Dying on Principle Read online

  ‘No,’ he said, and was gone.

  He left behind a faint smell of leather and Calvin Klein. And a bad taste in three mouths.

  ‘To think that guy earn forty grand a year,’ Hector muttered. He stalked off to insist some students show their IDs.

  ‘He may get that much but it doesn’t mean he earns it,’ said Peggy. ‘Jumped-up office boy.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘You’d think to hold down his job you’d have to have proper qualifications,’ she said. ‘Everyone else does, after all. No qualifications, no jobs, that’s what I’ve always dinned into my boys. Oh, I think he got an ONC or something. But nothing special. And then there’s this strange rumour about him running over squirrels – Good morning, Mr Blake,’ she said, smiling at the principal.

  ‘Good morning, Peggy – and Sophie,’ he said.

  I was impressed: he’d only met me at the most perfunctory of interviews when the project was set up.

  ‘There goes a proper gentleman,’ Peggy said, as he passed into his office. Indeed, he looked it – rosy-cheeked, silver-haired, everyone’s favourite uncle. But she did not ask him to buy a ticket.

  2

  I knew I was doing all the right things, but the computer wouldn’t believe me. Or, more accurately, the printer wouldn’t. The printer wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t even go on line so I could talk to it properly.

  On the grounds that when computers go wrong it’s usually not their fault but that of the person using them, I went through my routine again. Yes, everything was connected properly. There was no reason for it not to be, since everything had been working on Friday when I left for the weekend. Yes, there was enough paper in the feed, and yes, the computer was set up for this particular printer. And no, nothing happened when I told the computer to print.

  Since I needed to print the set of material for a meeting in half an hour, I did the obvious thing: saved it on to a floppy and toddled off in search of someone else’s equipment.

  I was still a new girl on the premises: this project had started only a couple of weeks before Easter, and had been interrupted by the two-week break. Since this was only the second week back – and we’d lost Monday for May Day – I didn’t feel I knew anyone well enough to go and invade their private offices without permission.

  I slipped down from my room on the second floor to the common room on the ground. If there was anyone there, I could ask them for help or, at least, advice. It was empty, but I was tempted to linger: the daily papers were spread invitingly over the coffee tables in the middle, and someone had left open one of the French windows, letting in the sunlight and the sound of the fountain splashing in the small courtyard. The pond and fountain were no grander than many of my neighbours’, but imparted a sense of civilisation quite refreshing after the penury of William Murdock College.

  But I had work to do. I would try what ought to have been the obvious place: the computer centre. This occupied a whole new wing. One floor was given over to purpose-built rooms where a whole class could be taught at once. There were also a couple of electronics workshops, a big drop-in centre where students would work on individual projects, and a smaller room at present unoccupied but also full of computer equipment.

  Although the pressing need was to print out the stuff on my disk, it would also be sensible to report the fault on my set-up, so I looked round for a technician. There was none to be seen. Scratching at their office door, I pushed it open, half expecting to find a little coven working out their pools over morning coffee, early though it still was; but it was deserted. I scribbled a note asking for help, and then, because I had only fifteen minutes, let myself into the empy room and sat down at the nearest computer.

  I had got no further than loading my disk and waiting for the file to be formatted for the new default printer when the door was flung open and a woman’s voice yelled at me: ‘What in hell d’you think you’re doing?’

  Fighting down the temptation to ask her what the hell it looked as if I were doing, I got up, smiling politely.

  ‘I’m Sophie Rivers,’ I said. ‘Part of the team working on computer-based teaching materials. My machine’s gone down, and I needed to print this urgently.’

  She seemed too angry to speak. She was probably about my age – mid-thirties – but her skin was quite deeply lined, especially around the eyes, as if she’d spent years glaring meanly through a haze of cigarette smoke. Her fingers were certainly stained. Her suit – women wore suits at Muntz, unless they were Sophie Rivers and allergic to them – was this season’s, and her shoes looked Italian. But it was her hair that interested me most. Some women – French ones, for instance – adopt a style so short and angular that the chicness is overridden by the fact that it’s viciously unflattering. She sported this sort of cut, no doubt quite fiendishly expensive in its asymmetry.

