Dying Fall Read online

  Suddenly Chris grabbed my forearm and squeezed it lightly. But when I glanced at his face he was failing to suppress a grin. ‘How many meanings can you work out for that?’ he asked, pointing to a label on a door.

  COMPLEX MANAGER, it said.

  ‘I wonder if they’ve relabelled that door yet,’ I said.

  ‘Which door?’

  ‘The one we nearly lost a soprano through.’

  ‘What?’ Then he remembered we were supposed to be music-loving yuppies, and he lowered his voice. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘The doors that opened on to nothing. That near-miss we had on Saturday.’

  I explained about Mo’s incident.

  ‘Show me.’

  The speed with which we retraced our steps and hammered up the nearest staircase was far from fashionable. At first I stared hopelessly around me.

  ‘There it is!’ I pointed. ‘The one that says “Strictly No Admittance – Acoustic Equipment”. It said “Ladies Cloakroom”. And there was no apostrophe.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I’m not. I meant to write and complain –’

  ‘About the signs being confused.’

  ‘Look.’

  We peered at a ghostly rectangle: the dust had settled on the adhesive left by the first nameplate. The new one was a different shape.

  ‘Go and see that loo’s what it claims to be.’

  I obeyed. It was. I came back to find Chris opening the EQUIPMENT door. He shoved a bunch of keys quickly back into his pocket. Through vertical slabs of wood we could see an ornamental balcony like all the others round the auditorium. He closed the door and locked it, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. I saluted in acknowledgement, and, as we made our way back for the second half, gave him a detailed account of the previous Saturday’s events.

  ‘What I can’t understand is why no one reported it,’ he said, as if we hadn’t paused in our conversation for the forty minutes or so it took for Stobbard Mayou to get through Sibelius’ Second Symphony.

  George had loved Sibelius. He used to take especial pride in making reeds to produce a particularly dark, elemental timbre to match the musical landscape. None of the bassoon-clown-of-the-orchestra syndrome for him.

  Jools was acting principal bassoon tonight. I suppose the most damning thing I could say was that she’d done her best. And I could see from the expression on the face of the Birmingham Post music critic that it was simply not good enough. Her reed hadn’t got that dark sound, but that wasn’t the only problem. She couldn’t deliver the nuances of tone and pace that Mayou was trying for. And there were several dominoes. She’d have to practise longer and harder if she wanted to sit up on a regular basis. That would mean limiting her work on the weights.

  Why had she got away with it so long? Everyone else practised: muscles have to be kept fit as athletes’. And Jools had never pushed herself hard. She ought by rights to have been eased out years ago. Why had Tony never grasped the nettle? He’d shifted other players around, got rid of some altogether. He was getting quite offensively pleased with his reputation for being a hard manager.

  But he’d let Jools get away with murder.

  Her hair, for one thing. No, it was all right this season, although it looked as if it might have been cut with a knife and fork. But last year she’d had it shaved round the sides and back, leaving a Mohican tuft down the middle. Then she’d dyed it orange. Then it went black, with a treble clef sculpted into the shaven area at the back. I rather liked that look. With jeans and Docs, anyway. Perhaps it was less successful with the long black dress that forms a woman musician’s uniform.

  These days, of course, the long black itself was a disaster. Aberlene had adopted a heavy silk trouser suit, with a neat little mess jacket instead of tails. Jools could never aspire to such chic, but at least she’d look less like an unsuccessful drag artist.

  Mayou was calling all the principals to their feet, one by one. Rollinson had been known to ignore one who’d performed badly, but here was Mayou smiling at her as if she’d played perfectly. What was it George had said about them? George rarely gossiped about orchestral liaisons. But I wondered – no: I refused to buy that theory.

  ‘I said, who did Tony Rossiter say he’d reported the door incident to?’

  I jumped. ‘Everyone. Why not ask him yourself? He’ll be backstage, being nice to Stobbard Mayou.’

  ‘Maybe it can wait till tomorrow,’ he said.

