time her marriage had collapsed. Helene had done everything a mother could, including giving up her own career to look after the child who could not show affection, who communicated only sporadically and painfully and whose destructive rages, sleeplessness, irrational terrors and obsession with routines had ruled the household. Helene’s handkerchief had come out at this point and her eyes had been dabbed, without disturbing her maquillage, in the unreal way that Valerie now recognised so well. And yet, and this almost made it worse, Helene had gone on, Adele had at quiet moments the power of total, absorbed concentration and displayed the most extraordinary gifts: an agile, pure, radiant soprano voice (she was her mother’s daughter in that respect) coupled with a bizarre memory for music. She could also draw beautiful, stylised patterns of unerring symmetry, disdaining as subjects anything as imperfect and untidy as people, animals or landscape. My little changeling child, Helene had said, twisting her handkerchief.
Valerie had also learned that Adele, now aged twenty-five, no longer tore wallpaper or screamed daily, although her obsessive need for order and symmetry could still sometimes get the better of her and bring on a tantrum. She still made odd collections of useless things from which, for as long as the obsession lasted, she would not be parted. She could speak, but not well, and was most often silent. She had learned many tasks but could carry them out only by rote, remaining unable to vary her actions to take account of varying circumstances.
Valerie looked over now at Adele standing next to Phil who was quietly talking to her. It wasn’t true what people said about Chinese people looking inscrutable. Phil was from Hong Kong but he had such a kind face. It was unusually patient, she thought, watching him speak, for someone as young as he was, no more than about twenty. Adele was looking somewhere past his shoulders, her face conveying nothing unless, perhaps, there was a sadness there behind the indisputably lovely blue eyes. With a slight movement she tilted her head to its usual angle and the light caught the gleam of the straight fair hair that poured down her slim back. She was beautiful, and Valerie was not sure that that did not make Adele’s narrow life seem even sadder. She would never have a professional singing career—or any other career, come to that—because although the voice was a glorious, superior instrument, and she would know lines of music by heart after one hearing, she would always sing like a mechanical doll. Whatever the song was about, it would be delivered in the same perfect tone, the words having no more significance than as vessels to carry the thrilling, singing liquidity of the gorgeous but meaningless notes.
Helene was back in charge. ‘I am so excited, everyone, that I can introduce to you this evening our real live composer! I heard from this young man less than three weeks ago and I told him right there and then on the telephone that we’d love him to come and do our opera with us. So he came straight down from London with Poppy. He’s got the most marvellous credentials but I won’t embarrass him by telling you all about him—he can do that himself!’
Cosmo looked furtively round the group, blushing unattractively.
‘And the super thing is that we’re to have Poppy, too. Poppy is to be our stage manager and will also oversee all the costumes and props, won’t you, Poppy? Poppy’s got a proper theatre background, haven’t you, dear? Although she’s been working in aromatherapy and massage more recently. And I know this will embarrass them but I’m going to tell you—that we’re getting both Cosmo and Poppy but they’re only accepting Cosmo’s fee, which I think is just
so
marvellous of them and what it’s all about, sharing and making music and not about money.’
Valerie, glancing over, caught Jim’s eye and exchanged a look with him which
Valerie had also learned that Adele, now aged twenty-five, no longer tore wallpaper or screamed daily, although her obsessive need for order and symmetry could still sometimes get the better of her and bring on a tantrum. She still made odd collections of useless things from which, for as long as the obsession lasted, she would not be parted. She could speak, but not well, and was most often silent. She had learned many tasks but could carry them out only by rote, remaining unable to vary her actions to take account of varying circumstances.
Valerie looked over now at Adele standing next to Phil who was quietly talking to her. It wasn’t true what people said about Chinese people looking inscrutable. Phil was from Hong Kong but he had such a kind face. It was unusually patient, she thought, watching him speak, for someone as young as he was, no more than about twenty. Adele was looking somewhere past his shoulders, her face conveying nothing unless, perhaps, there was a sadness there behind the indisputably lovely blue eyes. With a slight movement she tilted her head to its usual angle and the light caught the gleam of the straight fair hair that poured down her slim back. She was beautiful, and Valerie was not sure that that did not make Adele’s narrow life seem even sadder. She would never have a professional singing career—or any other career, come to that—because although the voice was a glorious, superior instrument, and she would know lines of music by heart after one hearing, she would always sing like a mechanical doll. Whatever the song was about, it would be delivered in the same perfect tone, the words having no more significance than as vessels to carry the thrilling, singing liquidity of the gorgeous but meaningless notes.
Helene was back in charge. ‘I am so excited, everyone, that I can introduce to you this evening our real live composer! I heard from this young man less than three weeks ago and I told him right there and then on the telephone that we’d love him to come and do our opera with us. So he came straight down from London with Poppy. He’s got the most marvellous credentials but I won’t embarrass him by telling you all about him—he can do that himself!’
Cosmo looked furtively round the group, blushing unattractively.
‘And the super thing is that we’re to have Poppy, too. Poppy is to be our stage manager and will also oversee all the costumes and props, won’t you, Poppy? Poppy’s got a proper theatre background, haven’t you, dear? Although she’s been working in aromatherapy and massage more recently. And I know this will embarrass them but I’m going to tell you—that we’re getting both Cosmo and Poppy but they’re only accepting Cosmo’s fee, which I think is just
so
marvellous of them and what it’s all about, sharing and making music and not about money.’
Valerie, glancing over, caught Jim’s eye and exchanged a look with him which
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