MARTIN'S TALENT
a novel by
Philip Gillett

Part 1      1963

chapter 1

Martin looks down at his plate, willing the image of the food to become blurred. It can happen. If he makes his mind go blank, the babble of voices around him grows remote. The clatter of cutlery and the scraping of chairs on the parquet hardly intrude upon his inner world. As his thoughts roam free, music steals into his mind. The final movement of Beethoven's little opus 54 sonata. It must have the feel of a moto perpetuo without losing the gentle pace of an allegretto. He can hear it taken at a leisurely tempo but with the lilt which is so difficult to achieve in practice. Matters of interpretation are more easily resolved away from the keyboard, where technical problems do not intrude -
Somebody knocks Martin's chair. His fork slips from his fingers to fall on his plate with a clatter. Food spatters over the table.
'Look what Barron's done,' a familiar voice behind him taunts. 'You're going to be in trouble now.'
Everybody at the table looks at Martin. He feels his face reddening.
'Barron hasn't learned to eat properly yet,' the voice behind him announces.
'He's really gonna get told off now,' another voice warns.
'The prefects are going to have him up in front of the school for wasting food and making a mess.'
'And old Preston's going to slipper him till he cries.' 
Martin looks down at his plate again to avoid the grinning faces. His safe, inner world has slipped irrevocably away. His fork still lies in the gravy. He lifts it clear and tries to wipe the handle clean on the edge of his plate. 
'Now he's dripping gravy all over the table.' 
'You know you shouldn't do that, Barron. When the prefects see that, they'll make you stand on the chair.' 
'Or send him to old Preston for a caning.' 
'He's messy. Does your mum make you wear a bib, Barron?' 
Martin keeps his eyes cast down. 
'We asked you a question, Barron.' 
'Messy Barron, messy Barron,' comes the chorus. A prefect passes, stilling the chant. Martin's enemies are ordered back to their table. Martin keeps his eyes downcast, dreading the moment when his saviour will be out of earshot, but his fellow diners do not resume the taunting. Two first-formers begin talking about football. Martin takes advantage of the lull to begin eating again. He hates school dinners. The mashed potatoes are lumpy and all flavour has been boiled from the greens. Only the pie crust looks appealing. He lifts it with his fork. Of the two chunks underneath, one is fat. He pushes it aside to scrape gravy from the second, which turns out to be composed largely of jelly. If he takes time to pare away the lean meat, he will be amongst the last to finish, which means being forced to help put away the tables and chairs. The alternative is to leave the entire contents of the pie and hope that nothing will be said when he takes his plate to the hatch. Once he was told off for leaving good food. When he turned away without answering, a prefect made him apologise and put him in detention. That pleased his enemies. It was the first time he had been kept in after school. When he got home an hour late, he told his mother that the music master had organised a record recital. 
The teachers sit by the stage. Only if the noise becomes excessive does the deputy headmaster, Mr Preston, get to his feet. Usually he glares over the ranks of boys until the conversations become muted. If he does have to call for silence, the hall becomes unnaturally quiet. When he takes his seat again, the buzz of voices soon resumes at a more subdued level. Usually the teachers talk amongst themselves, ignoring the presence of the boys. Mr Sandiford makes the most noise. He teaches art in the lower forms. When he laughs, his deep voice rings around the hall, making the younger boys grin. Mr Preston looks stern when that happens, but he cannot criticise one of his colleagues. 
Martin always contrives to sit near the teachers. As he eats the pie crust, he watches the music teacher. Mr Morrison is talking to another master. The two men are laughing. As Mr Morrison looks up, his eyes meet Martin's. The boy looks away quickly. He likes the music teacher. Mr Morrison has a gentleness which distinguishes him from his fellows. Even by comparison with some of the younger boys, he looks slightly built. Though his face is young and impish, his hair is streaked with grey. When he plays the piano in class, he becomes oblivious of the boys. Chopin is his favourite composer. In the time remaining after lunch, he often plays for his own amusement. Martin hears him from the playground. 
The discussion between the two first-formers about the football practice that morning continues interminably. Respite only comes when the two boys go to the serving hatch for the sweet. Martin experiences a childish excitement when they return with apple pie. Of the meals on the school menu, he only likes the sweets. Apple pie and chocolate pudding are his favourites.  He eats more quickly, pushing the meat to the side of his plate, fearful that there will be no sweet left if he delays too long. Everything except getting the apple pie is driven from his mind when he takes his plate to the hatch. 
