She’s not alone, another girl stands behind her, half hidden and nervous.
“If you’re looking for Lessa, she’s down at the Lady Isobel Centre.”
Doris nods as if this is old news.
She hovers, clearly not in a hurry to leave. “It’s Tuesday,” she says with a glance towards the other girl. “Can you play? This is Lou.”
Lou, the other girl, a teenager with long dark hair and frightened eyes, shrinks behind Doris and looks ready to bolt.
Since Doris started coming to listen to music, I’ve learnt a thing or two about how to behave around nervous and possibly traumatised girls. So, I take a step back and answer quietly. “I’m just feeding the baby. I can play when she’s finished. Do you want to sit outside or come in and have tea?”
Giving them a choice makes it easier to stay. Doris even comes in briefly to get two kitchen chairs which she sets up under one of the apple trees.
Actually, music would be very welcome therapy for me too this afternoon, so when Malinara has finished feeding, I put her in her bouncy seat. Now, where is that honey-bee rattle she likes? I look under the table, under the cupboards; no, it’s disappeared.
It’s okay because she seems to like the music, too. I take care to play a couple of children’s lullabies, Brahms’Cradle Songand my own adaptation of Khachaturian’sLittle Song,Malinara is soon drowsy. They say babies can hear in the womb, so perhaps she got used to our Tuesday concerts from before.
Do I miss playing with a real orchestra?
Nothing compares to performance at a high level. Playing with others who are all virtuosi.
However, I didn’t get the job with the Concertgebouw. Hardly a surprise after ditching the audition. They hired Baigent, and I’m happy for him. There are lots of other great orchestras. The Berlin Phil, the LSO, the Philharmonia… But the Concertgebouw had always been my dream. They make a special kind of magic.
After Doris and Lou have gone, and Malinara is asleep, I sit down to write an email to the hiring committee. I thank them for considering me, apologise for abandoning the audition when my wife went into labour and congratulate them on hiring Mark Baigent who is a brilliant oboist.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Lessa
Brandon knocks on my door even though it’s open.
“Yes?” I turn away from my laptop.
“I’m going into the village. Need anything?”
“No. And you don’t have to whisper. She’s awake.”
He comes in to peer over her cot. “Hello little pomegranate.” He strokes a gentle finger over her head. “I think you’re going to have curly, red hair.”
He glances at my own hair and a warm smile widens slowly on his face; my heart melts a little.
“Even at four months old, she’s clearly your daughter, she’s going to be a mini you.”
“I used to hate it.” I comb my fingers through my curls which are very unruly this morning.
“Why? It’s beautiful. I always thought–” He breaks off to pat his back pocket then takes out his phone. He must have had it on vibrate in case Malinara was asleep.
Have I said how considerate he is? How thoughtful?
He looks at the screen for a moment as if deciding whether to answer, his eyes flick towards me so quickly, I might have missed it, then he puts the phone to his ear. “Hi.”
He listens for a second then says. “I’ll call you back in a minute.”
He shoves the phone back into his pocket. “See you later.” he says, not meeting my eyes and turns to walk down the stairs.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a woman on the phone. But it can’t have been. Perhaps it’s work.
Guilt gnaws at me every time I think of how he scuppered his chances at his dream job because of me. Whenever I mention it, he insists that if they really wanted him, they’d have waited and since they didn’t, it wasn’t meant to be. “Something else will turn up,” he keeps saying. “Just as it did for you.”
