Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  But Precious laughed in his face and asked, ‘Apologise? Apologise for what? And to who?’

  After all, wasn’t Teacher leaving too?

  London

  CHAPTER 18

  André arrived at Heathrow on an unusually warm summer’s day and immediately took the train to central London. He had no particular destination in mind and wandered for several hours among the troops of tourists, listening to the tour guides’ chatter as they held court beneath small, hoisted flags. He did not have much luggage with him, just a large rucksack in which he carried all his belongings. When he tired of walking, he sat in a café overlooking Green Park and set about looking for a place to stay. He found one soon enough, a small upstairs flat above a mini-cab office in Cricklewood.

  The crackle of the dispatcher’s radio pierced through the thin walls with alarming regularity and filled the bedsit with cryptic instructions and nasal queries.

  ‘It’s like being in a war movie, love,’ the landlady said as she showed André to his room. ‘Do you like war movies?’

  She was middle aged and spoke with a slight but distinctly Irish accent. A small silver crucifix lay smothered between speckled pink breasts. She wore a green satin tracksuit top with a trail of bright sequins on the back that spelled out the name McGregor.

  André counted the money out into her hand. She folded the notes and tucked them quickly into her pocket.

  ‘Mind you, the radio makes a hell of a racket on Saturday nights. It’s me husband’s business and I can’t very well ask him to switch it off, can I?’ She glowered at André with a boxer’s belligerence until he murmured a few words of assent.

  ‘Of course not, I quite understand.’

  She let out a sigh of relief. ‘You look like a quiet lad. Where did you say you were from again?’

  ‘South Africa.’

  ‘Oh. You’re the good lot then.’

  André nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

  ‘We get lots of South Africans coming through here. Kobus moved out just the other week. Got a job in the city, bless him. He said South Africa’s gone to the dogs since they put the darkies in charge. Now you won’t find a racist bone in my body, love. But that’s what Kobus said and he would know.’

  The radio spat out another garbled burst of static. ‘I suppose it depends on one’s perspective,’ André replied.

  ‘You don’t mind if I call you Potter, do you? Andrew Potter. Potgieter’s a bit difficult for me and I like the sound of Andrew.’

  André was too tired to protest. It wouldn’t be the first time his name had been changed on a whim.

  ‘May I use the toilet?’ he asked.

  The woman pointed through the open door. ‘Just down the passage, love. The shower’s on the other side. The floor gets a bit slippery so mind you don’t fall. Kobus almost broke his neck the other day and he was a big lad. Almost as big as you.’

  ‘Well, I’d better leave you then,’ she said. She seemed reluctant to go and would have lingered if André hadn’t ushered her outside. He locked the door behind her, lay down on the bed fully clothed and promptly fell asleep.

  The next morning he put on a clean shirt and looked up Saint Anthony’s College of Music on the map. It was off the Finchley Road, not very far from Cricklewood, and André decided to walk. The first item on his list had been to find a place to stay and now he’d accomplished that, his next assignment was to find a job.

  The landlady met him at the bottom of the stairs. She had on the same tracksuit top from the previous night and her hair hung in dark ringlets around her face .

  ‘Where you off to bright and early this morning, Andrew?’

  ‘Saint Anthony’s. The music college.’

  She looked down at the violin case in his hand. ‘Ooh,’ she exclaimed, clutching her hands together. ‘I didn’t know you was a fancy musician. Won’t you play me something when you get back? I’ve not had proper music in this house since Albert moved in.’

  She sounded eerily like Claire Harrison and André felt ill all of a sudden. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t,’ he said weakly. He waved his hand in the direction of the stairs. ‘The acoustics … they’d be all wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind about any acoustics.’ She smacked her lips in anticipation. ‘I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Fancy that! A real musician in me own house.’

  He made his excuses and stepped outside onto the high street. It was still early but the noise of buses and cars filled the air like a swarm of honey bees. He took a deep breath and set out, clutching the map book in both hands like an explorer of old, but without the porters and pack-horses to accompany him.

  It took André almost an hour to get to Finchley Road Station. Despite the map, he’d made a wrong turn and had had to ask for directions. He crossed over Finchley Road and looked for the pedestrian lane that led to Saint Anthony’s College of Music. The lane, when he found it, was leafier than he expected and shrouded in cool shadows. There was barely enough space for two people to walk abreast. It sloped gently upwards towards a window of light that beckoned fitfully at the other end. André walked briskly towards it, his footsteps gathering speed as he went.

  Saint Anthony’s College of Music was housed in a large brick building set back a little way from the road. There was a gate set in the wrought-iron railings surrounding the building. André pressed the bell. After a few moments, the gate buzzed and clicked open and he walked past a closely cropped lawn and up to the front door. There he found a woman waiting for him in the entrance. She had a harried look and a bundle of sheet music under her arm.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m here to apply for a job,’ André replied.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were the electrician. I’m afraid we don’t entertain walk-in applicants. But you’re welcome to look on our website to see when an opening comes available. I must warn you though, we don’t have very many teachers leaving Saint Anthony’s. That’s if you were wanting to teach.’