'Hello, Barron,' comes a voice from behind him. A hardness grips his stomach. Pleasurable anticipation disappears to be replaced by the familiar sensation of fear. He continues walking, pretending that he has not heard. When he pushes his plate across the counter, the woman says nothing about the lumps of meat. He goes to the adjoining hatch for his sweet. The smell of apple pie and custard no longer gives him a sense of anticipation. As he turns, dish in hand, his way is barred. 
'Say hello, Barron.' 
'Hello,' Martin mutters, not looking at his tormentor. 
'Would you like to come and sit with us?' Jackson is of similar height and build to Martin. He has a cherubic face, at odds with his behaviour. Martin brushes past him without replying. 'That's very rude, Barron. We'll have to teach you some manners when we're in the playground.' 
Martin pretends not to hear, but back in his seat, the threat weighs on his mind. The pie crust is crisp and sweet, but he can no longer enjoy it. He eats slowly, delaying the moment when he will have to go outside. The first-formers eat hurriedly. As they leave, they are arguing about who scored the best goal. Their absence makes him feel even less secure, for now his enemies can come to his table. The hall empties slowly. Mr Morrison is still deep in conversation. Martin watches the hatch out of habit, waiting for somebody else to ask if there are second helpings. For once, nobody does. With the pie eaten, he turns to the custard, letting it dissolve in his mouth. All the time he is stirring the custard with his spoon, so that anybody watching will assume he is eating heartily. The sweet liquid trickling down his throat has a soporific effect. He wonders whether his enemies are looking at him. Every day Martin stays to dinner and every day his fears are the same. When the custard is finished, he sucks his spoon and scrapes it around the dish again, pretending that something is left. Nobody is close enough to see through his deceit. After this, there is no way of delaying things any longer. He takes his satchel and gets up without looking at his enemies. Nobody comes behind him as he walks to the hatch. 
'Is there any more?' he murmurs, pushing his dish across the stainless steel counter. 
The woman leans forward. 'Eh?' 
'Any more pie?' The words sound loud enough for everybody in the hall to hear.
The woman shakes her head. 'Not today. Sorry, son.' 
Martin turns away without replying. He feels sick. With eyes cast downwards he makes his way to the doors. Outside, his breath turns to steam. Before him are the playing fields - that scene of other humiliations. Flanking them on one side are the teaching blocks. He can remember the school being built. It is vast compared with his junior school. Cold and fear coalesce. He shivers, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets in search of warmth, wishing that coats did not have to be left in the cloakrooms on arrival in the morning. 
Seniors congregate in the toilets after lunch, so he never lingers there. He makes his way up the steps to the playground. It is less crowded than in the morning break because some boys go home to dinner.  A football scuds across the asphalt to bounce against the wall close to him. First year boys pursue it enthusiastically. One kicks it away and the melee sweeps after it, leaving Martin alone once more. He crosses to the cycle sheds beside the boundary fence, forcing himself to walk slowly to avoid drawing attention to himself. Only at the far end does his pace quicken until he turns the corner where the corrugated iron wall of the shed shields him from the playground. 
His hiding place. Longingly he looks across the lawns and workshops to the woodlands beyond the wire boundary fence. He walked there in the holidays, drawn to see his school at its most benign. There was his hiding place, looking exposed from the unfamiliar vantage point. Beyond the second teaching block are the playing fields. The goal-posts have a semicircle of mud in front of them. As Wednesday approaches, he always prays for rain so that the games lesson will be cancelled. Once in his first year, just before the Christmas holidays, the pitches were so waterlogged that a film show was arranged instead of games. He remembers those days of continuous rain with gratitude. 
Voices carry along the shed - boys putting away their cycles after returning from lunch. Nobody comes to the far end. Martin leans against the corrugated iron, pressing his elbows against his sides so warm air is trapped between his chest and his shirt. Twenty-seven days till the end of term. Sometimes he works that out in minutes - at the end of each day he subtracts three hundred, which sounds impressive until he tries to calculate the time remaining. What he avoids thinking about is how many terms are left before he leaves school for good. From the first term of his second year, the total seems daunting. 
