If my dad hadn’t deliberately fixed on somewhere as far away from London as the Welsh Borders when he left Mum and me, I might know the answer to this question, and others like it. Most guys know far more about their dads’ life, and favourite pastimes, groups, books, football teams etc than I do about mine (and Dad’s rather a talkative man, though he does also have unfathomable bouts of silence). But, ‘I’ve got to get away,’ he said to Mum and me, ‘don’t take this wrong,’ well, how else could you take it? ‘I badly need my own space…’
For a moment I thought my mobile had gone out of range, as it sometimes does out of doors. I was expecting some reply to my normal-enough son-to-father question. ‘You still there, Dad?’
Dad goes, ‘Yes, still here, Nat.’ But his voice is faint. Then there’s another pause.
The phone feels heavy in my hand and lifeless against my ear. Then he says, ‘A swim? Well, hardly, Nat! I didn’t take my A Levels in summer. I took ’em in dead of winter.’
‘Bit unusual, wasn’t that, Dad?’ I say, ‘at least for nowadays it would be.’
Dad answers me in the slow, remote voice I associate with the year I was just remembering, when I was twelve and he and Mum split up.
‘“Unusual”, Nat, is about right for my whole A Level year,’ and his remoteness has, I realise, nothing to do with miles, or the quality of the line between South London and South Shropshire, ‘and unusual years mean unusual measures…’ I can tell he doesn’t want to talk any longer. ‘Well, give my love to Izzie – to your mum, won’t you, Nat?’ Yes, he’s clearly dying to be shot of this conversation, and to return to his own thoughts, if not actions, about how best to get that macho retard to fork out six hundred quid for something he probably no longer wants. But then comes a little surprise. ‘I know I haven’t asked you if you’ve done well in your papers, Nat. But I don’t ask that sort of thing. Not ever, as you must’ve noticed by now.’
Noticed? Well, yes!
‘Give me a bell Sunday morning when you’re about to get on the train at Euston, there’s a good lad!’
Something in this talk bothers me. Why should anyone know when his dad did his A Levels and what the reason was? Whatever the reason in this case I now feel quite tensed up (probably a carry-over from this morning’s exam paper), and I stretch myself out on the park bench which the old guy has now vacated, and go into relaxation. That means screwing my toes up tight against the sole of my foot (this is what Mum recommends from her own relaxation classes down in Camberwell), and trying to imagine myself into a peaceful state of being that contrasts with the present. Like an animal in hibernation or stretching out for a predator-free doze, such as badgers or foxes enjoy.
Nothing, I have found, is harder than trying to conjure up really different weather from what’s around you. I attempt to picture my dad walking out of his exam room into the ‘dead of winter’ but can’t. Sun’s too strong, sky’s too blue, strips of light on lake too dazzling.
I heave myself into a normal sitting position to write all the above. I’m making an effort to be literate – impressive even – I do want to be a journalist after all so I’m thinking about my readers all the time rather than writing for myself. Yesterday I went and bought this notebook. I liked the marbled cloth covers, patterned with birds and cones, and it’s thick enough to last me till I go off to Uni (if I do). Reminds me of the time when Dad ran the Sunbeam Press and produced stationery and diaries for special occasions. I could have anything from stock I wanted, and often I did. That was my childhood, that was. Long ago. Mum said a funny thing the other day: ‘It’s not till you get to middle age that you start thinking about your childhood.’ Well, I do think of mine sometimes already, how it ended, as everything around me did, when old ‘Uncle’ Oliver Merchant died, though Dad would often say – when he was winding the Press down, and preparing (as we now know) to leave Mum and me – ‘It all came to a halt when Oliver married Rosie Roberts, and she decided she wanted to be a business woman rather than a chorus girl!’
Not much point in thinking about all that now. Dad’s been in Shropshire nearly six years, back in the Marches where he came from, is independent of us, and running High Flyers.
11.30 pm. Yes, Night Thoughts, like the title of that famous old book of poems. Simply cannot settle down to sleep. Too warm and far too much to think about. Afternoon provided me with an experience I may have made sense of though I can’t be at all sure. Writing it down might help.
