by Emma Davies
She wandered over to the window and stared outside. She could go and have a word with Clara, she supposed, but she wasn’t altogether sure she would be able to help, and the same was true for both Maddie and Trixie too. Which left only Tom, and for some reason she was reluctant to go and ask him. It wasn’t that they hadn’t got on yesterday, they had, but perhaps that in itself was part of the problem. Isobel wasn’t at all sure how she felt about Tom. He was probably the only one who would understand her predicament and yet she felt a real need to keep some distance between them. His reputation with women was bad if the various comments made by the others were anything to go by, and that sort of complication was the last thing she needed.
Her laptop made a faint purring noise from behind her, as the fan began to whirr. She could always listen to the music again, but really, how would that help? With an audible tut she walked from the room, down the hallway and opened the front door. She didn’t even know if he was out there, but almost as soon as she stepped foot in the garden, she could hear him whistling up on the roof. In fact, he was whistling the melody from the exact same piece of music she had been listening to, and she grimaced.
She headed down the path until she was almost at the cottage on the far side from hers. Almost immediately she heard him call out.
‘Peter and the Wolf!’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t heard that in years!’ He was waving at her now.
She smiled, raising an arm, but not at all happy about having to raise her voice. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He cupped a hand to his ear, but she certainly wasn’t about to shout any louder, so she stood there awkwardly, not knowing quite what to do.
‘Hang on, I can’t hear you… I’ll come down.’
Within seconds, it seemed, he had shinned down the ladder.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘I’ve been listening to a piece of music—’
‘Yes, Peter and the Wolf,’ supplied Tom, interrupting. ‘I could hear it from the roof.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be helping you get the roof finished, not distracting you.’
‘But?’
She bit her lip. ‘I wondered if I could ask your opinion on something. Have you got a minute to come inside?’
He nodded, following her into the cottage.
‘So, you obviously know the piece of music,’ she said as soon as they were both in the living room.
‘Spent many a happy hour as a child freaking myself out listening to it. I knew the story of course, but that didn’t stop me from feeling the same way, every single time I listened to it.’
‘It scared you?’
‘Yes, didn’t it scare you? Those big booming notes every time the wolf appeared. Prokofiev was genius, wasn’t he?’
‘But how old were you when you listened to it?’ she asked.
Tom scratched his head. ‘Oh, only little. I don’t know, about seven or eight perhaps. I know I was learning the violin by then.’
‘And did you ever go and see it performed?’
‘No. I think I would have liked to, but my parents probably thought it was a bit… simplistic maybe?’
She frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Well it was written for children, wasn’t it? As a vehicle for teaching the instruments of the orchestra, with each character in the story having a different instrument play its theme. I loved the music, but to them it was nothing more than a fairy tale, and as such had little merit in their eyes. I still used to listen to it though. I was just thinking about it actually, up on the roof, how I’d play it on a Sunday afternoon while they were having an afternoon nap. It’s funny though, I haven’t heard it for years and years and yet I can remember every note as if it were yesterday.’
Isobel watched him intently, an almost fierce expression on her face. She knew she was making him feel uncomfortable, but she didn’t care, she had to know if she was right.
‘I was forbidden to listen to it as a child,’ she said quietly. ‘My parents said it made the instruments into caricatures and belittled them. If I listened to it, that’s all I would ever play.’
‘Ah…’ He paused before saying anything else. She knew he didn’t get on with his parents, but that didn’t give him carte blanche to be openly critical of hers.
‘Perhaps I loved it so much for the simple reason that I was a child. Prokofiev wrote the music for people of that age and maybe that's why it resonated with me so much – in just the same way that a child’s favourite book can hold little value for an adult. I can see that this may be the same kind of situation.’
‘But why did you love it so much?’ urged Isobel.
‘When I was learning to play the violin my parents wanted me to listen to great violin music, and I understand why – it was something they wanted me to aspire to. But at that age, to me that music sounded boring, it was too difficult for me to comprehend and it seemed so far out of my reach. But when I listened to Peter and the Wolf I understood that you could have fun with music. You could play with it, and yet it was clever too. The simplest of melodies were so carefully thought out that they instantly gave shape to each of the characters. The music brought them to life, and I realised then how music could tell stories. It was this that inspired me, still does actually.’
He nodded at Isobel. ‘That's why I love folk music so much,’ he added. ‘Much of it is traditional stories handed down from generation to generation. They were stories told around the fireside, different stories for different occasions, and eventually they became set to music.’
Isobel listened quietly while he spoke, but her thoughts were spinning far beyond what he was saying, back to her childhood. She was horrified to feel tears suddenly welling in her eyes.
‘I knew they were wrong,’ she said. ‘I knew it.’
She blinked hard, turning her head away, and moved off across the room. ‘Shall I make us a drink?’
‘A coffee would be great, thanks,’ he replied, following her into the kitchen. He was watching her, she could feel it. Damn.
