The Enchanted Flute

by James Norcliffe

  There was another long pause. Outside was the front of the school and an avenue of pin oaks lined the wide drive. They had already turned colour and were quite magnificent in their reds and gold.

  This time, Mrs Barnard broke the silence. ‘Was it …?’ she asked.

  ‘Was it what?’

  ‘Something at …?’

  Becky guessed what she meant. Was it something at home? That was the way these people thought. It couldn’t be just something as simple as not wanting to play your flute because your flute would only play one piece of music. Oh no, it had to be something dreadfully complicated like having an alcoholic mother with a terminal disease and a predatory stepfather with an unhealthy interest in X-rated websites and innocent stepdaughters.

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s nothing …’

  Mrs Barnard studied her speculatively for a moment, and then she said softly, ‘Becky, I do want you to know that you can feel quite safe in this office. Anything you feel you can tell me will be kept entirely between us, between us alone …’

  Becky returned to the pin oaks. They seemed safer, more reassuring somehow. She wondered how Mrs Barnard would react if she told the truth: that she had bought a flute at a pawnshop and that it would only play Syrinx and that each evening it dragged her across the neighbourhood to play to a mysterious old man in a wheelchair, an old man who seemed to suck in the music and feed on it. Instead, she turned back to the counsellor and gave what she hoped was a brave little smile, and nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Mrs Barnard clearly thought that Becky’s gratitude would be followed by a confession of some sort. However, she was to be disappointed, for after the murmured thanks Becky lowered her eyes and added nothing. The counsellor waited as long as she bearably could, and then coughed and said, ‘Well, Becky. I’m glad we’ve been able to have this little chat. It’s good to know that you know that you can …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky gratefully.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Barnard. ‘You do know that I’m always here … And I’ll tell Ms Paddy that …?’

  Becky nodded. It wasn’t at all clear to her just what Mrs Barnard would be able to tell Old Paddy, but she wasn’t really all that concerned. All she wanted was for the interview to be over, for the day to be over.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Barnard,’ she whispered once more, as she backed towards the door and fled.

  Things did not get any better when Becky arrived at home after school. She had thought she might be able to placate her mother in advance by hurrying home and preparing the vegetables before making her way back to Landon Road. To her surprise and vague disappointment, however, her mother’s car was in the driveway. This would make sneaking away very difficult. More surprising was the fact that there was another car parked behind her mother’s Toyota. Becky did not know what make of car it was but it was a low slung, little two-seater sports car with wired wheels. It was tomato red. Becky frowned. Few of their friends or relations ever visited them these days, and none of their friends or relations had a car like that. They were all far too serious. This looked like the car of somebody more interested in the silly things of life.

  She walked down the drive, easing her backpack off as she reached the porch. The back door was already open, and Becky made her way into the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, Mum. I’m home.’

  Donna Pym wasn’t in the kitchen-dining room. However there were voices coming from the living room next door. Becky paused for a moment, listening. Her mother’s voice. A male voice. For a second she wondered if her father had returned. But the tones were wrong. Her father’s voice would have been scratched, irritable. These voices seemed relaxed. She even heard her mother’s laugh. Her mother rarely laughed.

  Curious, she pushed open the double doors and stood there.

  Her mother was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee. The man was sitting in the easy chair, the one her father always favoured as it faced the television. There was a cup of coffee before him on the small wooden table. They looked up, the man bland, her mother smiling uncertainly.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘Come along in. This is Max. Mr Willis. I don’t think you’ve met. Max is …’

  ‘Just new to the office. Hi,’ said the man easily, waving at her with familiarity. ‘You must be Rebecca?’

  Becky nodded, with a small quick smile, and then turned to her mother for some explanation. ‘You’re home early?’

  How come he knew her name? They’d been talking about her …

  Was it Becky’s imagination, or did her mother look just a little flustered. ‘Yes. Max is new to the city …’ She gave the man a quick glance. ‘He’s come down from Wellington — head office — to look after human resources. Miriam thought …’

  ‘We all thought,’ corrected the man named Max.

  ‘We all thought,’ continued Donna Pym, with another quick glance at the man, ‘that seeing as Max was looking for a place in this part of the city and that we lived here that I could help by …’

  ‘Bit of local knowledge,’ said Max, laughing. ‘Absolutely invaluable!’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ protested Donna Pym.

  ‘Oh, I would. I would have been a babe in the woods if it hadn’t been …’

  ‘So?’ asked Becky.

  ‘So we’ve been looking at houses,’ said her mother.

  ‘So many houses,’ laughed the man called Max. ‘I’m all tuckered out. Your mother’s saved my life with this coffee.’

  Becky stared at her mother. Clearly she and this man must have been out most of the afternoon looking at houses. Her mother caught her glance.

  ‘Miriam insisted on it, really,’ she said. Miriam was her mother’s boss. ‘Anyway, make yourself a drink and come and join us if you want to.’

