it. He opened the window, tucked the curtain out of the way to air the room, and padded upstairs back to his
room.
The catalogue lay on the bed where he had left it – open at a luminous Vuillard interior of a girl in a rocking chair looking out of a window. He shut the catalogue and put it away. She
was always interrupting him: the only long privacy he could count on was at night.
He decided that Chopin would be good music to play while he did his catalogue, and opted for the mazurkas. It had to be music that he knew extremely well, but not of a kind that required
intellectual attention: Chopin he could now – from love and familiarity – absorb through his skin. His cataloguing was a simple but ingenious affair. A loose-leaf book indexed under
composers with each record numbered as he collected them and then entered in the book with its number and details about performance. Thus he could turn to ’S’ to find Schubert, or
Strauss or Scarlatti – look for songs or operas or sonatas – find the number of, say,
Ariadne auf Naxos
and then seek it from the records on the shelves as they would be
arranged purely in numerical order. He had taught Harry this system and Harry took every opportunity of praising it to friends in front of Gavin until he felt quite embarrassed. He had got to
record three hundred and thirty-two, and with the new song cycle he had bought of Somervell’s ‘Maud’, and the reissue of Rachmaninov playing an assortment of piano pieces, and
Tuckwell doing the Mozart horn concertos, he was going to get nearly to the forties. The problem was soon going to be one of space: he would have to shift things round a good deal in order to build
a new record shelf. If only he wasn’t going out! He was longing to play the new records. Well, this time tomorrow he’d be safely back from lunch with Marge and have time to himself.
At half-past six he was dressed: cream shirt, brown trousers, brown and coffee-coloured Indian scarf failing to conceal newest eruption, brown windcheater unzipped (it was quite warm) and the
faint feeling of malaise he associated strictly with going to parties. His parents were both in the front room. Dad was asleep in front of an earnest programme about New Towns; Mum was making a
jockey cap for the bear out of scarlet felt.
‘I’m off now.’
‘Got your key?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you have a good time.’ But she said it as though this would be very unlikely.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Dad had opened his eyes.
‘Of
course
he won’t. Anyway, why shouldn’t he? You enjoy yourself,’ she advised.
‘Going to Town, are you?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to a party with Harry.’
‘Leave him alone! He’s got a right to his own life, hasn’t he?’
‘I never said he hadn’t. I only asked.’
‘If you was all dressed up for a party, you wouldn’t thank people for prying into your affairs. Now would you?’
‘I ought to go really. Mustn’t be late.’
‘See what you’ve done? Driven the boy out with your nasty inquisitive questions.’
‘It’s all right, Mum. I don’t mind him asking. It’s just I don’t know where the party is.’
‘You see?’ A thought struck her. ‘You’re going to a party and you don’t know where it
is
? How can you do that? What sort of party can
that
be?’
‘I don’t
know
, Mum. Harry asked me to go with them.’
‘Them? Who’s them?’
‘Winthrop, Mum.’
‘And who’s them beside Winthrop?’
‘
Harry.
Winthrop and Harry.’
‘No need to raise your voice with me.’
‘Who’s asking questions now?’ Mr Lamb was enjoying the turned tables. He should have known better. She rounded on him. ‘I only wanted to know. And who started it? Gavin
didn’t mind me asking, did you, Gavin? I only asked. Don’t you take that tone with me. You surprise me sometimes, you really do, with your nasty nature, I wonder where it all comes
from.’
Gavin met his
room.
The catalogue lay on the bed where he had left it – open at a luminous Vuillard interior of a girl in a rocking chair looking out of a window. He shut the catalogue and put it away. She
was always interrupting him: the only long privacy he could count on was at night.
He decided that Chopin would be good music to play while he did his catalogue, and opted for the mazurkas. It had to be music that he knew extremely well, but not of a kind that required
intellectual attention: Chopin he could now – from love and familiarity – absorb through his skin. His cataloguing was a simple but ingenious affair. A loose-leaf book indexed under
composers with each record numbered as he collected them and then entered in the book with its number and details about performance. Thus he could turn to ’S’ to find Schubert, or
Strauss or Scarlatti – look for songs or operas or sonatas – find the number of, say,
Ariadne auf Naxos
and then seek it from the records on the shelves as they would be
arranged purely in numerical order. He had taught Harry this system and Harry took every opportunity of praising it to friends in front of Gavin until he felt quite embarrassed. He had got to
record three hundred and thirty-two, and with the new song cycle he had bought of Somervell’s ‘Maud’, and the reissue of Rachmaninov playing an assortment of piano pieces, and
Tuckwell doing the Mozart horn concertos, he was going to get nearly to the forties. The problem was soon going to be one of space: he would have to shift things round a good deal in order to build
a new record shelf. If only he wasn’t going out! He was longing to play the new records. Well, this time tomorrow he’d be safely back from lunch with Marge and have time to himself.
At half-past six he was dressed: cream shirt, brown trousers, brown and coffee-coloured Indian scarf failing to conceal newest eruption, brown windcheater unzipped (it was quite warm) and the
faint feeling of malaise he associated strictly with going to parties. His parents were both in the front room. Dad was asleep in front of an earnest programme about New Towns; Mum was making a
jockey cap for the bear out of scarlet felt.
‘I’m off now.’
‘Got your key?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you have a good time.’ But she said it as though this would be very unlikely.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Dad had opened his eyes.
‘Of
course
he won’t. Anyway, why shouldn’t he? You enjoy yourself,’ she advised.
‘Going to Town, are you?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to a party with Harry.’
‘Leave him alone! He’s got a right to his own life, hasn’t he?’
‘I never said he hadn’t. I only asked.’
‘If you was all dressed up for a party, you wouldn’t thank people for prying into your affairs. Now would you?’
‘I ought to go really. Mustn’t be late.’
‘See what you’ve done? Driven the boy out with your nasty inquisitive questions.’
‘It’s all right, Mum. I don’t mind him asking. It’s just I don’t know where the party is.’
‘You see?’ A thought struck her. ‘You’re going to a party and you don’t know where it
is
? How can you do that? What sort of party can
that
be?’
‘I don’t
know
, Mum. Harry asked me to go with them.’
‘Them? Who’s them?’
‘Winthrop, Mum.’
‘And who’s them beside Winthrop?’
‘
Harry.
Winthrop and Harry.’
‘No need to raise your voice with me.’
‘Who’s asking questions now?’ Mr Lamb was enjoying the turned tables. He should have known better. She rounded on him. ‘I only wanted to know. And who started it? Gavin
didn’t mind me asking, did you, Gavin? I only asked. Don’t you take that tone with me. You surprise me sometimes, you really do, with your nasty nature, I wonder where it all comes
from.’
Gavin met his
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