  So why was this fashion plate working at George Muntz College and why was she white with anger?

  I dabbed a finger on the keyboard – no point in hanging around doing nothing, after all – and my document oozed slowly from a laser printer. I picked up the neat pile of papers, extracted my disk, switched everything off, and then lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

  She didn’t quite throw me from the room.

  As she ostentatiously closed the door behind us, she called out: ‘Melina? Melina!’

  I prepared to walk away – I had no more business there, and I wasn’t prepared for a public rebuke – but then I hesitated. The person who approached, shoulders hunched, eyes placatingly down, was the black woman from the choir.

  I caught Suit Woman’s eye; I didn’t want her to take out her bad temper on someone much more vulnerable than I.

  She pinched her lips, acknowledging me reluctantly.

  ‘Melina, this—’

  ‘Sophie Rivers,’ I supplied, smiling at Melina.

  ‘Ms Rivers complains that her computer has failed.’

  ‘Printer,’ I said. ‘I can’t get it to go on line.’

  ‘Printer. Fix it. Or get her a new one out of the stockroom.’

  ‘Yes, Ms—’

  ‘Dr.’

  ‘Dr Trevelyan. Shall I do it now or later, Dr Trevelyan?’

  ‘Not now,’ I said. ‘I’m due in a meeting. I’d rather it were later. Eleven thirty. See you then, Melina.’

  I turned and strode off before Dr Trevelyan could point out that Melina did not need my presence to repair or replace my printer.

  In fact, I spent the start of the meeting wondering why I’d made such a point of it, and my concentration was so poor I found myself landed with writing up the minutes, a job I’d been intending to avoid.

  Melina thought there was probably dirt in one of the switches; it would only take five minutes to repair if it was, but in the meantime she’d leave me with another printer.

  She stood clutching the printer flat against her chest, with her back to the door, almost as if awaiting my permission to withdraw. Or was she looking for some excuse to stay?

  ‘How did you think the concert went on Sunday?’ I asked, pushing a chair at her.

  She sat on the extreme edge. ‘OK,’ she said. And then she smiled. ‘If you like The Music Makers, that is. And if you like Blount as a conductor.’

  I grinned.

  ‘I mean, it’s not very good Elgar, is it?’ she continued. ‘Not really his best? Oh, dear, I mean—’ You could see her confidence ebb and flow.

  I shook my head to encourage her. ‘Lousy Elgar.’

  ‘And that Claude Blount. Sir Claude Blount. Why is he a Sir and Peter Rollinson not?’

  ‘I fancy it’s a hereditary title, not one he earned.’

  I thought for a minute she was going to relax into a proper natter, but she suddenly looked at her watch and sprang to her feet in one rather graceless movement.

  ‘She’ll be expecting me back. Dr Trevelyan.’

  I got up too. ‘Why don’t we have some lunch together?’ I added, to give her a chance to be kind
to me, ‘I’m such a new girl, you see – it’s so nice to talk to someone I know. I’m free at one.’

  ‘The technicians have their own canteen,’ she said.

  ‘Well, we could nip out to the Court Oak.’

  ‘I don’t drink. Thank you, Ms Rivers. I’ll report back to you later.’

  Why should she be so keen to avoid me? Was it me, or didn’t she like people? Just then I didn’t have time to worry. I had a class to go to, and teaching T. S. Eliot to A-level students requires all my concentration.

  And I didn’t have time for any lunch, either. As I came out of class it started to rain, and I literally ran home to rescue my washing. I was just in time to see Aggie locking my front door on her way out. Rather than embarrass her by thanking her, I simply turned on my heel and ran back. What I might do, perhaps, was get too many bedding plants and, by claiming I hadn’t room for them, persuade her to do me another favour by accepting them.

  Meanwhile, I had another class to teach.

