His voice, when he spoke, was high-pitched and quivery.
‘You’ve come then,’ he said. ‘You’ve been such a very long time.’
Becky was mesmerised by the gleaming staring eyes. All she could say was, ‘Have I?’
He nodded and reached for her hand. Becky had no choice. She let her hand rest in his for a moment before he released it and his hand fell away again. His grip had been dry, like a papery claw.
All the while his sharp little eyes had glittered with what seemed like satisfaction, and they had never left Becky’s face. She felt uncomfortable, but at the same time she knew she couldn’t leave him until she had been dismissed. Somehow though, she was able to whisper, ‘Who are you?’
The question seemed to amuse him. He nodded a couple of times then said, ‘But you must know who I am?’
Becky shook her head before she remembered the card in the flute case. ‘Dr Faunus?’
The old man seemed disappointed, but still he nodded.
‘Then this was your flute?’
He nodded again. ‘Let’s just say it was my music,’ he said.
Becky stared at him. His eyes seemed everywhere.
‘Now you must play it for me,’ he whispered. ‘That is why you are here …’
This time she nodded. It seemed to make sense. And she obeyed. She raised the flute to her lips once more and began to play.
Becky was unaware of how long she played. While the strange music lifted and faded she seemed to be quite beyond time and place. She did not notice that the afternoon shadows were growing longer and deeper, and that it was becoming markedly cool. At length the old man lifted a bony finger and Becky nodded and stopped playing. He glanced over his shoulder at the house behind him.
‘You must go now,’ he said. ‘She will be here soon to take me in. It is best she doesn’t see you.’
Becky guessed he was talking about the Hester Nye woman. Given the reception she had received at the front door, she certainly did not want to meet her again. She guessed that if the Nye woman knew Becky had been playing the flute to the old man she would be very angry.
‘The music has been a tonic,’ he said.
Becky gave him a quick smile. It did seem as if the music had perked him up a little. His voice seemed a little firmer and his eyes not so sunken. They seemed to sparkle rather than glitter, and that made him seem slightly more human, slightly less scary.
‘You will come tomorrow at the same time,’ he said. ‘Meet me here in the garden. Don’t go to the front. She will send you away.’
This was not really said as a request. It was as if he were simply stating a fact. Something in Becky wanted to argue, to say don’t be so silly, but something else in her knew that arguing would be useless, knew that even if the sky should turn green and begin to rain lizards, she would be there the next day playing her flute to the old man.
And so it proved. There she was again, walking along the path by the river with her flute, her flute that would only play the old man’s music. And there he was again, wrapped in the same rug, in the same wheelchair and under the same tree; and yet he did seem slightly different. He seemed to be sitting just a little straighter, a little more expectantly. Becky guessed that this was the reason. This expectation. He’d obviously been looking forward to her coming and this had cheered him up. He was a little jaunty, less intense.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
Somehow the question surprised her. From the way he seemed to know she’d be coming she half-thought he might have known her name already. ‘Rebecca,’ she said.
‘Rebecca,’ he said slowly, savouring the syllables. ‘It is a musical name …’
‘My friends call me Becky,’ she said.
‘Rebec,’ said the old man.
‘What?’
‘A rebec was an old stringed instrument. Something like a fiddle.’
Becky shook her head. ‘Rebecca’s Hebrew,’ she said. ‘It’s a Biblical name.’
He smiled. ‘That may well be, but it’s a musical name nonetheless, and now you can prove it by playing for me again.’
Becky nodded then took the flute from its case and assembled it carefully. She stepped back and lifted it to her lips. Magically her fingers found the stops and all at once the unearthly trill of the now familiar but still very haunting opening sounded across the lawn; and the melody haunted the trees, the river and the very clouds in the sky themselves. The old man leaned forward intently and the years seemed to drop away from him.
When Becky returned to the path, she was so overwhelmed by the strangeness of what had been happening that at first she didn’t see the solitary figure standing by the blotched trunk of a plane tree. It was Johnny Cadman. She became aware of him only when he stepped out into the path almost barring her way. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m allowed to be here, aren’t I? Why?’
Becky shrugged. ‘It’s a free country. No reason why you shouldn’t be here.’
He looked away, swallowing. ‘It’s a short cut, isn’t it?’
‘A short cut? Where to?’
Johnny Cadman swallowed. Becky waited while he looked this way and that quickly, either searching for an escape route, or trying to avoid Becky’s eyes, or both.
‘Town,’ said Johnny Cadman, unconvincingly.
He was such a dweeb, thought Becky. Couldn’t even lie to save himself.
‘Why’d you stop then?’
Johnny Cadman flushed slightly. ‘Well, I stopped because I saw you over there on the lawn with … with that old guy …’
‘So?’
‘So, nothing. You were playing your flute weren’t you?’
‘So?’
‘I heard you, that’s all.’
‘I suppose you would if I was playing it.’
Again Johnny Cadman looked away.
‘It was pretty,’ he said. ‘The music …’
‘It’s Debussy.’