‘I was thinking that I might go for a walk later this evening,’ she began, changing the subject. ‘When it cools down a bit. Are there any footpaths at the back of the house? I need to follow something, my sense of direction is terrible.’
‘No, I'm afraid not. But you really can't get lost, just count the fields. There's a beautiful spot two fields over where a tract of woodland acts as a divider between the next. If you go in the evening you'll get to hear the nightingales sing, and that is music of a very special kind.’
She concentrated on spooning coffee into a mug for Tom. ‘I hate to tell you, but I'd be hard pressed to know what one of those sounds like, but thank you, it sounds lovely. I might not even get there at all, it all depends on how I get on this afternoon. I thought I'd had a good few days working on my composition, but in fact, it turns out they weren’t that good after all. I have some serious headway to make.’
‘So where does the Prokofiev come in?’
‘Could you play something for me?’ she asked, ignoring his question. ‘One of your stories?’
There was silence for a moment as he considered the question.
‘I could… but it will have to be some other time, I’m afraid. I don’t have any of my instruments with me.’
‘Well, that’s no problem. You’ve seen the set-up I have in the living room. Someone with your knowledge would have no problem understanding its capabilities. I have pretty much any instrument imaginable at my disposal.’
He hesitated. ‘It’s not quite the same though, is it?… I’m not really used to playing like that… I kind of need the instrument in my hands to just jam it up.’
‘Keyboard then?’ she suggested. ‘I'm sure you must play.’
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
‘You’re not being shy, are you?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps it’s that you’re too modest…?’
Tom ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Isobel, I’m
sorry. It doesn’t much matter whether it’s shyness or modesty, because I’m still not going to play for you. Not here, not like this.’ He paused, softening his expression. ‘I’m used to playing for other people, but in bars, at weddings or at birthday parties where people are relaxed and have had a few drinks. And I play with the band, I don’t play on my own, like this, it’s too… intimate.’
‘Oh.’ She was taken aback. She really hadn’t considered that he would refuse.
He gave an uneasy shrug. ‘I’m sorry, but there you go. If you want to come and see me play, you can come to the pub with me one evening, listen to me and the boys.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘You’d be very welcome to do that.’
‘No, well in fact you couldn’t stop me, could you? It being a public place and all that.’
His eyes blazed in response, but she held his look defiantly for a second, before dropping her gaze. She really shouldn’t have said that. What on earth was wrong with her? She could see his jaw clamp together. The silence grew loud.
‘Isobel, what’s wrong…?’
She looked up sharply, a query on her face. ‘Nothing’s wrong, I—’
He took a step closer. ‘Yes there is…’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Listen, yesterday I bared my soul to you. You might not have realised it, but that was a big thing for me. I shared things with you I’ve never shared with anyone, and right now I’m struggling to understand why, when today you’re acting like nothing’s happened.’ He was becoming angry now. ‘You made me feel better about Matt than I have in a very long time, because you seemed to understand what I’ve been going through, and when I asked you how come, you said you’re screwed up too!’
He gave her a very obvious once-over. ‘And from where I’m standing now I think I’d have to agree with you. So, I’ll ask you again… What’s the matter, Isobel?’
His eyes were still locked on hers, the blueness of them filled with a gentle kindness, and something else, something she’d never expected to see: warmth. A ripple of emotion ran through her. She swallowed and licked her lips.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, beginning to tremble.
She turned her face to the wall, but within two strides Tom was by her side, his hands holding her arms, gently tugging at her as if he wanted her to let go of something. She clung onto her resolve until the last moment, until, finally surrendering, her tears came in a fierce rush of emotion that almost took the legs out from under her. She clung to Tom as a small child might, almost unaware of her surroundings save for an overwhelming need for comfort.
It was a strange feeling for her. Tom’s arms and chest were hard, which somewhat took her by surprise, but the hand that came up behind her head to hold it against his shoulder felt gentle, as his fingers moved over her glossy hair in slow motion. It was the most wonderful sensation. And for the first time that Isobel could remember she let herself relax, giving in to the pressure of his arms which were willing her to do so. She was utterly unable to speak, aware only of his soft voice in her ear, telling her that everything would be all right.
Oh, how she wanted to believe him. To believe that she had a future doing the thing she loved the most. But her violin was a cruel mistress, bestowing her gifts on the one hand and taking away with the other. She had given herself completely to her playing of it, but at what cost?
In truth, it was a question on which Isobel did not require enlightenment. She had been well aware of the answer for years, but the real question was how she was ever going to overcome it. And it was this that was causing her to cling to Tom now.
With this understanding came another: that whatever happened in the next few minutes would be crucial for them both. Isobel was beginning to feel hugely embarrassed and awkward after her outburst. She had trusted Tom with her innermost feelings and unwittingly placed a huge responsibility upon him. Slowly, she began to pull away.
