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Authors: Alice Munro
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smelled of wood, but the teacher smelled of wood in music.
The child was not very talented, but she worked hard. She didn’t do that because she loved music. She did it for love of the teacher, nothing else.
Joyce puts the book down on the kitchen table and looks again at the picture of the author. Is there anything of Edie in that face? Nothing. Nothing in the shape or the expression.
She gets up and fetches the brandy, puts a little of it in her tea. She searches her mind for the name of Edie’s child. Surely not Christie. She could not remember any time when Edie had brought her to the house. At the school there had been several children learning the violin.
The child could not have been entirely without ability, or Joyce would have steered her to something less difficult than the violin. But she couldn’t have been gifted-well, she had as much as said she wasn’t gifted-or her name would have stuck.
A blank face. A blob of female childishness. Though there had been something that Joyce recognized in the face of the girl, the woman, grown up.
Could she not have come to the house if Edie was helping Jon on a Saturday? Or even on those days when Edie just turned up as some sort of visitor, not to work but just to see how work was coming along, lend a hand if needed. Plunk herself down to watch whatever Jon was doing and get in the way of any conversation he might have with Joyce on her precious day off.
Christine. Of course. That was it. Translated easily into Christie.
Christine must have been privy in some way to the courtship, Jon must have dropped in at the apartment, just as Edie had dropped in at the house. Edie might have sounded the child out.
How do you like Jon?
How do you like Jon’s house?
Wouldn’t it be nice to go and live in Jon’s house?
Mommy and Jon like each other very much and when people like each other very much they want to live in the same house. Your music teacher and Jon don’t like each other as much as Mommy and Jon do so you and Mommy and Jon are going to live in Jon’s house and your music teacher is going to go and live in an apartment.
That was all wrong; Edie would never spout such blather, give her credit.
Joyce thinks she knows the turn the story will take. The child all mixed up in the adults’ dealings and delusions, pulled about hither and yon. But when she picks up the book again she finds the switch of dwelling places hardly mentioned.
Everything is hinged on the child’s love for the teacher.
Thursday, the day of the music lesson, is the momentous day of the week, its happiness or unhappiness depending on the success or failure of the child’s performance, and the teacher’s notice of that performance. Both are nearly unbearable. The teacher’s voice could be controlled, kind, making jokes to cover its weariness and disappointment. The child is wretched. Or the teacher is suddenly lighthearted and merry.
“Good for you. Good for you. You’ve really made the grade today.” And the child is so happy she has cramps in her stomach.
Then there is the Thursday when the child has tripped on the playground and has a scratched knee. The teacher cleaning the injury with a warmed wet cloth, her suddenly soft voice claiming that this calls for a treat, as she reaches for the bowl of Smarties she uses to encourage the youngest children.
“Which is your favorite?”
The child overcome, saying, “Any.”
Is this the beginning of a change? Is it because of spring, the preparations for the recital?
The child feels herself singled out. She is to be a soloist. This means she must stay after school on Thursdays to practice, and so she misses her ride out of town on the school bus, to the house where she and her mother are now living. The teacher will drive her. On the way she asks if the child is nervous about the recital.
Sort of.
Well then, the teacher says, she must train herself to think of something really nice. Such as a bird flying across the sky. What is
The child was not very talented, but she worked hard. She didn’t do that because she loved music. She did it for love of the teacher, nothing else.
Joyce puts the book down on the kitchen table and looks again at the picture of the author. Is there anything of Edie in that face? Nothing. Nothing in the shape or the expression.
She gets up and fetches the brandy, puts a little of it in her tea. She searches her mind for the name of Edie’s child. Surely not Christie. She could not remember any time when Edie had brought her to the house. At the school there had been several children learning the violin.
The child could not have been entirely without ability, or Joyce would have steered her to something less difficult than the violin. But she couldn’t have been gifted-well, she had as much as said she wasn’t gifted-or her name would have stuck.
A blank face. A blob of female childishness. Though there had been something that Joyce recognized in the face of the girl, the woman, grown up.
Could she not have come to the house if Edie was helping Jon on a Saturday? Or even on those days when Edie just turned up as some sort of visitor, not to work but just to see how work was coming along, lend a hand if needed. Plunk herself down to watch whatever Jon was doing and get in the way of any conversation he might have with Joyce on her precious day off.
Christine. Of course. That was it. Translated easily into Christie.
Christine must have been privy in some way to the courtship, Jon must have dropped in at the apartment, just as Edie had dropped in at the house. Edie might have sounded the child out.
How do you like Jon?
How do you like Jon’s house?
Wouldn’t it be nice to go and live in Jon’s house?
Mommy and Jon like each other very much and when people like each other very much they want to live in the same house. Your music teacher and Jon don’t like each other as much as Mommy and Jon do so you and Mommy and Jon are going to live in Jon’s house and your music teacher is going to go and live in an apartment.
That was all wrong; Edie would never spout such blather, give her credit.
Joyce thinks she knows the turn the story will take. The child all mixed up in the adults’ dealings and delusions, pulled about hither and yon. But when she picks up the book again she finds the switch of dwelling places hardly mentioned.
Everything is hinged on the child’s love for the teacher.
Thursday, the day of the music lesson, is the momentous day of the week, its happiness or unhappiness depending on the success or failure of the child’s performance, and the teacher’s notice of that performance. Both are nearly unbearable. The teacher’s voice could be controlled, kind, making jokes to cover its weariness and disappointment. The child is wretched. Or the teacher is suddenly lighthearted and merry.
“Good for you. Good for you. You’ve really made the grade today.” And the child is so happy she has cramps in her stomach.
Then there is the Thursday when the child has tripped on the playground and has a scratched knee. The teacher cleaning the injury with a warmed wet cloth, her suddenly soft voice claiming that this calls for a treat, as she reaches for the bowl of Smarties she uses to encourage the youngest children.
“Which is your favorite?”
The child overcome, saying, “Any.”
Is this the beginning of a change? Is it because of spring, the preparations for the recital?
The child feels herself singled out. She is to be a soloist. This means she must stay after school on Thursdays to practice, and so she misses her ride out of town on the school bus, to the house where she and her mother are now living. The teacher will drive her. On the way she asks if the child is nervous about the recital.
Sort of.
Well then, the teacher says, she must train herself to think of something really nice. Such as a bird flying across the sky. What is
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