It was in the winter of his first year that he came to know his enemies. Snow covered the playground, but still nobody was allowed inside. Boys from his class threw snowballs at him. When he tried to take refuge in the cloakrooms, a prefect made him go outside again. All he could do was to turn his back to his adversaries, so that no snowballs hit his face. Some landed on his head and neck, the melting snow trickling down his back. By the time the bell rang for the end of break, he was fighting back tears. On the way to the classroom his enemies kept asking what was wrong. He did not talk to them. For the rest of the day he felt the dampness in his clothes. He did not tell his parents what had happened. A seagull lands on the football pitch. In summer when the goal-posts are taken down, the boys are allowed on the playing fields after lunch instead of being restricted to the playground. His hiding place becomes exposed then.
Martin's thoughts turn to the coming weekend. English homework is normally an essay. Completing it on Friday evening gives him the rest of the weekend free. Saturday is his favourite day. The morning is devoted to practising the piano. In the afternoon he likes going around the high street shops, choosing which records and books he would buy if he had the money. Only if the weather is exceptionally bad does he stay at home. On these occasions he might read or listen to records; if his parents are out, he continues his piano practice. What happens in the evening depends on his parents. If they go out, he listens to a concert on the radiogram in the lounge. If they are home, he stays in his room and listens on his transistor radio, or plays records. Sunday is not such a good day - the imminent prospect of Monday dampens his spirits. He tries to practise for at least three hours in the morning. In the afternoon he goes to watch the model boats in the park. The world of enthusiasts tinkering with engines entrances him. Cargo boats, liners and tugs chug across the lake, banishing the ducks and swans to a corner. He likes the warships best. One man sails a cruiser with gun turrets which rotate and barrels which go up and down. 
Thoughts of the weekend so absorb Martin that he does not realise anybody is near until Jackson appears around the corner of the shed. The two boys face each other. Jackson is grinning. Other people might take it as a welcoming smile. 
'Hello, Barron.' The tone is gentle. Hazel brown eyes hypnotise the boy cowering against the corrugated iron. 'Aren't you going to say hello when we've taken the trouble to look for you?' 
Martin is silent. He cannot understand how such beautiful eyes can belong to somebody so evil. 
'Why didn't you wait for us?' Jackson persists. 'We could all have come here together.' 
Still no answer. 
'You're not supposed to be here, did you know that?' 
'Why not?' 
'If a prefect saw you, he'd put you in detention.' 
Martin looks sceptical. 
'Do you want me to find one and ask him?' Jackson challenges. 
'Why shouldn't I be here?' 
'I told you - it's not allowed. The cycle shed's out of bounds unless you've got a cycle.' Jackson's smile broadens. 'Were you hiding?' 
Martin looks away. 
'Were you?' Jackson repeats. 
'No.' 
'So what are you standing here for?' 
'Because I want to.' 
'Why is that?' 
'It's warm.' 
'Why? Why should it be warmer here than anywhere else?' 
Jackson's two companions appear before Martin can think of an answer. The three enemies range themselves before him. Smith is panting as though he has been running. His face is flushed. Martin wonders why nobody picks on Smith who is short and plump and cannot play games. 
'He was hiding,' Jackson explains to his colleagues. 'I've told him he'll get into trouble if a prefect finds out.' 
'What were you hiding for?' Goddard wants to know. 
'I wasn't,' Martin insists, his voice betraying him. Goddard is the strongest boy in the class. His aggressive manner and untidy dress belong to another way of life. 
'You told me you were,' Jackson challenges. 
'I didn't.' 
'Are you saying I'm lying?' 
Martin's enemies press close enough for him to smell Smith's chewing gum. He stares helplessly into Jackson's grinning face. 
'I don't like being called a liar,' Jackson warns. 'I can get nasty if you say something like that.' 
'And I asked you a question,' Goddard adds. 
'What?' 
'What do you mean - what? Are you stupid or something?' 
'I wasn't hiding.' 
Triumph shows in Goddard's face. 'So you do know what the question was, which means you were lying when you said you didn't.' 
Martin looks from one to the other, not knowing how to answer. 'If we bashed you up, you wouldn't be able to say anything,' Jackson points out. 'You're the one who'd get into trouble for being here.' 