From the lake in Brockwell Park I walked up to the big Victorian house in Tulse Hill where Josh lives. Wish I did too, well, much of the time I wish this. My mum worries about mortgage repay-ments, and all she’s got for her borrowing is a small flat in a purpose-built block a bit too close to Herne Hill Station. Of course what’s important about Josh’s home is not its position or architecture or market value, though Josh will tell you these any time (partly because he believes that sub prime and the Lehmann Brothers mark the end of our ‘capitalist era’, and partly because he likes to). No, it’s the house’s atmosphere that counts with me. The man the kids call Strop and the woman they all call Strum in their private rhyming slang, but to the outside world Doctors Daniel Malinowski and Joanne Pargeter, of King’s College Hospital, each brought children into this rambling place when they married (or whatever), so I’m never sure who’s Josh’s real brother or sister and who’s a step-one. (An exaggeration, I know perfectly well.)
The hall of the house felt good and cool after the Turkish bath heat of the afternoon. There’s a bay tree in a tub, and often I like to rub my fingers against its leaves and then hold them to my nose.
‘Hi Matt,’ said Josh’s older brother, Rollo, as he let me in. Rollo often calls me this, not caring what his brother’s (in fact step-brother’s) best mate is really called. From the little sitting room at the back of the hall came the strains of a violin playing the kind of music I think of as ‘mathematics made sound’. It nearly always turns out to be Bach. The violinist had to be Josh’s (real) sister, Emily, who doesn’t go to our school but to a private all-girls’ one nearby. Though younger than Josh and me, she can do many things very well – talk away in French and German, execute classical ballet steps – so that, for all her quietness, she intimidates me. And guys mustn’t be intimidated, ever. I intend some time to do or say something that impresses, or at least surprises, her. Hearing this music had the same effect on me as seeing those ducks upending themselves in the water; it refreshed me, eased my tension a little.
‘Josh, you know, won’t be free to come downstairs for at least a quarter of an hour,’ Rollo told me, ‘he’s busy.’
I went up to the bay tree, doing that thing with the leaves that I like, ‘By the way Josh did text me just now saying come right over!’
‘I know, I know,’ said Rollo, ‘I was there. He’s finishing his black belt practice, his test’s next Thursday.’ He looked me up and down as if to ask where my training and ambition had deposited me. ‘But Emily’ll be finishing any minute now.’ He gestured in the direction of the door from behind which the sweet mathematical sounds were still coming. ‘She’s having a private lesson with – with Dr Pringle, no less!’
‘Really?’ Only thing I could say.
‘Many, Matt, would give their eye-teeth – and maybe their pudenda as well – to have Dr Pringle teach them. He’s consulted by God knows how many high-profile musicians and organisations all over the world,’ his voice lingered a little on these words, like it was he who was so famous, ‘but he prefers just being a wandering violin teacher, bringing out his pupils’ gifts to the full wherever he goes. So it’s great for Em for him to be giving her lessons.’
Listening to too much brother and sister talk is a pain in the arse for an only child like me.
‘Well, it sounds… er, beautiful. Bach?’
‘Matt, who the hell else could it be? It’s the Chaconne from Partita Number 2 for solo violin. In D minor.’
Was there anything this guy didn’t think he knew? Stan
ding opposite each other on the marble tiles of the hall floor, we both seemed to realise that the chance of the two of us having a good conversation was zero, so we listened in silence to the music for at least three or four minutes until it came to a stop – like some formula worked out to its close, or bird song that could end in no other way… Rollo, I should have said at the start of this page, must have timetabled leisure for himself this hot afternoon, because he was bare to the waist, and below that wore blue-and-green striped shorts.
‘Em will be out now,’ he said, ‘maybe you’ll get a chance to talk to her, Matt.’
‘ Nat! ’ Well, I owed it myself to remind him once, didn’t I?
‘Sorry?’
‘Nat, N.A.T., short for Nathaniel. Not Matt, short for Matthew.’
Rollo threw his head back in amusement. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s just that you don’t look like a Nat – and I happen to know quite a few – whereas you seem like a Matt in every move you make.’