‘Oh …’
Johnny clearly had no idea who Debussy was. He probably only listens to god-awful stuff, thought Becky. By now, she was getting bored with the conversation and wanted to get home. Johnny, who didn’t seem to be getting her signals, though, made no move to get out of her way. Instead, and probably without consciously knowing he was doing so, he’d manoeuvred himself so that he now almost completely blocked her path.
‘Well, I need to be off,’ said Becky.
However, it was clear that Johnny Cadman had not quite finished. He flushed again a little and his face looked troubled. Becky waited for him, taking in his unfashionably long blond hair. It hung over his brow in an untidy fringe giving him the air of a particularly anxious Old English sheepdog. He was small for his age, too, or appeared to be, probably because he always seemed to be shrinking into himself.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Do you think …’ Johnny began.
‘Think what?’
‘Think you should be doing that?’ he blurted.
‘Doing what?’ demanded Becky. She was now quite irritated with the way Johnny Cadman was behaving.
Johnny stared at her desolately. ‘Playing to that old guy,’ he said.
Becky looked at him in astonished anger. ‘What has it got to do with you who I play to? Just who do you think you are?’
Johnny’s face fell once more and he mumbled, ‘Sorry. It’s just that …’
‘It’s just none of your bloody business,’ said Becky coldly. ‘Now move your bloody self and let me past!’
Without looking at her, Johnny backed out of the way and Becky strode past him. ‘Sorry,’ Johnny mumbled again, but in her hurry Becky refused to acknowledge that he’d even spoken.
‘Where have you been?’ her mother asked.
Becky found herself suddenly feeling defensive. It had been bad enough being interrogated by Johnny Bloody Cadman; now her mother was starting in on her.
‘Just out,’ she muttered, turning h
er back on her mother and making for her room.
‘I know you’ve been out,’ said her mother with growing irritation. ‘I asked where you’d been.’
‘No need to get titchy about it,’ snapped Becky without stopping, but instantly regretted her tone, realising at once that all she would achieve was an increasingly angry mother. And she was right!
Donna Pym rounded on her daughter crossly. ‘I honestly don’t know what’s been getting into you lately, young lady …’
Becky stopped moving and squeezed her eyes shut. She hated being called young lady.
‘But, if you think that’s an appropriate way to talk to me when I’ve asked you a perfectly civil question then you’ve another think coming!’
Becky remained silent but didn’t dare move, although she longed to be able to rush to her room.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Orchestra practice,’ lied Becky desperately. She turned around and flourished her flute case.
‘But you don’t have orchestra practice on a Thursday.’
‘Paddy wanted one,’ said Becky, improvising quickly, ‘for the break-up concert.’
Her mother stared at her doubtfully, doubting. ‘Even so,’ she said, ‘even with an extra practice. You’re still late.’
‘I know,’ said Becky. ‘I know, but I ran into a kid from my class and I …’
‘Who?’ asked Donna Pym.
‘It was Johnny, actually,’ said Becky, almost gratefully. ‘You don’t know him. Johnny Cadman. We stopped and sort of talked for a bit. He sometimes delivers leaflets round here. That’s all …’
Her mother looked at her shrewdly. She saw Becky’s slightly flustered, slightly guilty face and put two and two together. A boyfriend … well, it wasn’t before time. It was going to happen sooner or later. A boyfriend … That would explain the mysteriousness. That would explain Becky’s almost embarrassed agitation. And the snappiness. A boyfriend … That was all right, then. For a moment, there, she’d thought it might have been something a little more difficult to handle.
Becky closed the door of her bedroom firmly, and then slumped down in the battered easy chair beside her bed. She sat there for some moments, her mind racing, her top teeth nibbling worriedly at her lower lip.
Something strange was happening and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one little bit. Twice now she’d visited the old house by the river, and she knew she’d have to go again. The thing was irresistible. Something was pulling her. It seemed she had no more control now over her legs than she did over her fingers whenever she drew the flute out of its case and put it to her lips.
How could she go, though? She’d lied to her mother once already, and she was already suspicious. Donna Pym was no fool. The truth was only a phone call away to Old Paddy. What could she tell her mother tomorrow? It couldn’t possibly be another music practice. She wasn’t in a sports team. Tomorrow, too, was her turn to cook. Her mother would come home expecting to find vegetables steaming on the elements. She’d go spare if she came home to an empty house and nothing ready for dinner.
Then there was the way her mother had looked when she’d told that story about meeting Johnny Cadman. It had been odd. Her mother had relaxed as if it had somehow been okay. In a strange way, this had erased some of Becky’s irritation with Johnny Cadman and made her feel obscurely grateful to him.
But, thinking about Johnny reminded her of how she had met him on the path at the back of the house called Arcady, not on a street nearby where he’d been delivering pamphlets as she’d implied to her mother.
Why had he been there? She hadn’t for one moment believed his stupid story about it being a short cut to town, for the obvious reason that it wasn’t. It wasn’t a short cut to anywhere that she knew of.