  The architects had decided that the musicians were to be not merely performers but performing animals: the Band Room might have been soundproofed but, like the penguin pool at Dudley Zoo, it was glass-walled. Anyone interested could watch them eating and drinking, playing cards, doing OU assignments or – in the case of the heavy brass – reading girlie magazines. If they wanted to quarrel or weep they no doubt had to book a practice room in those gloss-painted backstage corridors horribly like those at William Murdock. Haydn or Mozart would have recognised the distinction immediately – the front-of-house luxury and the spartan performers’ territory. There was an insidious rumour that the management of the Music Centre were trying to insist that no performer should be allowed anywhere except backstage, and that the MSO felt that Tony wasn’t backing them strongly enough in their opposition.

  We were about to turn into the underground passage leading to the car parks when we heard running feet, and someone calling. Tony Rossiter.

  I stopped, and smiled to Chris. ‘You can ask him now after all.’

  Chris did not show much delight. He showed still less when Tony kissed me, as he sometimes does in public.

  Tony was off for a drink with Mayou. They’d both be delighted if we would join them. Caste, of course, must be maintained, so the Duke of Clarence was out of the question. We must go to the Mondiale, the hotel where Mayou had a suite, a hotel I’d never done more than cycle past.

  But how? The hotel, one of a clutch of new ones on Broad Street, is all of three hundred yards from the Music Centre, very near the Five Ways island. One of the men would take us in a car. Which man? Which car? Poor Tony and Chris were falling over each other in their efforts not to insist.

  Mayou was looking as if he regretted the whole affair. My feet were getting bored too. I’d persuaded them into my only pair of high heels in honour of the evening. I don’t wear ugly flatties all the time, don’t think that. Very stylish flatties, à la Princess Di. A fall from my bike long ago left me with a tiny weakness in my back. Walking, running, training – it copes with all of these. But heels above an inch high and it soon screams. Mayou caught my eye. He made a minute gesture with the first two fingers of his left hand, his right being occupied by the controversial handbag. He repeated it. His fingers were walking. He smiled: we were to walk too. That was how we reached the Mondiale. The champagne was already on ice when the others arrived.

  Mayou fell silent almost immediately. Completely silent. I got no help from Tony or Chris, who were busy condoling with each other on the fortunes of West Bromwich Albion. I’d have been happy to join in – I’d cheered them from the terraces in my younger and their more successful days – but could scarcely talk across the silent host.

  Abruptly Mayou excused himself.

  I sat staring at the champagne bucket, feeling thirsty and angry in unequal measures.

  He returned quite swiftly, charmingly apologetic, and signalled for the champagne to be served. His first glass made him sneeze repeatedly.

  ‘That goddamn dust,’ he said, mopping his eyes. ‘Half the time I can’t see, my eyes water so much, I’m sneezing like I had hay fever, and now my physician’s talking about my getting asthma, for Christ’s sake. Asthma! Isn’t that what old men get?’

  Quietly I produced my Ventolin. ‘Not just old men.’

  During the subsequent discussion of symptoms and treatments he becamed elated, as if he were really interested in how I dealt with the problem. Say, why didn’t we jog together? Could I really teach him to ride a
goddamn bicycle? As for leaving Birmingham for somewhere less allergenic, he had a job here. He was a professional. ‘Goddamn it, Sophie, I bet you don’t stay off school just because you’ve got hay fever. I just wish I could do justice to this marvellous group of musicians here. I feel like I’m letting them down when I’m like this.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Chris, fastening his seat belt.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, what did you get out of him?’

  ‘Get out of him? I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be getting anything out of him. He was telling me all about his studies in Finland and the outsize mosquitoes they grow there.’ I didn’t want to discuss Stobbard with anyone.

  ‘Great. That’ll be a terrific help.’

  ‘And what did you get from Tony, apart form an intimate review of his new car? All that black leather. A real seductionmobile, isn’t it?’

  We did not speak again until we reached my front door. Chris was busy demonstrating that he’d passed the police driving course with all available honours. I was trying not to pee secondhand champagne. He braked sharply, but pulled on the handbrake as slowly as if he were trying to reach a decision while he did it.