  Why would I want to? Becky asked herself. However, she gave them a smile and backed into the kitchen, drawing the doors closed behind her. This guy’s being here was an absolute pest. Within half an hour she needed to be on her way to the house called Arcady. She could feel the draw of the house more insistently even as she filled the jug and switched it on. Idly she saw the telephone, and she lifted the receiver. Instead of a dial tone she could hear the pip pip pip pip of a missed call. She dialled in their code and listened for the message. Mrs Pym? It’s Barbara Barnard here from the school … Mrs Pym, we have one or two small concerns about Rebecca. Nothing especially serious but could I ask that you give me a call at … Becky didn’t even allow the message to finish before she pushed three for delete and replaced the receiver with a small sigh of relief.

  But how on earth was she going to be able to get away? She’d tried the music rehearsal line and there was no way her mother would fall for that twice. She glanced at her watch. It had been her plan to hurry home, peel a few potatoes, scrape a few carrots and cut up a salad and leave these on the bench. Then she would have been able to disappear before her mother arrived home and return later with some sort of convincing story. It would have been difficult but at least she would have been able to say she’d been mindful of her chores. But now …

  Knowing her mother, it was likely that she’d ask this guy Max to stay for dinner. She’d be expected to stay at home and be the model daughter. It was quite likely her mother would have her play the bloody flute for him like a performing seal. Who was this man? Why would Miriam have given her mother just about a whole day off work to cruise around with him looking at houses? Her mother hated looking at houses. As she spooned some instant coffee into her mug she could hear once again the muffled laughter from the next room. What’s going on? thought Becky. It’s autumn. The leaves are dying. It’s not even spring.

  And then, in a rather strange way, the problem of how to get over to Landon Road was solved.

  As she sipped at her coffee, Becky heard her mother call.

  ‘Becky … Becky, come in here.’

  Becky shrugged, but put the cup down on the bench and returned to the living room. Her m
other was now standing peering out of the picture window that overlooked their street. There was a figure standing there. Becky gave a little sigh of annoyance as she recognised Johnny Cadman. What was he doing there? Couldn’t he leave her alone?

  ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Is that who?’

  Becky did not much like the conspiratorial tone in her mother’s voice. She sensed an amused glance pass between her mother and the man Max, and felt a flash of embarrassed annoyance.

  ‘You know,’ said her mother in a slightly teasing way that Becky liked even less. ‘The one you talked about …’

  Once again Becky felt that glances were being exchanged, but she resolutely stared out of the window. Johnny Cadman was standing on the opposite side of the street. He was not moving and he did not have his old bike with its delivery basket with him. He appeared to be waiting for something or somebody and Becky realised, with a sinking feeling, that the person he was waiting for was probably herself.

  She turned to her mother. ‘If you mean is that Johnny Cadman? Yes, that’s him.’ She wanted to add the little creep, but thought better of it.

  Her mother craned a little to get a closer look.

  ‘Don’t, Mum,’ protested Becky.

  ‘Sorry,’ her mother whispered, with a little smile. She sat down again and gave Becky a curious look. ‘Are you going to leave the poor boy out in the cold?’ she asked.

  Again, Becky swallowed back on something smart like I hope he freezes in hell, and then, as she saw her mother’s expression, she was suddenly grateful she had. Johnny Cadman could be just the excuse she needed. Her mother seemed somehow taken with the idea that a boy was pursuing Becky. There had been that odd conversation the night before. Donna Pym had seemed relieved to know that it had been Johnny Cadman who had delayed Becky. Perhaps Becky could take advantage of this.

  ‘Perhaps I should,’ she muttered. Then she turned and left the room, aware yet again that her mother was smiling at the man named Max.

  As she strode down the drive to the front gate, her mind was racing. For the moment Johnny Cadman was a lifeline but he was a pretty scruffy lifeline, and she didn’t want him to think he was doing her any favours. It was only her need to use him that mattered at this moment. Later she’d have a piece of him for continuing to stalk her. What was he? Some sort of junior league paparazzi?

  He gave her a half wave as she strode across the street, but Becky did not wave back. It was infuriating knowing that her mother and the man were probably watching everything that was going on as if it were some sort of reality TV show.

  ‘Is that your mother?’ asked Johnny Cadman.

  Becky looked back over her shoulder and into the well-illuminated living room. She was just in time to see her mother quickly duck down on to the couch again.

  ‘That your dad?’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Becky. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have a home?’

  ‘I heard you ran out of Old Paddy’s practice,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Did you?’ Becky stared at him. His lightly freckled face was troubled and he seemed to have difficulty meeting her eyes. What was it with this guy? What did he want?

  ‘Anyway,’ Becky added. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Why are you hanging round here?’

  Johnny Cadman shrugged, but this time he did look at her. ‘Are you going back round to that old guy’s place?’

  It was Becky’s turn to stay silent for a minute. ‘I might be,’ she said eventually. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I thought I ought to go with you,’ mumbled Johnny.

  Becky once more stared at him. The cheek of it. ‘Why on earth do you think that?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you think I can look after myself?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ said Johnny unhappily. ‘It’s just that there’s something creepy about that guy and the way he has you play to him. Something’s happening … I can feel it.’

