he would balance it with Wilberforce and Caudle Village, to say nothing of his normal term’s work. Wilberforce sold to a surprisingly large number of gleeful seven year olds, and the Director’s book would sell to a small number of earnest but influential academics, so there would be two lots of kudos to be gleaned next year. Michael spent ten minutes feeling pleased with himself, then remembered that Tennyson had said that pride was often the cap and bells for a fool, after which he banished the delusions of grandeur and turned his attention to emailing Nell.
He spent ten fruitless minutes trying to explain about Emily’s letter and Brad’s essay, before realizing that to abruptly confront her with the words of her dead husband via the Internet was unthinkable. In the end, he sent a brief message, saying he was looking forward to seeing her and hearing about Stilter House, and to stay in touch when and if she could.
This dealt with, he ate a sandwich lunch, thought what a good idea it would be to tidy his desk for the end of term, and made a half-hearted start which he abandoned after ten minutes when he came upon some draft notes he had made for a lecture on Beowulf, which contained several interesting references he had forgotten jotting down. This naturally led to a search of his bookshelves in order to track down the original sources, and almost made him late for the meeting with the Director of Music.
The two of them spent an absorbing afternoon, enlivened by several large glasses of sherry, which the Director thought an appropriate tipple for half past three, although his idea of measures was generous in the extreme so that Michael returned to his rooms slightly light headed from half a pint of sherry on an empty stomach. But his head was pleasantly full of Byron and Berlioz, Faust and Gounod, and he sat down to record the gist of the discussion while it was still fresh in his mind. It was getting on for five o’clock, so he thought he would make a few notes for the current Wilberforce chapter, then dine in Hall. First, though, he would check his emails to see if the promised note from Beth was there, and if Nell had replied to his own earlier message.
There was nothing from Nell, but Beth’s email was in the in-box. She had sent it from The Pheasant, clearly delighted at having had a grown-up lunch in a pub.
Hi Michael
This is from a pub called The Pheasant. I had chestnut soup for lunch, then chicken in mushroom sauce, then Bakewell tart and I’m stuffed to the eyebrows with food.
Stilter House is a really good place and this morning after breakfast I met a boy who lives somewhere here. I don’t know where his house is, because he just walked into the music room while Mum was in the attics, sorting out stuff. There’s a brilliant piano here, and he played it, then we played a kind of duet, only he’s a lot
lot
better than me, which is double-gross because I think he’s only the same age as me. So I’m going to practice extra double hard this afternoon because he’s coming back tomorrow. He didn’t speak, but what’s weird is I understand what he means without having to speak.
I don’t think he wants anyone to know he was here, so you mustn’t tell, and specially not Mum, because I’m not supposed to talk to people I don’t know. Anyhow, he showed me some music and it’s got his name written on it, so I know what he’s called.
He’s called Esmond.
Lots of love from Beth.
The thing that initially slammed into Michael’s mind was the way in which Beth’s words echoed those of her dead father, twenty-odd years earlier. He reached for Brad’s essay. ‘He always waits for me in the piano room, and we play stuff together,’ Brad had written. Beth, twenty-five years later, had said, ‘He just walked into the music room . . . We played a kind of duet . . .’
Alarm notes began to sound in Michael’s mind. Emily West had said in her letter that she was afraid that Esmond would come
He spent ten fruitless minutes trying to explain about Emily’s letter and Brad’s essay, before realizing that to abruptly confront her with the words of her dead husband via the Internet was unthinkable. In the end, he sent a brief message, saying he was looking forward to seeing her and hearing about Stilter House, and to stay in touch when and if she could.
This dealt with, he ate a sandwich lunch, thought what a good idea it would be to tidy his desk for the end of term, and made a half-hearted start which he abandoned after ten minutes when he came upon some draft notes he had made for a lecture on Beowulf, which contained several interesting references he had forgotten jotting down. This naturally led to a search of his bookshelves in order to track down the original sources, and almost made him late for the meeting with the Director of Music.
The two of them spent an absorbing afternoon, enlivened by several large glasses of sherry, which the Director thought an appropriate tipple for half past three, although his idea of measures was generous in the extreme so that Michael returned to his rooms slightly light headed from half a pint of sherry on an empty stomach. But his head was pleasantly full of Byron and Berlioz, Faust and Gounod, and he sat down to record the gist of the discussion while it was still fresh in his mind. It was getting on for five o’clock, so he thought he would make a few notes for the current Wilberforce chapter, then dine in Hall. First, though, he would check his emails to see if the promised note from Beth was there, and if Nell had replied to his own earlier message.
There was nothing from Nell, but Beth’s email was in the in-box. She had sent it from The Pheasant, clearly delighted at having had a grown-up lunch in a pub.
Hi Michael
This is from a pub called The Pheasant. I had chestnut soup for lunch, then chicken in mushroom sauce, then Bakewell tart and I’m stuffed to the eyebrows with food.
Stilter House is a really good place and this morning after breakfast I met a boy who lives somewhere here. I don’t know where his house is, because he just walked into the music room while Mum was in the attics, sorting out stuff. There’s a brilliant piano here, and he played it, then we played a kind of duet, only he’s a lot
lot
better than me, which is double-gross because I think he’s only the same age as me. So I’m going to practice extra double hard this afternoon because he’s coming back tomorrow. He didn’t speak, but what’s weird is I understand what he means without having to speak.
I don’t think he wants anyone to know he was here, so you mustn’t tell, and specially not Mum, because I’m not supposed to talk to people I don’t know. Anyhow, he showed me some music and it’s got his name written on it, so I know what he’s called.
He’s called Esmond.
Lots of love from Beth.
The thing that initially slammed into Michael’s mind was the way in which Beth’s words echoed those of her dead father, twenty-odd years earlier. He reached for Brad’s essay. ‘He always waits for me in the piano room, and we play stuff together,’ Brad had written. Beth, twenty-five years later, had said, ‘He just walked into the music room . . . We played a kind of duet . . .’
Alarm notes began to sound in Michael’s mind. Emily West had said in her letter that she was afraid that Esmond would come
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