  She gave him a curt nod to indicate their conversation was over and disappeared through a frosted-paned door. When she come back a few minutes later, André was standing exactly where she’d left him. She frowned and looked around for assistance but there was no one else in sight.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Allow me to play something for you,’ André said. ‘Perhaps that will change your mind.’ He had not had anything to eat that morning and the walk from Cricklewood had left him light-headed.

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ the woman replied tersely. ‘I’m not in charge of recruitment, Mrs Collins is. Now please leave and don’t cause any trouble.’

  ‘I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to play.’

  She sighed. ‘Look, leave me your number. If anything comes up, I’ll drop you a message and you can apply online.’ She produced a notepad and held it out to André but he did not take it.

  ‘What was that?’ he said.

  ‘What was what?’

  André held up his hand. ‘Shhh!’ he said.

  All of a sudden, a laboured trio of notes rang out from a string instrument, followed by a roar of rage.

  ‘That’s Mr Harper’s class,’ the woman said with an embarrassed look but André had already pushed his way past her and through the door. He walked swiftly down the corridor, his head snapping from side to side as he hunted for the source of the passage he’d just heard and the anger that accompanied it. The notes grew louder and more ragged the closer he got.

  He began to run. The doors on either side of the corridor were identical, save for the numbers etched on the glass. He burst into number seven with the woman hard on his heels.

  The class was full of boys and girls, all around seven or eight years old. They were dressed in white shirts and black trousers, except for the girls who wore black and grey tartan skirts. Standing in front of the class was a little Asian boy with a violin hanging limply b
y his side.

  A tall gaunt man drew himself to attention the moment André appeared in the doorway. His hair fell across his head from left to right in ripples of sculpted grey. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked haughtily.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Harper,’ the woman said breathlessly. ‘He just burst in and I couldn’t stop him. I’ll call security.’

  André walked over and knelt next to the boy. He whispered to him as one might speak to a nervous horse.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Chin-Hwa.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Seven,’ the boy said. ‘But I’ll be eight in January.’

  ‘Your arms simply aren’t long enough to play a violin this size,’ André said, ‘and you’ll only learn bad habits to make up for it. It’ll take you years to unlearn them if you ever do. Who gave you this violin?’

  The boy pointed at Mr Harper.

  ‘This is preposterous!’ Mr Harper sputtered. He turned to the woman from reception, his eyes blazing with self-importance. ‘Are you going to do something about this intrusion,’ he demanded in a markedly disdainful tone, ‘or not?’ His nose crinkled when he addressed her, as if there was a bad smell in the room.

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of security, Mr Harper,’ she said. She jabbed frantically at her phone, then hurried out of the class.

  ‘You’d better fetch Mrs Collins while you’re at it!’ Mr Harper called after her. He hesitated for a moment then tapped André on the shoulder. ‘You’re in big trouble, young man.’

  ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself for forcing the wrong instrument on this boy. You’ve ruined his intonation and his posture. I’m sure his hand-eye co-ordination is poor as well.’

  The children began to titter. Mr Harper whirled on them. ‘Shut up!’ he shouted. ‘Shut up, the lot of you! I’ll deal with this myself!’

  André looked around the class and his eyes came to rest on another violin. It was a quarter size smaller than the one the boy held in his hand.

  ‘Here, try this one,’ he said kindly.

  Mr Harper rolled his eyes and let out a nervous, choppy laugh. ‘I’m warning you, young man. You’d better leave before you make things any worse for yourself!’

  ‘Pay no attention to him,’ André whispered. He helped the little boy place the violin against his neck and gently positioned his fingers on the fingerboard.

  ‘Doesn’t that feel better already?’

  Chin-Hwa smiled shyly and, with a spasm of his small shoulders, began to play. He stumbled a little over the notes but he played with more assurance and pleasure than before. It was only a finger exercise, but when he was done, André clapped loudly.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ he exclaimed. ‘Everyone clap for Chin-Hwa!’

  The children glanced at each other, not sure what to do. Then a girl in the front row began to clap and, after a brief pause, the boy next to her did the same. It wasn’t long before the entire class was on their feet and cheering for Chin-Hwa as hard as they could. It was as if Chin-Hwa had just played the most marvellous piece of music in the world.

  ‘Silence!’ Mr Harper thundered. He seized a bow and struck the music stand several times in quick succession. He hit it so hard that the stand toppled over and the bow snapped in two.

  ‘Silence!’

  The commotion ceased abruptly and Mr Harper glared at the children. He nodded with grim satisfaction. He was about to speak when a voice interrupted him.

  ‘I see you’re losing your temper again, Mr Harper.’

  A tall, distinguished-looking woman was standing in the doorway. She had no trace of any adornments and wore a simple black dress and black shoes. She gripped a walking stick in her left hand and in her right she held a brown leather folder.

  Mr Harper jabbed a finger at André. ‘This man broke into my class and now refuses to leave!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s caused all sorts of trouble. Has anyone called the police?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr Harper. Whoever he is, he’s managed to get Chin-Hwa to play quite beautifully. And that’s something you’ve never been able to do.’