  After an exhausting session with GCSE students and the apostrophe s during which I wondered if even a computer would have patience enough to deal with the little cypher, I staggered back to my office for a drink.

  Although there was a perfectly good staff canteen, I was so overwhelmed by the luxury of having a room to myself – even one only about eight feet by eight – after the mêlée in which I had passed my time at William Murdock College, that occasionally I would dive in just to savour it. It struck me that the recent prohibition on making tea or coffee there was unnecessary, but I could easily circumvent it by drinking packet fruit juice, which was probably healthier anyway. I could even look out of the window without being assailed by vertigo, whereas my William Murdock office was on the fifteenth floor.

  There was a quiet tap at the door: Melina, clutching a printer.

  ‘Until I can repair yours,’ she said, immediately busying herself with cables and plugs.

  ‘Don’t worry: I’ll sort that out,’ I said. ‘Fancy an orange juice?’ I broke another from the polythene wrapper and tossed it to her.

  She caught it, put it down awkwardly, then picked it up and pulled off the straw. ‘Thanks.’ But she finished the connections before she drank.

  To my surprise, I didn’t have to choose the next topic of conversation. Perhaps she thought asking me questions would be the best way of fending off mine.

  ‘How long are you going to be working here, Ms Rivers?’

  ‘Sophie.’

  ‘We’re supposed to call you academic staff by your name and title.’

  ‘Titles like Dr and names like Trevelyan?’

  ‘She’s quite new here too.’

  I couldn’t quite work that one out. ‘How long have you worked here, then?’

  ‘Couple of months, that’s all. Dr Trevelyan started at Christmas. But—’ She stopped.

  I waited. Nothing.

  ‘I should have come in January,’ I said at last. ‘But there was a big administrative cock-up—’ Melina winced. ‘Administrative hitch,’ I corrected myself, ‘so we had to wait till now. And we go back to our own places as soon as we’ve finished. Not that I for one am in any hurry. I live just up the road, and this place is luxury compared with what I’m used to at William Murdock.’

  She stared at me and seemed about to speak when the phone rang: Dr Trevelyan, wanting to know if Melina had finished.

  ‘Just doing a test print now,’ I said, grateful that ink jets are so silent as to be undetectable over the phone.

  Melina, however, asked the computer for a test print-out. It obliged.

  ‘What did you do before you came here?’ I asked, accompanying her to the door.

  ‘Same thing. A small firm in the Jewellery Quarter. We serviced computers for big firms.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, interested that she should have chosen to take a job in education.

  ‘Lots,’ she said. And was gone.

  3

  Synchronicity or coincidence? My evening with Aberlene seemed to pivot round the question, thought I don’t recall either of us proposing to debate it.

  It started with my chopping fresh coriander to add to a curry for supper. It’s my favourite herb. It’s not just the taste, the smell, though those are exquisite in themselves. It’s because it always brings back my friend George. And the pleasure of being with George, loving him as a dear friend, rather than the agony of his death last year.

  The edge had gone off my pain by now. Some of it went when the van he’d left me was destroyed in a fire. But his bassoon still sat on the wardrobe in my spare room.

  Apart from singing, I can only play the piano, so the bassoon was never used. It might even be bad for it: some instruments suffer if they’re allowed to lie fallow. But then, I could never sell it – how could I make money out of George’s death? I couldn’t give away anything he’d given to me, either.

  With the coriander juice still green and pungent on my hands, I phoned Aberlene.

  Which is where the synchronicity came in: Aberlene greeted me with a laugh and told me she’d been in the process of looking up my number. She had something she wanted to discuss, she said, and had been going to invite me out for a quiet drink. But when I established that she had not yet eaten, I invited her round to share my curry; she could bring a bottle if she liked. She liked, and would be round about eight.

