Read Online The Virtuoso by Sonia Orchard - Free Book Online Page B

earth did you get it?’ It was difficult to imagine Noël waiting down at Redlich’s in that interminably long queue that appeared whenever word was out that there was anything more interesting than calves’ feet or rabbit in the trays.
    ‘Oh, I have friends in fowl places.’
    I hooted a celebratory laugh and unwrapped it, pepped up even more by having noticed he’d brought the little wooden box that contained his toothbrush, which he only carried when staying overnight. ‘Well, I hope it didn’t cost more than a poultry sum.’ I was becoming more accustomed to Noël’s repartee, and was always pleased with myself when I managed to join in.
    ‘Would you like to invite any friends over to join us?’ he enquired, and I immediately worried he might be tiring of my company. Sometimes when we were together I’d catch his gaze wandering across the room, and I knew he was thinking about a piece he was working on, or a forthcoming concert. It often seemed an impossible task to compete with such considerations.
    ‘It’s probably a little late to ring anyone.’ I had no intention of sharing him.
    We cooked the chicken, absolutely swimming in lard, in a saucepan, both of us taking turns to stir the potatoes about, spooning dripping over the top, then reporting back to the other how smashing it looked and smelt. It turned out a little burnt on the bottom, but served with lashings of lumpy gravy we didn’t mind one bit. We barely spoke as we chewed at bones and wiped gravy from our chins to the bucolic sound of a Delius concerto sweeping plangently about us. I couldn’t help but feel it was all devilishly extravagant.
    ‘Oh, this is bloody marvellous,’ Noël said, holding a drumstick up in one hand, sucking the fingers of the other. ‘Things aren’t so tough, are they?’ He grinned at me and winked.
    ‘Not at all. Quite satisfactory indeed.’ I imagined the smell of our feast spiralling along the hall, to stiff old Kingsley upstairs, and downstairs, to the O’Gradys and the Italian couple who’d only recently been released from internment. I could tell none of them thought much of me at all—there was never more than a nod as they passed me in the corridor—and I was quitetickled by the thought of the succulent aromas wafting into their rooms.
    ‘Ben’s been having a heck of a time with his arm,’ Noël mentioned after some minutes had passed. ‘Shall I find out who his doctor is?’
    Without me having said a word, Noël had detected the problems I was having with my right hand: the chronic pain that would intensify throughout my practice from a dull ache to a blaze up my arm, over my shoulder and down the right side of my back. I was more than happy to be suffering from a similar ailment to Benjamin Britten, but I’d already seen several doctors, and found the experience—and their suggestion my affliction was imaginary—quite dispiriting.
    ‘I shouldn’t bother. None of them has a clue what the problem is. My father gave up on them and eventually took me to an osteopath who told me I had gout! He started twisting my arm as if he were giving me a Chinese burn. Of course that just made things worse.’
    ‘Oh you poor boy.’
    ‘It’s my aunt’s fault,’ I said, shocked by my bitter tone. ‘As a child, she made me write with my right hand even though I was left-handed. She’d hold my left hand behind my back to stop me grabbing the pen with it.’
    ‘How dreadful!’
    ‘For years—it still happens occasionally—I’d wake during the night, my right arm locked rigid and the hand balled in a fist.’ I held up my clenched hand, thumb and knuckles gleaming white.
    I couldn’t stop talking. I told him about all the piano teachers I’d tried, hoping one might be able to help me—one who taught in the manner of Liszt, another who taught from the Deppe school—and how there was never any improvement.
    ‘One teacher told me to think of my palm as being like the soft palate in my mouth; I must