  Her voice was calm and perfectly modulated. Mr Harper grew apoplectic with rage. He flung his hand dismissively in André’s direction. ‘He just walked in off the street, Mrs Collins! He could be anyone!’

  ‘Well, let’s find out who anyone is,’ Mrs Collins replied coolly. She leaned heavily on her walking stick and turned to André. The movement made one side of her body dip violently as though she had just ducked a blow to her head.

  ‘It’s quite improper of you to burst into Mr Harper’s class. Who are you and where are you from?’

  ‘I’m sorry for doing that, Mrs Collins, but I couldn’t help myself.’ André looked at Mr Harper, who was pacing back and forth and muttering darkly to himself.

  ‘I really didn’t mean to offend you, Mr Harper. I only wanted to help the boy.’

  ‘You’ve still not told us who you are,’ Mrs Collins said. ‘But you’re South African, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. I arrived in London yesterday.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Mr Harper cried scornfully. ‘He’s just off the boat! I don’t know why we’re wasting our time on him. We should have him arrested at once and reported to the Home Office. He’ll be on the next plane to Zululand before the end of the week!’

  ‘I’ll decide what we do about him, Mr Harper.’ Mrs Collins inclined her head at André. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘It’s André. André Potgieter. But you may call me Potter, if Potgieter’s too difficult for you.’

  ‘Too difficult for you,’ sneered Mr Harper. ‘I’ve seen his type before. Bloody liars and layabouts the lot of them. I bet he’s got neither a fixed identity nor a permanent address. He’ll be telling you he’s the Prince of Wales next.’

  André took out his passport and handed it to Mrs Collins. She wore no makeup save for an almost imperceptible blush across her cheeks. Her dark hair was pulled back from her forehead and held in place with a simple plastic comb.

  ‘It says here your surname is Barnes. And this is a British passport.’

  ‘My father’s name,’ André replied. ‘I prefer Potgieter, after my mother.’

  ‘It’s a forgery!’ Mr Harper cried in a shrill voice. ‘The man is a damned fraud!’

  ‘Mr Harper, will you please hush,’ Mrs Collins said with obvious irritation. She turned to André again. ‘I believe you know a thing or two about violins. I see you’ve brought one with you.’

  ‘I do, Mrs Collins. And yes, this violin is my own.’

  ‘And where did you learn?’

  ‘I was apprenticed for a while to a violin maker in South Africa. Sylvanus Pieterse.’

  Mrs Collins raised her eyebrows at the mention of Sylvanus Pieterse. His instruments were sought after around the world.

  ‘Do you have any formal qualifications?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Mr Harper taunted. ‘He might have done a couple of associated board exams but nothing more than that. He’s from South Africa, for god’s sake!’ He was very agitated now and his long limbs would not keep still.

  ‘Actually, I’m a Fellow of the Royal School of Music,’ André said quietly.

  Mr Harper spun around to face Mrs Collins. ‘He’s lying, I tell you! He’s much too young to be a Fellow.’

  ‘That is easily verified, Mr Harper. We will find out soon enough.’ She looked at André and her eyes narrowed. ‘We maintain a strong correspondence with all the good schools and universities in South Africa. How come I’ve never heard of you?’

  ‘I’ve never performed, Mrs Collins. Or taught in a school like this.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘I’ve never found the right position,’ André said. ‘I have taught a little and, I’ll admit, I’ve only realised recently how much I enjoy it. I’d really like to teach, Mrs Collins. That is, if you’ll have me.’

  Mr Harper huff
ed with disapproval but no one was paying attention to him anymore.

  Mrs Collins studied André intently, her dark eyes glimmering with intelligence. Were it not for her walking stick, the resemblance to a bird, albeit a wounded one, would have been complete.

  ‘Play something for me,’ she said at last.

  André took his violin out of its case. ‘Of course. What would you like to hear?’

  And Mr Harper walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 19

  Things went surprisingly well for André after that. He filled out the application form for a teaching post at Saint Anthony’s the very same day. Mrs Collins hadn’t said very much after his impromptu audition but he could tell she’d been impressed.

  There was one question on the form about hobbies or, as Mrs Collins put it, anything unusual about him that he might want to share. It was to help the faculty and the students to get to know him better.

  André was loath to mention his dyslexia. It caused him little trouble these days. His bouts of synesthesia, however, were another thing altogether, but he thought it wise to leave this out too. It would only lead to difficult questions, questions that he had no desire to explain. André had heard them all. And people were justifiably curious. He knew it sounded like a rather amusing party trick.

  ‘So you can taste sounds, smell colours and see scents?’

  ‘Not quite. Sometimes I might see colours and shapes when I hear music.’

  Sometimes. That was the operative word and it drove him to dark depths of frustration.

  ‘Is that all? I see colours and shapes when I smoke weed.’

  There was always someone who needed to show what a rebel he was. André had learned to ignore people like that.

  ‘It only happens with certain types of music. Violin pieces invariably, and particularly when the music played is of great beauty.’

  Then he’d watch them quietly as they digested this new information with puzzled looks on their faces.

  ‘So what do the shapes and colours look like?’

  Usually at this stage they couldn’t be sure if he was pulling their leg or not.