'He's crying,' Smith sneers. 'Look at him.' 
Goddard pushes Martin against the corrugated iron, forcing the breath from his body. 'What were you hiding for?' 
'Leave him before he starts crying,' Jackson orders. 'Don't want that happening, do we?' He smiles at Martin. It is like a kind smile. 'Were you crying?' 
Martin shakes his head. 'You looked as if you were. Are you lying again, Barron?' 
'No.' 
'You never do nothing, do you?' Smith accuses him. 'You don't laugh, you don't play nothing, you don't even answer.' 
'He's crying this time,' Goddard observes. 'Look at his eyes going all watery.'
Martin tries to blink away the tears as his enemies study him. 
'What are you crying for?' Smith wants to know. 
'I'm not.' 
'You are. You're a liar as well as a crybaby and you make out you're such a goody-goody.' 
'How about coming across the playground with us?' Jackson offers. 'You won't get into trouble that way.' 
'You go first,' Goddard orders, propelling Martin away from the shelter of the cycle shed before he can reply. Somebody treads on his heel, pulling his foot out of his shoe. He shuffles on, afraid of the consequences if he stops. 
'What are you bobbing up and down for?' Smith asks. 'You a spastic or something?' 
Martin feels somebody pulling at his blazer. He hears Jackson urging, 'Don't slow down - one of the prefects is looking!' He hears the sniggering. 
The walk across the playground seems longer than usual. When he stops beside the school buildings, his enemies gather around him again. 
'This is where you're supposed to be,' Jackson explains. 'We've saved you getting into trouble. Aren't you going to thank us?' 
Martin does not answer. 
'You thank us, right?' Goddard pulls him forward by the lapels of his blazer.
'Thank you.' 
'That's better.' Goddard releases him. 'How about coming for a fag with us?' 
'No thanks.' Martin tucks his shirt back in his trousers. 
'Don't you smoke?' 
'He's too much of a goody-goody,' Smith tells the others. 
'Let's give him a fag - see how he likes it.' Goddard turns to his companions for support. 
'We'll leave it for now,' Jackson decides, grinning. 'Give him something to look forward to. We don't want to start him crying again.' 
'You'd better stay here,' Goddard orders Martin. 'I'll be keeping an eye on you to make sure you do. Got it?' 
Martin nods. 
'And no more hiding away, or we'll come and get you.' 
Martin watches as his enemies saunter to the cloakrooms. When he is sure that they have lost interest in him, he kneels to put on his shoe. In that moment the sense of his separateness from his fellows threatens to overwhelm him. 
The younger boys are running after a ball - Martin sees an array legs sweeping past him in disorganised fashion. The absurdity of the image makes him want to laugh. An alternative world is vouchsafed to him simply by looking at things from near ground level. Then reality reasserts itself. The smile coming to his lips is halted as he dismisses the revelation as a childish whim. 
When he stands, the newly-discovered world is lost. His enemies are nowhere in sight, though they might be watching from a cloakroom window. He puts his hands in his pockets, affecting nonchalance, but he does not move from the place where Goddard told him to stay. 
* 
As Martin opens the front door, his mother is speaking on the telephone. Their eyes meet for a moment. He turns away, ostensibly to close the door. 
After taking off his coat he goes upstairs without speaking and without looking at her again. His bedroom door remains open as he takes off his shoes. His mother's voice reaches him. He examines the scuff marks where his enemies stepped on his heel. If his mother notices, she will complain that he does not look after his shoes. In the lounge of the house opposite, two girls are watching television. He knows them by sight. They have only to look up to see him spying on them. 
He turns off the light at the same moment as his mother finishes her telephone call. Silence engulfs the house and its occupants. Martin goes back to the window, watching the mute tableau being enacted across the road and imagining life as the girls’ brother. The hot air system switches on, breaking the stillness. He looks around the room at the deepening shadows and shivers though he is not cold. He wants to play the piano, but he feels self-conscious when his mother is there. His thoughts range over the records he might listen to. Nothing appeals to him. It irritates him that his record collection is so small. 