It did not make sense.
Unless …
Unless he’d been following her! Becky sat up. Could that have been true? Was Johnny Cadman stalking her? By his own admission he’d been hiding behind a tree watching her as she’d played the flute to the old man. Why would he do that? Johnny Cadman was a little weird, but his attitude and explanations were even weirder than usual. And he’d had the cheek to try and tell her that what she’d been doing was somehow wrong.
She had every right to have bitten his head off, the nerd! All the same, Becky was honest enough to recognise that part of the reason she’d snapped at him so furiously had been her own feelings of guilt. There was something wrong about what she’d been doing. She hadn’t felt happy playing the flute. Why was that? Even as she asked herself the question, Becky knew the answer.
It was because she’d had no control over what she’d been doing. Somehow, she knew, the old man was manipulating her. She was no more in control of herself than a marionette. The old man was pulling her strings and she was obeying. What made her feel guilty was that the old man almost certainly had some reason to do this. And that was? She had no idea, but it was probably not sweetness and light.
As she pondered this growing certainty, Becky shrank even further into her chair. She had felt bad. She had felt guilty. Now she was beginning to feel frightened again.
The next day, things got worse.
The first difficulty was orchestra practice at lunchtime.
Ms Paddy stopped flailing the air with her baton and banged a cross rat tat tat on the top of the music stand before her. The orchestra had been lurching rather incoherently through the Polovtsian March from Prince Igor, but it was neither their missteps in the rhythm nor the strangulated harmony that was annoying Ms Paddy. She turned directly to glare at Becky.
‘Rebecca,’ she snapped.
Oh god, thought Becky, she’s annoyed. Worse than annoyed. She only Rebeccas me when she’s really angry. And Becky knew why Paddy would be in a paddy, too. She tried to avoid the music teacher’s eyes. Knowing her flute would only play the Syrinx melody, Becky had not actually been playing a note, merely miming with her instrument.
‘I cannot hear you at all,’ snapped Paddy. ‘I need you to lead, girl!’
Becky had to turn and face the teacher. Somehow she managed it.
‘Let me hear you!’
Becky stared at Ms Paddy with a sinking feeling of dismay. ‘I don’t …’
‘Come on!’
Ms Paddy waited. She’d put her hands on her hips so that she looked like a rather squat and angry sports trophy.
Becky looked helplessly from side to side. The other members of the orchestra looked at her curiously.
‘Well?’
‘I can’t …’
‘Rebecca, what’s the matter with you?’
Becky shrugged. She was facing complete humiliation or tears or both. There was only one escape: the door. With a look of wild desperation, she lurched to her feet, and clutching her flute as if it were a defensive weapon, pushed her way between a pair of astonished clarinet players and, without so much as a glance behind her, rushed to the music room door, flung it open, and burst into the sunshine of the quadrangle outside.
Whether news of her odd behaviour had spread or not, Becky did not really know. It felt to her as if the whole school knew, however, and all she could do when classes resumed was find a place near the back of the room and bury herself in her textbook. So, when the Year Nine messenger came into the room and handed a note to Monsoon MacDonald, her maths teacher, Becky did not even notice.
When Monsoon called out her name, she looked up with some surprise. She’d always felt quite invisible in the school. Only the stars or the crims were ever sent for while they were in class. Either that or they were kids whose parents had just been killed in a plane crash or whose house had just burnt down. Her first thought was whether she might have inadvertently left the toaster on when she’d raced off to school after breakfast.
Monsoon crooked his finger, and Becky left her desk and approached the front.
‘Take this,’ he said in a stage whisper, so that the wh
ole class could hear. ‘Mrs Barnard would like to see you …’
Becky took the note soundlessly, nodded and followed the spotty little messenger out of the room. She was sure she could sense amused glances and whisperings from the others in the class, but she ignored them. Mrs Barnard was one of the school’s counsellors.
It was nearly as bad with Mrs Barnard as it had been in the music room, except that this time Becky did not have the terrifying possibility of having to play the flute.
‘Ms Paddy has told me …’ Mrs Barnard began.
Mrs Barnard had the counsellor’s trick of beginning a sentence and then leaving it unfinished. Becky hated it. She knew she was supposed to anticipate how the sentence was to end and to complete it for the counsellor.
Becky decided not to play. She waited, staring at the counsellor, but offering nothing. She could guess what Paddy had told her. Clearly, Becky was a problem and Barnard had been asked to fix it up, as if Becky were a bike with a flat tyre or some piece of malfunctioning machinery.
Mrs Barnard was not fazed. She knew how to wait.
Finally, Becky gave way. ‘I don’t have a puncture or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Mrs Barnard raised her practised eyebrows. ‘What do you mean by that, Becky?’ she asked mildly.
Becky shrugged. ‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’d just had enough. Sometimes you can have enough, can’t you?’
Mrs Barnard nodded wisely. Becky hated it. ‘Oh, of course,’ the counsellor said easily. ‘We can all have enough at times.’
The Enchanted Flute Page 3