‘I had no idea you could play that,’ she said. ‘That was quite, quite beautiful.’
‘I know,’ Becky said. ‘But what is it?’
This time Ms Paddy looked at Becky with amazement.
‘You mean you don’t have the music?’
Becky shrugged. ‘I must have heard it somewhere, I guess. I’ve been practising …’
‘Becky, my dear,’ Ms Paddy whispered. ‘I didn’t know you had such a marvellous ear.’
‘Perhaps it’s the flute,’ Becky mumbled. She didn’t want to deceive her. She knew she did not have a particularly good ear. But all the same, she had played the piece, and without music. Or so it must have seemed. Becky could hardly say: Ms Paddy, believe me, it’s not really me playing this melody. It’s somebody else. I’ve no idea who. Just somebody who’s come along and taken over my mind and my fingers. Honest …
Instead, Becky said. ‘Do you know what it is?’
Ms Paddy nodded her head. ‘Of course I do. It’s a piece by Debussy. It’s called Syrinx.’
‘Syrinx?’
‘It’s a lovely story.’
Becky waited. She knew Ms Paddy would tell her. Luckily, the story gave her a chance to dismantle the flute and place it carefully back in its box before Ms Paddy asked her to play something from the orchestra’s repertoire.
‘Well, it’s all to do with the great god Pan. I mean that’s why Debussy wrote it for the flute of course.’ Ms Paddy glanced at Becky a little nervously. ‘Well, you know what sort of a man, er, god, Pan was, don’t you?’
Becky thought she detected a faint blush on Ms Paddy’s face. ‘Sort of …’ she said. She did know he had goat’s feet and all that, and played his pipe and, being a bit of a goat, had a reputation for chasing women.
Ms Paddy obviously took her ‘sort of’ as a ‘yes’, for without any further explanation, she continued. ‘Well, Syrinx was a beautiful young nymph, you know, maiden, and Pan fell head over heels in love with her. This was in Arcadia and things, shall we say, were a little looser then. And, Pan was inclined to that sort of thing, of course. Syrinx, unfortunately, wasn’t all that keen on Pan. It didn’t matter to him. Not a scrap. He chased her all over the place. Up hill and down dale. Anyway, when she reached a river somebody or something, the other gods I suppose, took pity on her and changed her into a bunch of river reeds.’
‘They were doing her a favour?’ Becky asked.
Ms Paddy shrugged. ‘It depends what you think is worse, I suppose,’ she said. Clearly she thought that being caught by Pan would have been a far worse fate than being transformed into a plant that grows in a bog.
‘Then what?’
‘This is the point of the story. Pan couldn’t tell one reed from another so he had no idea which one was Syrinx. So he cut them down and made his pipes out of the reeds. You know, the pan pipes?’
Becky nodded. She knew.
Ms Paddy smiled. ‘So in a way you could say that every time flute music, or any sort of reed music is played for that matter, Syrinx lives on.’ She beamed at Becky who nodded, but didn’t smile back.
Ms Paddy had described the sordid little episode as a ‘lovely story’. Becky didn’t think it was lovely at all. Just another dirty old man chasing a much younger girl and cutting her down when he couldn’t get her where he wanted her. It all sounded a bit like her father, really. She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. She had the sneakiest suspicion she might have been wrong about Paddy: that she wouldn’t really have minded being chased by old Pan herself. Or by anybody, if it came to that.
‘No,’ Ms Paddy said. ‘You have a very nice flute. A good buy.’
‘Thanks,’ Becky said. ‘I’ll tell Mum. She’ll be pleased.’
Becky didn’t tell her that she wasn’t so pleased herself. She didn’t tell her teacher that the flute was frightening her. And that somehow Ms Paddy’s story about Syrinx had frightened her even more.