His shirt was damp, a darkened patch over one shoulder, but he swiftly unrolled one of his sleeves until the worn material of the cuff hung down over his hand. He pulled it down further, gripping the edge of it between his thumb and forefinger and then, using the heel of his hand, swiftly wiped away Isobel’s tears. Not unkindly, but rather more matter-of-factly.
‘Don't you dare apologise,’ he said. ‘I'm not particularly fond of this shirt anyway,’ he added. ‘So it really doesn't matter that you've ruined it.’
Her mouth opened in surprise, unsure of what response to make until she caught sight of the grin he had very firmly fixed to his face. She lifted a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘That was awful.’ But she was smiling between her fingers.
‘What was?’ he asked. ‘Your crying buckets all over me… or the fact that in doing so you have covered me with snot.’ He held up a hand. ‘No wait, actually neither of these were awful – the shirt will be good as new come wash day, and, if anything, you seemed to rather enjoy the impromptu howling session.’
She snorted suddenly as she laughed, which made her laugh even harder. ‘Could this actually get any worse?’ she asked. ‘Apart from covering you in bodily fluids, I bet I look a right state.’
‘You look hideous. For goodness’ sake, woman, pull yourself together.’
She wiped under her eyes, still amused, but sobering slightly now. She laid a hand on his arm.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and she knew Tom understood her perfectly. There was no need to say any more.
He turned and scooped up the two mugs from where she had left them on the table.
‘I'll finish making these,’ he said. ‘You go through there and do those things you women do to compose yourself. I won’t be a minute.’
She did as she was told and by the time he returned Isobel was sitting back at her desk, having blown her nose and dabbed at her face so that pretty much all traces of her earlier tears had gone. He laid her tea beside her and then went to sit in the armchair opposite her. He blew across the surface of his coffee.
‘So, I think we might have established that there is in fact a little something that’s bothering you. Are you going to tell me what it is, because I’m sure you do know… or would you rather I leave?’
‘No!’ Her reply was instantaneous, and then softer: ‘No,’ she said, ‘please don’t go.’
He waited for her to speak as she struggled to find a place to start.
‘This is really difficult,’ she began.
He took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, start with the Prokofiev. I’m not sure what that’s got to do with anything, but it obviously has, so…’ He let the sentence dangle.
Isobel wriggled on her chair, taking a breath.
‘I have a composition to write, you know that. And it has to be special, very special. You don’t need to know why, but it’s very important to me, and…’ She threw up her hands, searching for the right words. ‘Well, put bluntly, what I’ve written is shite. I mean utter shite, totally, spectacularly, comprehensively—’
‘I get the picture…’
She smiled, and then swallowed. ‘I can’t do emotion, Tom – in my music, I mean. I never have been able to. When I play, it’s accomplished, more than that… perfect, always, but I’m like a machine. I have no soul when I play.’
He was about to contradict her but she held up her hand. ‘And when I compose it’s flat, lifeless. It has no colour, no story, passion, nothing. I’ve been listening to Peter and the Wolf because of the story-telling aspect of the music, how every instrument has its own character, and I understand it… I just can’t do it…’ She trailed off, dropping her head.
A frown hit Tom’s face before he could stop it.
‘See!’ she said. ‘I knew you’d think I was stupid.’
‘Isobel, I don’t!’ He reached out a hand to lightly touch her arm. ‘Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve, and that’s fine… But I am perhaps a little curious…’ He waited to see how his response would be received before continuing. ‘For me, music is all about emotion… When I play at my be
st it’s like every part of me becomes every part of the music. There’s an utter connectedness that binds it and drives it. I guess I thought it was the same for everyone else.’
‘It is. Everyone except me.’
He was about to contradict her. It was the kind of thing you said when you were in a slump, struggling with a piece of music which try as you might wouldn’t go where you wanted it to. But then he realised that she was serious. Absolutely so.
He thought for a minute. ‘Okay… so let me hear you play.’ He nodded towards her violin which lay beside her mug of tea. ‘Something you've written though, not a piece by another composer. Play me what you were working on this morning.’
‘But it isn't completed yet. I couldn't possibly play you that.’
He raised his eyebrows, and his meaning was crystal clear.
She took up her violin, lifting it to her chin, and readying her bow. Almost immediately she began to play.
The piece lasted around eight minutes or so, and Tom listened without speaking until the end, watching her carefully. At the end of that time he waited for a few more seconds before nodding briefly.
‘Play it again,’ he said. ‘Once more with feeling, as they say.’ He grinned.
This time, as she played, Tom closed his eyes and, when she had finished, he continued sitting, not moving a muscle until the sound completely died away. Slowly he lifted his head and his eyes found hers.
He nodded. ‘So, what's it about?’ he asked. ‘What's the story here?’
‘That’s just it,’ she said, trying to keep her lip from trembling again. ‘I don’t think it has one.’
He nodded, reaching forward to pick up his mug, and then drained its contents in one almost continuous movement. ‘Do you know what I think?’
She moved her head, just a fraction.