The sound of a car pulling up breaks his reverie. Too early for his father to come home. He glances outside. The man from the house opposite gets out of his car to open the garage door. Martin gazes past him, taking in all the houses as far as the curve in the road. They resemble boxes ranged across a lawn by a child. Though they are comfortable and modern, their anonymity depresses him. Sometimes he wishes that he lived in the older part of town. He imagines life there having a warmth and vitality such he has only read about. Families there are large and close-knit. He thinks of Smith's family being like that. 
The thought of Smith makes his stomach muscles tighten involuntarily, quelling all sensations of hunger. Once again he counts the days to the Christmas holidays. The record which he finally chooses is of orchestral works by Debussy. He lies in the darkness letting La Mer fill his mind. It transports him to another world, bringing a calmness which does not exist elsewhere in his life. He wishes the mood would stay for ever. 
* 
Dinner is normally at six-thirty, when the family are together. On this occasion it is seven-thirty when Martin and his mother begin eating. His mother jabs angrily at her food. Martin eats hungrily. He likes curry. His plate is almost empty by the time they hear the car pulling up on the runway. He glances at his mother as the front door opens. The lines in her face have hardened. There is certain to be an argument. 
'I know I'm late,' his father begins. 'I'm sorry.' 
'That makes everything all right, doesn't it?' 
'I had to take some clients for a drink.' 
'You could have rung.' 
'I tried to. The phone wasn't free.' 
'Not in two hours?' 
'There was always somebody using it.' 
'You couldn't have checked very often.' 
'Is there any sweet?' Martin intervenes. 
'Can you go and watch television, please?' his mother snaps. 
Obediently Martin leaves the kitchen, glad to be away from his parents if he cannot deflect them from an argument. He switches on the television in the lounge and kneels before the screen to turn the tuning dial. On one channel is a game show, on the other a comedy. He chooses the latter. The sounds do not completely blot out his parent's voices. 
'You know I have to work late.' His father is trying to sound reasonable. 
'I don't know when you're coming home, do I? Not unless you tell me.' 
'You can eat without me.' 
'We did.' 
'That's fine. I'm not complaining.' 
'It's not fine if I don't know whether to cook for you or not and the food's ruined.'
'I can always get something for myself.' 
'That doesn't help me if I don't know how many people to cook for.' 
'I've told you - I tried to ring.' There is exasperation in the voice. 
'Why couldn't you phone earlier, when you were at the office?' 
'Because I didn't think I'd be that long.' 
'Do you want your dinner or not?' 
'Yes.' 
'For all I know you might have eaten out.' 
'I told you where I've been - I took some clients for a drink.' 
'You might have had a meal at the same time.' 
'I might have done, but I didn't.' Exasperation has given way to exaggerated patience. 
'If the rice is cooked to a pulp, don't blame me.' 
'I'm not blaming anybody.' 
'And put some water in the saucepan afterwards.' 
'I'll wash up. Is that all right?' 
There is a moment of repose. As his father drains the rice, Martin turns back to the television, trying to concentrate on 'The Dick Emery Show' and knowing that if he turns the sound up any higher, his mother will complain. He hears her asking, 'Are you using the car tonight?' 
'Why?' His father sounds wary. 
'Can't I ask?' 
'I'm not using it.' 
'But you don't want me to use it?' 
'I never said that.' 
'It's what you meant. I'll fill up the tank, if that's what you're worried about.' 
'I wondered where you were going, that's all.' 
'Out.' 
'Obviously.' 
'Is it any business of yours?' 
'Apparently not.' 
'I'm going to see Celia. Is that all right?' 
'If you think it's worth it.' 
'What's that supposed to mean?' 
'It's going to be nine before you're ready.' 
'So?' 
'So it's leaving it a bit late, that's all.' 
'I'll see my friends when I like without asking you.' 
'All right. I'm not stopping you.' 
'And if I'm late, that's your fault.' Martin turns up the sound and stays close to the set, keeping his eyes on the screen as his mother storms upstairs. Five minutes later she returns. She is wearing outdoor clothes. 
'Not quite nine o'clock, is it?' she calls triumphantly as she leaves, banging the door. 
Martin goes back to the kitchen. His father is still eating. 
'I wanted a glass of water,' he explains as his father looks up. 
'How's school?' 
'All right.' They wait like two strangers, unsure whether to look at each other, the sound from the television concealing their silence. Martin turns to the sink. He carries the glass of water carefully back to the lounge without looking at his father again.