  ‘That friend of yours is hiding something,’ he said at last.

  ‘Tony? Never!’

  ‘Bloody cagey.’

  ‘His mother was an oyster, his father a clam. And being a manager’s made him worse.’

  ‘Shouldn’t stop him reporting incidents like that.’

  ‘’Course it shouldn’t. Look, I must go in. I’m desperate for a loo.’

  ‘OK. I’ll phone you.’

  He let me get out and only then got out himself. He followed me slowly.

  There was a dull thud. His hand shot out, as if to pull me back. Then he pointed. Aggie’s bin. A fox had knocked it over and was worrying the lid.

  We started to laugh.

  He touched my arm. ‘Good night, then, Sophie. You will be careful, won’t you?’

  I couldn’t understand why he sounded so earnest. ‘Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’

  But he was still watching and waiting when I shut my front door.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday is the day of my favourite class, that Access group, but today I had the business of Manjit to attend to before I could start teaching. She presented herself outside the staff room at nine sharp, wan, a bruise on her face where the red mark had been. She was far from apologetic, however. True, she presented me with a note, torn off her lined A4 notepad, apologising for using bad language, but when I tried to ask her about the circumstances she repeated that it was none of my business and I ought to back off.

  I unlocked a classroom and gestured her inside.

  ‘Sit down and listen,’ I said.

  She did as she was told. But every line of her body expressed resentment and something else – fear? I returned to the door and locked it, so we wouldn’t be interrupted.

  ‘Manjit, I’m trying to help you. You were very upset last Friday, upset enough to interrupt my class, and I know you’re too responsible to do that without good reason. I haven’t told a single soul about our conversation. OK?’

  She nodded. Her face was still sullen but she glanced up briefly.

  ‘There’s something wrong. We both know that. When you said it was none of my business you weren’t quite right. Anything that makes a student as unhappy as you were – and still seem to be – is the business of people who care about her. And I care about you. Right?’

  She nodded, and she tried to smile. But her eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to talk about what’s upset you. Maybe you’re afraid to.’

  She flinched.

  ‘If you can’t talk to me, couldn’t you talk to one of the college counsellors?’

  She shook her head. ‘And I don’t want you to, either, miss. Things get around.’

  ‘Not from our counsellors. Everything you tell them is confidential. You know that.’

  She shook her head stubbornly.

  ‘How about I talk to them in general terms? Find out –’

  ‘I don’t want you to find out nothing. Oh, miss –’

  ‘OK. Manjit. I won’t do anything without your say-so. I want you to know I’ll always listen if you want to talk to me. Right? And I want you to write down this – it’s my home telephone number.’

  She looked me straight in the eyes. ‘Thanks, miss. Miss, promise me you won’t tell anyone – anyone. Please.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Miss, I daren’t be late in case anyone – you know –’

  But although I nodded kindly, I wasn’t quite sure that I did.

  I was out of my depth. I knew I ought to be doing something but I’d promised to do nothing, in particular not to talk to those very colleagues whom I’d have trusted with my life. I worried my way round the situation for the rest of the day. There was a meeting across the lunch hour I had to go to, but I might not have been there for all the contribution I made to the new College Development Plan. Shahida and Richard kept eyeing me with concern. As we split up to go to our classes, Shahida gave me a quick hug.

  Richard hung back. ‘You’re sure you don’t need some time off?’

  I smiled at him sadly: he’d want to know about Manjit, might be able to help her, but I could no more confide in him than she in me.

  ‘Remember, all you have to do is ask. Call me at home if you need me: I’m always ready to help.’

  I nodded my thanks. I didn’t expect to have to take him up on his offer before the weekend was over.