Some days later, Becky found the card. She had not tried to play the flute again after Ms Paddy had looked at it and told her all about Syrinx. She had thought about Syrinx quite a lot, though. Becky imagined her running through the woods, her finely spun white gown streaming behind her as she leapt this way and that, jumping over hollows, ducking under branches and swerving between the towering trunks. She imagined her panic. That was the word. Panic. Her panic as Pan himself charged after her, his cloven feet clattering on the rocks, his breath rasping with desire, and his wild arms reaching, reaching. Becky saw her dismay when she came to the broad swift river lined with the graceful bending reeds, and she saw Syrinx turn to face her dreadful pursuer.
Becky’s mother possibly thought it strange that Becky did not seem to take out her new flute and to practise with it. However, Donna Pym was used to her daughter’s moody ways and didn’t say anything.
Some impulse, though, a few days later did drive Becky to take out the flute. Once again, all it would let her play was the Syrinx melody. For some odd reason this didn’t frighten her so much this time as make her unbearably sad. It seemed Syrinx herself was sighing through the flute.
Idly, she noticed a line of white where the plush blue lining of the case met the side of the base. At first Becky thought it was a toothpick that had been discarded and had somehow found its way there. When she fingered at it and drew it out, however, she saw that it was the top of a small card, like a business card, that had been squeezed down the side of the case.
Petrus Faunus PhD
Arcady House
46 Landon Road
Becky held the card carefully. The copper-plate writing was the only ornamentation. There was no email address, not even a telephone number. Of course, her first thought was that this Dr Faunus had been the owner of the flute. Then she realised that the card could have belonged to anybody.
She put the card down and once more lifted the flute. As the haunting Syrinx melody played, she again saw the fleeing figure, the flimsy white silky material flying behind her, Syrinx’s frightened face looking back over her shoulder. It was a sudden picture, sharp and real, and Becky realised with a moment of alarm that although she had never to her knowledge seen that face before, she would easily recognise it again. The music she was playing drifted in the air and, as it did so, some part of her was looking on with anguish as Syrinx fled from the harsh-breathing and clatter of the great god Pan. It was seriously strange, like watching a movie — except that she was creating the movie and providing the soundtrack all at the same time. It became too much to bear. With an effort Becky dragged the flute away from her lips, the music stopped, the vision of Syrinx disappeared and she was able to look out of her bedroom window to the street where Johnny Cadman, a boy in her English class, a real loser, was stuffing advertising brochures into people’s letterboxes.
For a second or two Becky was not sure which world was the real one. Her suburban street or the music-drenched forest. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, momentarily unsure which world would greet her.
It was the street, the little box hedges and Johnny Cadman.
She knew, all at once, that she would have to do something about what was happening. She glanced at the card and its copper-plate message. Surely it had been left there with a purpose. And then she realised that the one person who might know if there was any connection was the grubby little pawnbroker. Becky didn’t much like the idea, but it was clear to her that she would have to go back and see him once more.
He was there behind the bleary glass almost as she’d seen him the time before, squatting on his swivel chair reading the classified advertisements in the newspaper.
He looked up, recognising Becky.
‘Hello,’ he said, frowning slightly. Becky was holding the case with the flute in it under her arm. Becky guessed that he was thinking she wanted to return the flute. She was also convinced that the man was wearing the same stained shirt.
‘Something wrong?’
‘Not really,’ she lied. She wanted to put h
im at his ease. ‘Well, not anything major.’ Becky forced herself to smile as she put the case on the counter. She guessed he knew nothing about flutes. ‘I took it to my music teacher,’ Becky explained. ‘She said it’s a pretty good flute.’
He nodded, looking a little relieved.
Becky clicked open the case. ‘She said it’s quite old,’ she added. ‘And that’s the problem …’
‘Problem?’
‘Well, some of the key pads are a little worn and it’s really hard to get new key pads for a flute this old …’
He looked blank. That was a good sign. Becky pointed to the keys. He nodded as if he understood. ‘So?’
‘Well, she … I thought that the previous owner may have kept some of them spare perhaps, or knew of a supplier …’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And I found this card in the box and I wondered if you could tell whether this was the person who’d brought the flute in. You know? ’Cause if it was I could get in touch and …’ As Becky explained, it all sounded horribly limp. ‘Key pads …’ she finished.