chapter 2

Three weeks to Christmas. In the record department, the Saturday crowds make it difficult to get near the racks of sleeves.
The girl's voice first attracts Martin's attention. As she talks to her mother, it seems to cut through the surrounding conversations. Prefects have the same imperious tone. When he glances surreptitiously at her, he is struck by the luminosity her appearance. Her pale skin is without the spots and moles which disfigure other girls. Her green eyes are penetrating. Difficult to imagine her being uncertain or afraid. Except for a few strands curling around her face, her hair is tied back, giving her a severe look. He wonders whether its reddish tint is a trick of the light. As she flicks through the contents of the rack, her face betrays no feelings. He enjoys her impassiveness and the way she lifts her little finger as she pauses to study a record sleeve.
'What do you think I should get?' she asks her mother. 'I'm not sure what music he likes.'
'I shouldn't get anything too unusual,' her mother cautions.
'I wasn't going to.' She turns over a sleeve to read the notes, but she lets it fall back before Martin can see what she has chosen. 'Never let me come in a record shop - I always want to buy masses of records.'
'You know how much money you've got to spare. You can buy yourself a record if you want.'
'That's what I'm saying - I always get tempted to buy more than I can afford.'
'Perhaps I ought to look after your purse.'
'You're worse than I am.'
'What are you talking about?'
'When you were buying shoes.'
'That's different. You know what my feet are like.' 
'Difficult.' She begins flicking through the contents of the next rack. 'I'm not sure whether it's a good idea getting him a record at all. I don't know what he likes.'
Martin is close enough to smell her scent. To his disappointment, she is looking at records of film music. He comforts himself with the thought that as she is buying a record as a present, her own taste might be entirely different. 
'What do you think of this?' She shows a sleeve to her mother. 
'Is it the sort of thing he likes?' 
'I think so.' 
'You’re sure he hasn’t already got it?' 
'I don't know.' 
'That's a great help.' The girl puts back the sleeve and flicks idly through the rest of the rack, undecided. Martin basks in her closeness. Her presence encompasses him, involving him in her choice of present as much as if he knows her. He feels like a child in the presence of a woman, though the difference in their ages can be no more than two years. Envy of her self-assurance vies with wonder at the way she treats her mother as an equal. It was at Christmas two years ago when he last went out with his mother and even then he felt awkward in her company. 
'If he doesn't like it, they'll probably change it,' her mother points out. 
'They won't change it unless there's something wrong with it.' 
'I know somebody who changed a record because she didn't like it.' 
'You would,' the girl says scornfully, turning away from the record racks. As she moves on, Martin follows, unwilling to accept that the magic of the encounter is over. At the cosmetics counter, he watches from behind a display of handbags as the girl dabs perfumes on the back of her hand and sniffs, holding her hand out to her mother to smell. Other girls jostle him, their scents, their voices and their closeness creating in him a heady mix of emotions which threaten to engulf him. He tries to draw his thoughts back to the reasons for his pursuit, but they are no longer clear. His actions have no logic. His temerity in following a stranger makes him panic. He plunges towards the doors, not heeding the comments which follow him as he knocks against people. Getting outside is the only thing that matters. 
* 
The house is in darkness. The familiar smell of polished wood greets Martin. He switches on the light, looking as a stranger might at the open plan lounge. In its anonymity it could belong in a furniture showroom, but for the presence of the piano. The warmth relaxes him. With his coat off he lies on the floor, savouring the pervasive smell of the carpet and letting the stillness envelop him. By twisting his head sideways he can see the darkness outside the front windows and at the head of the stairs. On a sudden fancy he flails the air with his limbs, wailing in a falsetto voice like a baby - until he realises that anybody who is passing might see. Then he is still again - and vulnerable. Tiny noises impinge: the timer ticking, the creaking heating ducts and the hum of the refrigerator. The familiar sounds bring him back to reality. He rises stiffly as if from sleep and dusts his clothes automatically, suddenly self-conscious lest anybody should be watching from outside. Drawing the curtains brings safety - and a feeling of anticlimax. The events in the store seem distant, as though they are the experiences of another person. Some aberration made him take an interest in a girl whom he did not know. He vows never to put himself in such a position again. 