Luckily for him, the door opened, and first Emily, in jeans and a blue-and-white tank-top, and then this great Dr Pringle stepped into the hall, the latter carrying a violin case. I realised from his way of carrying himself and the sweat on his high domed forehead that the beautiful Chaconne I’d just heard had been played not by Emily but by himself.
‘Dr Pringle, good afternoon! Em, an admirer of yours is here,’ said the infuriatingly officious Rollo, ‘he’s called Nat!’ and he gave me a little wink as he delivered my name correctly, ‘these last minutes he’s been standing here listening, spellbound.’
‘Then it’s Dr Pringle who’s spellbound him, not me,’ said Emily with the honesty I might have expected. She didn’t, I’ll admit, sound as if she cared whether she’d had an effect on me or not. I’m just Josh’s undistinguished mate from down the road, Herne Hill way. ‘He was playing the Bach piece as it should be played, I just fumble through it. For now!’ She clearly had all her complicated family’s determination to get things perfect… ‘Dr Pringle, this is a friend of my brother, Josh,’ (there we went!) ‘Nat Kempsey.’
And on hearing this Dr Pringle did a double-take. I’ve read many times about double-takes but I have never seen one in reality. Now I was faced with the genuine article. For a minute I thought the man was going to fall backwards. He clutched at his violin case as if for support.
‘Who? Who did you say?’
‘Nat Kempsey,’ repeated Em.
‘Kempsey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nat?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Were we going to go on like this for ever?
‘Nat Kempsey!’
Well, it seemed we might… the man thrust his head forward towards me like a tortoise, his small bright eyes examining my face for… well, I couldn’t guess what.
Not the usual reaction to my name, if such a thing exists. Feeling I should answer for myself now, saving Emily any further embarrassment, I said: ‘’Fraid she’s right, Doctor! I’m Nathaniel Robin Kempsey, usually known as Nat.’
‘ Robin? ’ was Dr Pringle’s weirdo response to this, ‘Robin! Yes, it would be! Of course it would be Robin!’
I swear the guy looked and spoke like he was going to burst into tears. I will try and set down my impression of his appearance.
Tall and in his mid-forties (but I’m not good at older people’s ages). Good head of hair, which I think is what’s called strawberry blonde, with one or two grey streaks. Very pale blue eyes, like someone had taken hold of watercolour blue paint and then put in rather too much water (that’s not original; some arty woman once said it about my grey eyes). Long, strong arms (short sleeves this afternoon) and hands with the muscular fingers you’d expect in a musician. Clothes – dark blue sports shirt and white chinos, both slightly rumpled; the man’s clearly not an ironing fanatic like I am. He has the face of a man of acute intelligence and many worries. It was now twitching with emotion. But what emotion? I’m reminded, as I try to bring him to life on this page, of one of those characters you often find yourself sitting beside on the tube or bus who’s suddenly troubled by something: the train slowing down between stations, its lights flickering; the sight of a large unattended parcel…
Dr Pringle said: ‘Nat, do you live in South London too? I suppose you must if you’re a friend of Josh’s.’
‘Yup, just round the corner. Herne Hill. Close to the station.’
Dr Pringle appeared to struggle for a reply to this far from interesting statement. ‘You a musician too, Nat?’ was the best he could do.
‘Not really, I’m afraid.’
‘“Not really!” Why, this guy’s tone deaf!’ This was Josh who had, without us noticing, come downstairs into the hall. I was pretty glad he was there then because all the time I spoke I was aware of the violin teacher’s colourless eyelashes blinking very fast, as though batting away some disturbing memory, and of a look of none-too-flattering curiosity in Emily’s wonderful dark (near-black) eyes.
‘Josh is being a bit unfair,’ I said. ‘I almost always know Bach when I hear it, and Mozart and Beethoven too (well, mostly). And some Shropshire mates of mine are members of a pretty successful band, The Tiger’s Last Chance – called that ’cause tigers are nearing extinction, sadly. And there’s an idea that this summer I’ll write a song for them, to play at their gigs.’
But Dr Pringle, I could tell, was having difficulty in focusing on my words. Somehow the preoccupied look on his face reminded me of my dad when (as happens a sight too often) he’s gone off on some mental trail of his own instead of concentrating on what other people are saying to him. And when this famous violinist replied, ‘Certainly the tiger must be saved. It’ll be a disgrace to humanity, if tigers are allowed to perish!’ he sounded like he was hauling himself out of some quagmire, and the words weren’t the ones uppermost in his mind.