The pawnshop man didn’t seem to notice her gabbling. He reached and took the card and squinted at it. ‘I’ll have to check the computer,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, though.’
He swivelled around behind him to reach the keyboard. With his back to Becky he tapped at the keys. It didn’t take him long. He re-checked the card, peered at the screen, and then shook his head. ‘No, not this person,’ he said.
‘Who …?’
Becky didn’t know whether he would tell her or not. Perhaps there was a law about letting people know that sort of information. However, he glanced again at the card and said, ‘Funny thing, this.’
Becky looked at him expectantly. He handed her the card.
‘Different name,’ he said. ‘But it’s the same address.’ Then he pointed to the screen so that Becky could see the name of the person who’d brought the flute in. Hester Nye, 46 Landon Road. There was no telephone number.
‘Can’t be any more help,’ he said. ‘No other problems?’
Becky shook her head. ‘No … none really. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’
She shut the case, gathered it up and backed out of the shop.
Becky didn’t tell her mother where she’d been. As far as Donna Pym was concerned there was no problem. Becky had the flute. Ms Paddy had approved it. Becky’s mother would have been aware though that Becky had been a little tense and scratchy and probably hadn’t played the flute as often as she could have. Donna Pym tended to put up with Becky’s moods in the hope they’d go away. This was easier than coping with an explosion. All the same, she did look a little curious when Becky spread out the map of the city on the kitchen table that evening.
‘What are you doing?’
Becky bit back the impulse to tell her she was looking at the map. She decided to use a version of the line she had used with the man in the pawnshop.
‘Ms Paddy has a friend in Landon Road who might have some key pads for the flute. I’m just trying to find where it is.’
Her mother came and stared over her shoulder. ‘Landon Road? It’s very close to here. Isn’t it near the old normal school? Near the river?’
Her mother’s finger pointed. There it was — and there was Landon Road, a winding street following the river. Becky realised immediately that she knew the street quite well, although she’d never noticed what it was called. It was a leafy street of gracious old two-storeyed houses. It was hard to imagine anyone living in Landon Road having to pawn anything. People living there would more likely have owned the pawnshop.
‘You could walk there,’ said Donna Pym.
A couple of days later Becky did set off after school on foot for Landon Road. Number 46 was an old brick double-storeyed house. It looked very elegant with a dark slate roof and Virginia creeper growing up the bricks on the lower floor. It was late autumn and the creeper was turning a fiery orange and red. On the letterbox was a polished brass plaque that read Arcady House. Becky wondered whether the house was an institution of some sort. It looked big enough to be an orphanage.
After she pressed the bell push at the door she heard a musical chiming from within and then footsteps. The door opened and a tall grey-haired woman stood before her staring at Becky curiously.
‘Yes?’
Becky suddenly realised she didn’t really know what she was going to say. Somehow she had forgotten to rehearse her lines. It was a huge mistake, really, because what she needed to say was so fantastic. Something like: Excuse me, are you Hester Nye? Are you the Hester Nye who pawned this flute? If you are, could you possibly explain how it seems to be enchanted in some way? You see, it’ll only let me play this weird piece of music by Charles Debussy called Syrinx, and to be perfectly honest, while it’s quite a nice piece of music and all, it’s really scaring the hell out of me …
Of course, Becky didn’t say anything like that. She couldn’t say anything like that. Instead, she held up the flute case and said, ‘Excuse me, my mother and I bought this flute the other day from …’
She didn’t get any further.
The woman frowned and her eyes grew suddenly cold. ‘Go away,’ she snapped. ‘I have no idea how you found this place, but just go away and don’t come back. And don’t ever bring that instrument with you, you hear?’
Becky had only time to protest, ‘But, I …’ before the door slammed in her face.
Becky was still shaking with the violence of the woman’s reaction when she reached the street again. She looked back over her shoulder to see whether or not the woman was watching from a window, but there was no movement of any sort. All was still.