The first moment of sitting at the piano always generates anticipation. He remembers when his father bought it as a Christmas present: the most expensive present of Martin's life and he did not know how to show his thanks. What he wanted was to be left alone to play. Instead, he picked out a tune to please his father. For the rest of the day he stayed close to the piano, stroking the keys when he could not play it and seeing his reflection in the polished wood. In those days, he was unaware of the inadequacies of a mini piano. Later, he could hardly admit to himself that the old upright which was scrapped might have been better. Sometimes he wonders why his father bought him a new piano - to encourage him, or to replace the old one with a model more suited to a new house? 
The quirky rhythms of Chopin fascinate Martin. It is music which obeys none of the rules. The variety of moods possible within a simple dance form like the mazurka seems endless, yet there is no monotony. He opens the volume at random and begins playing hesitantly, grappling with the strange rhythms and repeating phrases again and again with differing emphases. The sound patterns obsess him, driving weekday problems from his mind. 
The sound of the front door opening startles him. 
'You don't have to stop playing,' his father says. 
'When are we eating?' 
'I don't know. Isn't your mother in?' 
Martin shakes his head. 
'I suppose we'd better wait.' As Martin looks down at the keyboard, his father adds, 'I meant to be back an hour ago, then I bumped into some of the Round Table crowd at the gulf club and got talking.' 
'It doesn't matter.' 
'Are you very hungry?' 
'No.' 
'You can carry on playing. I'm going to have a bath.' 
Martin watches his father going upstairs. He waits till the water is running. There are steps in the bedroom overhead as his father changes his clothes. Only then does the boy begin playing again, but the rhythms of Chopin elude him. He plays softly, safely, conscious of how music isolates him from his parents in a way they do not realise. To them, it is a pastime. Schubert's melodies are heartbreaking in their simplicity, yet here too he plays mechanically, concerned with nothing more than impressing the pattern of notes on his memory. His hopes his parents will be out for the evening. If they are, he will have a proper practice.
Before he had his own record player, his mother gave him a record of Tchaikovsky orchestral works. That was his first record. 'Romeo and Juliet' was the piece he enjoyed most. He listened to it again and again on the radiogram until his father begged him to stop. The richly-scored music was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It revealed a world of emotional extremes which he never knew existed. As the final chords died away, he felt transformed. The feelings disturbed him, yet something compelled him to enter deeper into their strangeness. 
As he came to know more music, Tchaikovsky's tone poem lost some of its magic. Melodies which had once moved him came to seem banal. That was when he began exploring Mozart and Beethoven. His first hearing of the Emperor concerto made little impact; later it came to seem the finest concerto ever written - a cathedral in music, open to endless exploration. 
Schubert is his current fascination. If he were only able to play the music of one composer, he would choose Schubert. His hope is that his mother will buy him records of Schubert's chamber or instrumental music for Christmas; or better still give him the money so that he can select records of the best performances. 
'Don't stop.' His father puts on his tie as he comes downstairs. He has changed into a suit. 
'I'd finished anyway.' 
Martin goes upstairs. The scent of soap suffuses the landing. Concealed by the darkness of his bedroom he looks out the window from force of habit, hoping to glimpse the girls in the house opposite going about their lives, but their curtains are drawn. He flops on his bed to listen to the concert on his transistor radio. Elgar's cello concerto played by Fournier. Martin recognises an old man's music, suffused with yearning. He never ceases to marvel at how music can carry feelings across the years, transcending even the grave. As in Falstaff, the mood is broken by recollections of youth, but the melancholy always returns. Those moments of nostalgia always touch him, reminding him of shafts of light breaking through dark clouds. The threads of melody seem to guide him towards his future, not in any precise way, but as a revelation of how he might one day look back on his own life. What emotions will his youth conjure? His one ambition is to go to music college. It is the only thing which makes school tolerable. 
Light from the landing glances across the bed as his father opens the door. Martin sits up, startled. 
'Sorry to interrupt you. Are you sure your mother didn't say anything or leave a note?' 
'Quite sure.' 
'And you've no idea where she's gone?' 
'No.' 
Father and son look at each other, unused to having a shared concern. 
'Usually when she's going out for the evening, she leaves a note.' 
Martin is silent. 