  Becky wanted to tell him that he was talking rubbish, and that he didn’t know anything about anything, and especially that he didn’t know anything about her and wasn’t going to, but something gave her pause. First, right now she needed Johnny to help get her out of the house and away, and second, she knew Johnny Cadman was right. Something was happening. Something creepy. Even as she was standing on the street outside her own house she could feel the call of Dr Petrus Faunus and there was such an urgency in that call she knew she couldn’t resist it.

  ‘Okay then,’ said Becky simply. ‘Come if you must.’

  After an instant of shocked surprise, Johnny’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Really?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so, if I didn’t mean it,’ said Becky. ‘Wait here. I’ll have to tell Mum …’ She paused. What would she tell her mother? She sensed Donna Pym was happy enough for her to go outside and chat with Johnny on the street, although she’d be expecting her to bring the boy inside for a closer inspection. Becky couldn’t bear that. Her mother might not be so happy, though, for her to rush out before dinner without some permissible destination in mind.

  Johnny Cadman saw her hesitation, and guessed the cause. ‘Say you’re coming round to my place. A new PlayStation game …’ he suggested in a whisper.

  Becky thought quickly. A crazy idea. Her mother knew she hated computer games. Why would she suddenly want to go and play PlayStation? She gave Johnny a quick look and shook her head. He gave a little grin. Becky thought again. The idea was so stupid it might work. Why would she suddenly want to go out with Johnny Cadman? Her mother had bought that idea. That was even wackier than her wanting to play PlayStation.

  ‘Might as well,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing to lose. Wait …’

  At that Becky turned and hurried back inside.

  ‘He’s asked me round to his place,’ she told her mother with what she hoped was the right amount of rather breathless excitement.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘PlayStation games,’ explained Becky.

  Her mother looked at her with amused curiosity. ‘PlayStation games?’

  Becky nodded.

  ‘But what will you do about dinner? Will you be home for dinner?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really know,’ said Becky airily. ‘Perhaps not. Some takeaways, I suppose. We’ll think of something …’ She felt it was going to be all right. Perhaps it was because the man Max was there. Perhaps her mother wanted to give him the impression she was a good-natured tolerant woman, a woman with an independent daughter, a daughter who had a boyfriend.

  Whatever it was, Donna Pym gave Max a smile, and said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right then. I’d better have the phone number …’

  It was as simple as that. Becky breathed out easily.

  There was only one final moment of anxiety.

  ‘Why on earth are you taking your flute?’ her mother asked with some surprise.

  Before leaving, Becky had hurried to her bedroom to pick up the flute and her mother had noticed the black case under her arm as she bent to kiss Becky goodbye.

  Becky’s racing mind could think of no plausible reason. However, the man named Max laughed and said, ‘Must be for when the PlayStation gets boring, eh Becky. A little recital for one.’

  Becky, flashed him a look of obscure gratitude, and then with another grin to her mother, turned and hurried from the house.

  The shadows were lengthening as Becky and Johnny Cadman made their way along the wooded path beside the river. As they approached the rear of the house named Arcady, Becky paused.

  ‘There’s a horrible housekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘I’d rather not be seen by her …’

  Johnny seemed to understand. He nodded and whispered, ‘Wait here. I’ll check it out.’

  It was only a few moments before he had returned. ‘No problems,’ he said. ‘It’s just the old guy with the beret. He’s sitting in the wheelchair, almost as though he hasn’t moved since last time.’

/>   I’m sure he has though, thought Becky. The urge to play the flute was very strong. She lifted the clasps on the case and handed it to Johnny. He watched with interest as she assembled the instrument.

  ‘You sure about this?’ he asked.

  Becky glanced at him. His face was worried. She shrugged. ‘I don’t seem to have any choice,’ she muttered. ‘Wait here …’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll come with you. I want to watch what happens.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Becky shrugged again and set off down the path. There were only a few metres to walk before the lawn of the house met the path. Sure enough, the old man was there as Johnny had said. He looked to be dozing in the late afternoon light. For some reason, though, he did not look as decrepit as he had when Becky had first seen him. He was not so slumped in his chair and his face seemed fuller, less gaunt. Certainly he did not look nearly so frail.

  Becky put the mouthpiece to her lips and the first eerie trill of Syrinx, then the strange melody, began to haunt the air. As she stared over her instrument, she saw the old man stir to the music, rub his eyes, and glance up towards her. He gave a small half-wave, and then beckoned as he had the first time, although this time the beckoning arm was stronger, more sure.

  Once again Becky felt that uncontrollable urge to obey. She glanced at Johnny. He saw the alarm in her eyes and put out a hand to try to hold her. No use. Becky shook her head, and still playing, began to walk carefully but inexorably across the grass to where the old man waited for her, his eyes glittering in anticipation. Johnny Cadman gave a small gasp of frustration, but there being nothing else for it, followed Becky, although he did keep several steps behind her all the way.

  Eventually Becky put her flute aside. The old man in the wheelchair looked up at her and sighed, a contented smile on his face. Except, he was no longer such an old man. Quite clearly, he was younger, stronger. His hair, which had been white and straggly under the awkward beret, now seemed thicker, shinier, and grey tinted by a reddish gold. The face was fuller, the cheeks less sunken, his mouth less drawn.