  This gave me time to tidy my kitchen, and I laid the table in there, rather than attempt to clear my papers off the dining table. We left her wine – a New Zealand Chardonnay – to chill. Neither of us felt it would enjoy the company of my Malaysian chicken curry, creamy with coconut and sharp with coriander. But it helped the cheese and the conversation, chiefly orchestral gossip. I sensed, however, that Aberlene was holding something back, but to ensure an easier time later I decided not to press her.

  We took the rest of the bottle into my living room. For a while she prowled, commenting on a watercolour I’d just bought. And then she settled on the sofa, folding her long legs under her, and I took an armchair.

  When it came to it, neither of us was particularly keen to broach our propositions. In the end, laughing like teenagers, we flipped a coin.

  ‘All right,’ I began, losing graciously, ‘I want to say something which may sound – I don’t know, quixotic if you like.’ I told her about George’s bassoon. ‘What I want to do is lend it to someone – like that lad who joined in the spring – so it gets played. It doesn’t even have to be anyone in the MSO, really. I’m sure you’ve got contacts all over. So long as it’s played and cared for – in both senses, I suppose.’

  Aberlene touched my hand gently and poured some more wine. ‘But George wanted you to benefit from his death if anyone did.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘And you’ve never even bought yourself a car to replace his camper van. I’ve heard all your excuses – cars in cities, public transport, vandalism at your college, the risk of it being stolen, too little, too big, too fast, too slow. I’ve heard them all, Sophie. Come on, don’t you owe it to George to – to oblige him?’

  I spread my hands.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she continued, ‘I’ll mention your offer to someone I know on one condition – that you find some way of letting George enrich your life. It was what he wanted. And I tell you, Sophie, he really did worry that you didn’t have safer transport than that bike of yours.’

  ‘But I don’t need even a bike at the moment.’ I actually felt uneasy having more than enough money to buy a car. George had believed in giving away what you didn’t need, and I hadn’t even got round to giving the interest on the van’s insurance payout to Oxfam as he’d have wanted.

  ‘But you’ll be back at William Murdock – when? September? Promise me that you’ll have done something about getting a car by then. Or,’ she smiled sweetly, ‘no deal on the bassoon. And don’t say you’ll bloody well sell it to spite me because I know you and you couldn’t.’

  She was right, of course, so I didn’t say anythi
ng.

  ‘Now,’ she said, looking embarrassed. She shifted her legs to the floor and straightened her back, looking magisterial. ‘What I needed to talk to you about. And I want you to remember that it is not a response to what you’ve just been saying. I was about to phone you, remember, quite independently.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s not gratitude, though in a way I suppose it is. But not for that. I’m sorry – I’m making a real hash of this, and don’t tell me I’m not.’ She paused, took a swig, and settled her hands on her lap as if trying to relax. ‘As you know, the orchestra has its own friendly society. We all pay in so much a month, and can call on it for help with health problems – you know, when we need physio before the Health Service can get round to it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘After the Maxwell affair,’ she continued, ‘the role of a trustee is even more important. And with the pressures on everyone’s money at the moment we want to make sure our society’s money is well managed. These days the orchestra can’t afford to make ex gratia emergency payments as it might once have done. That’s why – now Thomas Kelly and Henry Gibson have retired – that’s why the players want to nominate you as an independent trustee. You’ve been a loyal friend to the orchestra—’ She overrode my protests. ‘A loyal friend to the band as a whole as well as to some of us individually. If you’re happy, we’ll be writing to you formally.’

  When I demurred it was to make the obvious comment: ‘I don’t know anything about money – accounts, investments, anything.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. All the other trustees know about money. The other new trustee’s sharp enough to cut himself. But these guys don’t necessarily know how we feel – you know, about ethical investments and so on. The other thing is that now that there are two more women than men in the orchestra, we’d like a woman trustee. At least one. You’re the token woman, Sophie,’ she cackled.

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ But I was touched, really touched. I got up and filled our glasses again to cover it.

  ‘Welcome and good luck. And the first meeting’s on Thursday evening, by the way,’ she said. And then, in a change of mood that disconcerted me, she lifted her glass to a photo of George on the piano. ‘Absent friends.’