Rollo evidently thought all this notice taken of me (not sufficiently important to be called by his right name) had gone on long enough. He said, with an odd concern for his sister: ‘Em’s playing brilliant as ever, Dr Pringle?’
‘I am very pleased with her,’ said her teacher flatly. Then turning to me he said: ‘I have pupils of all different kinds, you know. Whether they’re so-called “musical” or “accomplished” isn’t a prime consideration with me.’ This, one in the eye for Rollo, was said, I felt, because Dr Pringle was stopping himself talking about something else. ‘Basically, Nat, I instruct pupils in the Kodály Method.’
This meant nothing to me, of course, although Rollo nodded and went ‘Mmm!’ But then he’d likely heard about it before, and from the same source.
‘It’s named after the great Hungarian composer, Zoltán Kodály who developed it for use in the schools of his own country. But it’s spread everywhere since, long after he died in 1967. I tend to teach the method through my own instrument, the violin, starting pupils just as early as I can.’
I pulled my most interested face. It must have succeeded.
‘But many Kodály teachers begin with no instrument at all – with just singing or chanting, or using hand gestures. We help children to feel their way into their natural birthright of music through their instincts and growing bodies.’
‘I wish I’d begun with Dr Pringle earlier,’ enthused Emily.
I maybe should have said something like that too, but couldn’t think what. I’ve done a bit of drumming, but didn’t say so here because even I know I’m not very good. My dad and mum would have approved of this doctor’s ideas, if they could have taken off time from their own troubles to think about them. But to be fair, my dad always encouraged me, as a very small kid, to be free with the paint and paste and paper around the studios at the Sunbeam Press.
I had the odd and awkward feeling that the five of us, Dr Pringle, Emily, Rollo, Josh and myself, were shipwrecked folk marooned in the middle of this tiled spacious hall with its potted plants and basket chairs, without a boat to rescue us.
‘I have one of my cards on me somewher
e,’ said the doctor of music, ‘I’d like to give you one, Nat.’
Impressive though it sounded, he mustn’t get the idea I was ready to start on this great Hungarian Method myself.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but like Josh here I’ve only just got shot of A Levels, and this Sunday coming I am going up to my dad’s in Shropshire. For a working holiday!’
‘Working after exams?’ smiled Dr Pringle, clearly doing his utmost, given his very apparent agitation, to sound like a normal man talking to a normal lad.
‘A working holiday,’ I corrected, ‘my dad’s not too bad, though he does keep me pretty busy. Specially if I can save him doing stuff he doesn’t like.’
Tiny bit unfair perhaps, and here Josh piped up from where he was standing behind me (wrong phrase – Josh has got a deep gravelly voice which some people say I’ve tried to copy): ‘Nat’s dad is a great guy, Dr Pringle. And I should know, because I’ve stayed with him. And worked for him too. He treats you like a mate, never lets stupid little upsets get the better of him. And he’s interested in loads and loads of different subjects, always ready for something new to come his way.’ Great of Josh to butt in with this nice portrait of Dad, though it’s not the picture of him I would make. ‘I’d leap at another chance,’ went on Josh, ‘of going up to Shropshire, and helping Pete in High Flyers.’
I was on the point of saying maybe then he shouldn’t go off to Italy next week as planned but join me in Lydcastle instead. But before I could speak, I became aware that Dr Pringle was having what my mum’s mum used to call ‘a funny turn’. His face had turned so white it was now virtually green, with sweat breaking out of it. So strangely overcome did he look that Rollo shoved one of the basket chairs over to him so he could sit down. And he needed to. He seated himself cautiously, almost gingerly, as though afraid he might collapse.
Then, ‘ What was that you just said?’ he gasped, sounding more distressed even than over my name, ‘ HIGH FLYERS? No, it’s not possible.’ He closed his eyes, as if he preferred blankness to seeing the people he was with. ‘Whatever could that be? A travelling quiz show, I suppose.’
After Brock Page 4