Read Online Listening in the Dusk by Celia Fremlin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Celia Fremlin
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won’t be locked.
Wisps of fog seemed to follow her indoors as she gathered up her scattered packages and moved into the cluttered hallway. Edging her way past the bicycle, and the awesome array of empties waiting for someone to take them to the bottle-bank, Alice made it to the foot of the stairs, where she became aware of lovely strains of music floating down towards her. One of the Schubert piano sonatas, beautiful! As if she were really entering a concert hall, late and shamefaced, Alice tiptoed up the stairs, clutching her parcels, until she came to the source of the sounds, on the third landing. Here, from behind one of the doors with its dark chipped paint, the music poured out, and Alice stood entranced, quite awed by the performance. Brian it must be, theyoung musician of whom Hetty had generously declared that she quite liked to hear his tinkle-tonking, it gave the place a bit of life.
The third movement was starting now, and Alice found herself scarcely conscious any longer of the dark, shabby stairway, of her cold hands or her heavy parcels. She was in a kind of dream, totally lost in the music, when she was abruptly and disconcertingly brought to earth by the sound of a door opening behind her. Swivelling round, she found herself confronted for a second time that morning, by the sharp, suspicious gaze of the girl, Mary. The blue eyes, wary and hostile, bored into her own for a moment, and then, without a word, the girl withdrew once more, closing the door quietly behind her.
At the same moment, the music ceased abruptly, and the door facing Alice burst open, revealing a sturdy, dark young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a mop of very thick black hair, and wearing a heavy fisherman’s jersey and corduroy trousers. But the most noticeable thing about him at the moment was the look of almost comical disappointment that flashed across his face as he caught sight of Alice.
“ Oh !” he exclaimed, in tones of unflattering dismay. “ Oh, I thought it was Mary … I thought I heard her door opening …” and then, recovering himself and remembering his manners: “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before. How do you do? I’m Brian.”
“How do you do?” responded Alice, taking the proffered hand, noticing that the strong, flexible pianist’s fingers were somewhat inkstained, and also beautifully warm to the touch despite the coldness of the room in which he was working. “I’m Alice,” she continued, “Alice Saunders;” and then, with a little laugh: “I’m sorry I’m not Mary. She was here only a moment ago, though. She’s in her room, if you want her …” and she stepped aside, leaving him space to cross the landing to Mary’s door opposite.
He made no move to do so. Simply stood where he was, looking as if he had been slapped in the face, though whether by Mary herself, or by the malignant fate which had placed Alice, and not Mary, on this third-floor landing at just this moment, wasunclear. In an effort to lighten an obviously fraught moment, Alice changed the subject.
“I thought you were playing the Schubert piece just beautifully ! Hetty told me you were a musician, but she never told me you were as good as that! Is it a grand you’ve got in there?”
To her relief, his face brightened. He was even smiling, and he spoke eagerly: “How wonderful to have someone in this house at last who recognises something I’m playing!” he exclaimed . “All most people notice about my playing is whether it’s at some time when I’m not allowed to, like before nine in the morning or after ten at night. Not Hetty, of course; she’s a darling, she doesn’t mind when I play, or how loud, or anything . Except she likes it best when it’s a tune, she says, so that she can dance to it as she tidies round, if she happens to be in the mood. Apparently she can dance to the Moonlight Sonata, but alas, I’ve never seen her doing so. I’d love to see how it works out.”
He laughed, and so
Wisps of fog seemed to follow her indoors as she gathered up her scattered packages and moved into the cluttered hallway. Edging her way past the bicycle, and the awesome array of empties waiting for someone to take them to the bottle-bank, Alice made it to the foot of the stairs, where she became aware of lovely strains of music floating down towards her. One of the Schubert piano sonatas, beautiful! As if she were really entering a concert hall, late and shamefaced, Alice tiptoed up the stairs, clutching her parcels, until she came to the source of the sounds, on the third landing. Here, from behind one of the doors with its dark chipped paint, the music poured out, and Alice stood entranced, quite awed by the performance. Brian it must be, theyoung musician of whom Hetty had generously declared that she quite liked to hear his tinkle-tonking, it gave the place a bit of life.
The third movement was starting now, and Alice found herself scarcely conscious any longer of the dark, shabby stairway, of her cold hands or her heavy parcels. She was in a kind of dream, totally lost in the music, when she was abruptly and disconcertingly brought to earth by the sound of a door opening behind her. Swivelling round, she found herself confronted for a second time that morning, by the sharp, suspicious gaze of the girl, Mary. The blue eyes, wary and hostile, bored into her own for a moment, and then, without a word, the girl withdrew once more, closing the door quietly behind her.
At the same moment, the music ceased abruptly, and the door facing Alice burst open, revealing a sturdy, dark young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a mop of very thick black hair, and wearing a heavy fisherman’s jersey and corduroy trousers. But the most noticeable thing about him at the moment was the look of almost comical disappointment that flashed across his face as he caught sight of Alice.
“ Oh !” he exclaimed, in tones of unflattering dismay. “ Oh, I thought it was Mary … I thought I heard her door opening …” and then, recovering himself and remembering his manners: “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before. How do you do? I’m Brian.”
“How do you do?” responded Alice, taking the proffered hand, noticing that the strong, flexible pianist’s fingers were somewhat inkstained, and also beautifully warm to the touch despite the coldness of the room in which he was working. “I’m Alice,” she continued, “Alice Saunders;” and then, with a little laugh: “I’m sorry I’m not Mary. She was here only a moment ago, though. She’s in her room, if you want her …” and she stepped aside, leaving him space to cross the landing to Mary’s door opposite.
He made no move to do so. Simply stood where he was, looking as if he had been slapped in the face, though whether by Mary herself, or by the malignant fate which had placed Alice, and not Mary, on this third-floor landing at just this moment, wasunclear. In an effort to lighten an obviously fraught moment, Alice changed the subject.
“I thought you were playing the Schubert piece just beautifully ! Hetty told me you were a musician, but she never told me you were as good as that! Is it a grand you’ve got in there?”
To her relief, his face brightened. He was even smiling, and he spoke eagerly: “How wonderful to have someone in this house at last who recognises something I’m playing!” he exclaimed . “All most people notice about my playing is whether it’s at some time when I’m not allowed to, like before nine in the morning or after ten at night. Not Hetty, of course; she’s a darling, she doesn’t mind when I play, or how loud, or anything . Except she likes it best when it’s a tune, she says, so that she can dance to it as she tidies round, if she happens to be in the mood. Apparently she can dance to the Moonlight Sonata, but alas, I’ve never seen her doing so. I’d love to see how it works out.”
He laughed, and so
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