledging to her that none of it was Sara’s fault.
Actually, it is. You make me so angry I can’t think straight
.
‘What? What’s the matter?’ Instead of hugging him, Sara stood with her arms folded.
Go on, hug me. Tell me I’m doing a great job looking after Joyce
.
‘I’ve cocked up, that’s what’s the matter,’ he said, rather aggressively.
Fat lot you care, you’re so selfish
. ‘We’ve got the bloke who did it and I cocked up the arrest. Possibly even the conviction.’ He sank into a chair and turned away from her. Still she did not come and hug him. Perhaps she would if he held out his arms to her, but he thought on balance he would not and besides, she had already moved away and was topping up the teapot from the kettle.
‘Tell me,’ she said in a tired voice, reaching into a cupboard for a mug.
I’ve got problems too, you know
.
Andrew sighed and groaned. ‘How long have I been doing this? After all these years, I can’t believe that I got such a basic thing wrong. Maybe that’s the point, it’s Bridger’s job, all that stuff, it’s so long since I did it. I suppose you just get out of practice.’
Why aren’t you sorry for me?
‘Why did you do it, then? Why didn’t you leave it to Bridger?’
Why are you so stupid
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