There was obviously something seriously bizarre about the flute. The woman had seemed perfectly okay until she’d seen the flute case. Only after that did the woman turn to pack ice. It was as if she were frightened. It was as if Becky had arrived at her front door with a basket of hand grenades. Becky didn’t understand it. From the look of the house she understood one thing, though. It wasn’t poverty that had forced Ms Nye to pawn the flute. From her reaction, it looked more like fear.
It was obviously time for Plan B. Trouble was, Becky didn’t have any Plan B. She wandered aimlessly back to the main road. She reached the bridge over the pretty little river and glanced along the narrow park that followed its bank. There was an attractive riverside walkway of fine gravel along this bank, a walk shaded by plane trees already shedding the last of their leaves. It occurred to her that this pathway would almost certainly wind past the back section of the house called Arcady. Even though the afternoon was drawing to a close Becky had enough time to explore, so she thought to herself Why not?
She was quite right, and in luck. Although many of the houses had tall wooden fences and some had thick hedges, Arcady had taken advantage of its river view and its spreading lawns swept down to a low hedge. The light of the late sun shone on its windows. Becky paused by a willow tree and stared curiously at the house and garden. She started suddenly as she saw that sitting in a wheelchair by a small gazebo was a solitary figure, head slumped in sleep. It looked to be an old man. Instinctively, Becky had drawn quickly back beside the trunk of the willow, but growing braver with the realisation that the old man was asleep, she studied him more leisurely. He was wearing a floppy black beret of some sort, so that he looked as if he were an old Frenchman, an artist perhaps. She could see wisps of white hair poking out from under the hat. Over his knees and completely covering his feet was a plaid rug, increasingly necessary in the cool of the late afternoon. Becky guessed this might have been the Dr Faunus of the card she had found. If this was the case, what did he have to do with the grumpy and frightened woman — Hester Nye she supposed — who’d sent her away with a flea in her ear? Was she his daughter? The wheelchair suggested she could have been the old man’s nurse.
And what about the flute? Whose was it? The card suggested it had belonged to Dr Faunus. And yet the pawnshop man had told Becky that a woman, a
woman called Hester Nye, had pawned the flute.
Why? It must have been something to do with the flute. Becky’s flute. She gripped the case tightly. The woman at the door had become hostile as soon as she’d seen what Becky had been carrying. Hostile, or fearful. Had she got rid of the flute because it was in some way frightening?
That was her attitude.
What was the attitude of the old man?
From the shadows of the willow tree, Becky studied him. He sat so still in the garden. Old and fast asleep. At least, Becky guessed he was fast asleep. He could even have been … She didn’t want to think that.
Becky knew what she had to do. It seemed to her, even as she opened the case and took out the flute, that she had been meant to do this all along. That something had driven her to find Arcady. To follow the path by the river. To find the old man in the garden. To assemble the flute and then to put the mouthpiece to her lips and to breathe into it as she was doing right at that moment.
As the first haunting riff of Syrinx echoed across the garden it was clear that the old man had only been slumbering all along. His shoulders stiffened and his head came up. His eyes opened and he looked across the lawn towards the willow tree. He saw Becky, stared at her impassively for some time, and then he lifted his arm slowly and beckoned her towards him.
Now Becky’s mother had always told her not to approach strange men. She never had any quarrel with that advice either, but somehow, something made her lower the flute from her lips, give a little half-wave and make her way towards him. Before she was really aware of what she was doing she had stepped over the little hedge and had walked up the sloping lawn. Hunched and wrapped in his wheelchair, the old man watched Becky all the way with the dark sharp eyes that were the only part of him that seemed alive. As she drew nearer she could see that he was very, very old. His skin seemed to hang from his bones in wrinkled folds and it had that glassy, almost transparent quality you see in really ancient people. His face was sunken, his eyes were like dark caves and he had a wispy white beard. His head seemed buried under the floppy black beret.
The Enchanted Flute Page 2