  Saturday morning’s rehearsal with the MSO started off as a fairly flat affair. Stobbard Mayou’s rhinitis was better, but he was much more dour than I’d seen him. Aberlene and Jools had come on to the platform together, obviously in mid-row. But they’d settled in their places, and provided no entertainment for the onlookers. When the break came, I opened my coffee and Mo went to the loo. I sat there gloomily. Normally I’d have sought out George. And there was something more trivial to worry about too. I kept getting the feeling that Mayou was looking at me. With no great affection, either. Very odd, since we’d parted on the best of terms on Thursday, and I wasn’t singing out of tune. Then there was a movement beside me: Aberlene. She sat down and accepted the remains of the coffee.

  ‘This must be very hard for you,’ she said. ‘The first rehearsal without George. Bad enough for us playing on Monday. You know we played something in his memory. Not Nimrod. Mayou and the soloist got together and decided to do the Adagio from Mozart’s d minor concerto. John Murray. Nice man, as well as being a great pianist.’

  I nodded. One day I’d turned up at George’s to find John Murray flat on his back under George’s sink.

  ‘Are you all right, by the way?’ It was crude but I didn’t feel very subtle today.

  ‘Fine. Apart from bloody Jools, that is. Sophie, she’s really pissing me off at the moment. I know she’s a friend of yours, but I’ve got to sound off at someone. You know she’s always had a bit of a reputation for hobnobbing with guest soloists and conductors?’

  I nodded. ‘George used to loathe it. Used to make awful jokes about officers and other ranks.’

  ‘I mean, she was all over that violinist, Jacques Whatshisname – the one that had the accident.’

  The young man in question had fallen from his hotel room in Rome a week after he’d played in Birmingham. There was a strong rumour he’d been trying to fly, but it had been discreetly hushed up.

  ‘And now she’s in and out of Mayou’s room as if they were best buddies. Which I’m sure they’re not. They have the most awful rows.’

  ‘She seems to have the most awful rows with everyone,’ I said. ‘Including me. What was she having a go at you for?’

  But Mayou was already coming on to the stage, and Aberlene had to scuttle to her place.

  The second half of the rehearsal was much more impressive. Apart from an awful bout of sneezing, Mayou was al
together more alert, and he contrived to wake us up too. He sang all the choir parts – simultaneously, it seemed. He pushed aside the stool and reached and dipped, scooping music from the air. Five minutes in, he pulled off his sweatshirt to reveal an Oxfam T-shirt, a textbook set of muscles and, when the T-shirt lifted with his arms, a golden torso that simply demanded to be touched.

  We allowed ourselves to be seduced.

  And then it was all over. A smile and a wave and he was gone.

  Mo sighed, reached into her handbag, produced a spray and covered herself with Opium.

  And she covered me.

  My sneezes rivalled Mayou’s. My eyes flooded. Any moment now I’d succumb to an attack of asthma. Thank God for Ventolin. But I was still wheezing and crying when Tony Rossiter ran into me – almost literally – on the stairs.

  He peered at me with what seemed like genuine sympathy. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? I suppose you’ve got this flu bug.’

  I didn’t have enough breath to deny it.

  ‘I don’t think you should get close to Stobbard. Not like this.’

  ‘Stobbard?’

  ‘He sent me to find out how you are. He’s in his room. No, don’t go down. I’ll tell him you’ve gone straight home to bed.’

  I ran down the stairs beside him.

  ‘Tony, why was Stobbard asking for me?’

  Before he could reply, Stobbard’s door burst open and Jools shot out, thrusting her way between us. Stobbard had followed her to the doorway and now stood looking at us. He shook his head gently and strolled towards us. ‘My, my. All that just because I asked her to produce a more authentic sound. Hey, Sophie, you don’t look so good.’

  ‘Flu, Stobbard,’ said Tony, stepping between us.

  A sneeze cut off my denial.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got it real bad.’ His hair was still wet with sweat – it curled, irrepressibly.

  A phone rang. Tony ran to answer it. Aberlene emerged from the band room.

  ‘Stobbard,’ she began, ‘I really must –’

  Tony came back at a gallop. ‘Stobbard, it’s Munich! Can you take over from Muti? He’s got the flu. Any Beethoven Symphony you like and some Japanese doing the Brahms d minor concerto.’