'I'll have to ring her friends - see whether she's gone to one of them.' The door closes. Darkness returns, but the spell is broken. However much Martin tries to concentrate on the music, his thoughts turn elsewhere. His father's concern is impressed on his mind. As the applause begins, he switches off the radio. In the ensuing stillness, he can hear his father speaking on the phone. Later, when he is listening to Beethoven's seventh symphony in the second part of the concert, the bedroom door opens again. He turns down the radio. 
'She's gone to see Jenny,' his father announces. 'She didn't leave a note.' 
'I said she didn't.' 
'She's going to stay over there tonight. She could have said something.' 
Martin can feel the roughness of the tuning knob against his finger. 
'Would you mind being on your own this evening?' his father asks. 'I've arranged to go out. I didn't know your mother wasn't going to be here.' 
'I'll be all right.' 
'I should be back by eleven. I'll try not to make too much noise in case you're asleep.' 
'I don't suppose I will be.' 
'If there are any problems, you can ring your mother at Jenny's. Or I'll be at the Conservative Club. Not that anything should crop up. Anyway, I'll get you listen to your music.' 
As the door closes, Martin turns volume knob. The music conceals the sound of his father going downstairs. When he hears the car being started, he knows that he is really alone and that the evening is his. That helps him to relax. 
At the end of the concert, he switches off the radio. The silence is unnatural. After a few moments he slides off the bed again and ventures out to the landing. In his stockinged feet, he goes into to his mother's room. The scents of her cosmetics hang in the air. He almost expects to hear her voice, but when he switches on the light, the room is silent and empty. He rarely goes in there now - the sense of intruding upon her privacy is not easily dismissed. He kneels before the dressing table, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. His past is in the bottom drawer: school reports which he still cannot bear to read even when he is alone and drawings from his early school years with captions in ragged capitals. The animals in the drawings are strange, elongated creatures with stick legs and misshapen faces. Beneath the drawings are photographs. These are the mementoes he dislikes most. They remind him of a time when he had little self-awareness. The baby who laughs at the camera could be anybody - he can distance himself from the image - but the little boy in the later pictures is different. Was life really so carefree? The emotions of those years are already beyond recall. He longs to destroy the symbols of his past, but then his mother would know that he has been prying. Instead he puts everything back as he found it and stands. 
His Christmas presents might be in the wardrobe, but he does not have the temerity to look. Apprehension makes him turn off the light hurriedly and go back to the landing. It is pleasant to prowl through the silent house with familiar things around him, while darkness keeps the rest of the world at bay. The lights are on downstairs. From the head of the stairs he looks down on a lounge which could be a stage set awaiting the entrance of actors. His music lies open on the piano. He descends slowly - the performer going on to the platform as his audience applauds. When he goes to music college, he hopes that the dream will be translated into reality. It will be an interesting experience to play to a large audience. He wonders how nerves will affect him. 
* 
It is midnight when the car pulls onto the driveway. Martin continues reading until his bedroom door opens quietly a few minutes later. 
'I saw your light on.' His father speaks softly, as though there is somebody else in the house he might waken. 
'I was waiting for you.' 
'I meant to be home before this.' 
'It doesn't matter.' 
'I thought you'd be asleep.' 
'I was just finishing.' Martin closes the book. 
'Everything all right?' 
'Yes.' 
'No phone calls?' 
'No.' 
'I'm sorry you've had to be on your own. One day when your mum's away, we'll go out together - have a day at the seaside.' 
It is an oft-repeated promise. Martin nods, knowing that the outing will never take place. Words are all that his father offers. 
* 
Sunday lunch. The smell of cooking pervades the house. Though Martin dislikes the Sunday ritual, the food is better than at school and his mother does not mind if he leaves some on his plate. She often leaves some herself. He sits at the table in the dining area, watching as she busies herself at the cooker. She did not get home until after his father had left for the golf club. She was in a bad mood, so Martin retreated to his room to listen to records.
The routine hardly varies. His mother cuts thin slices of beef, from which he scrapes the gravy. At least the meat is always lean. The baked potatoes are crunchy. The mashed potatoes do not have the watery taste of the potatoes at school, though they are lumpy unless his father mashes them. As at school, what Martin likes most is the sweet. It is usually a pie or a tart. 
He is relieved to hear his father’s car - at least his father has not provoked an argument by being late. But Martin cannot help being apprehensive when his parents are together. This occasion is no exception. They scarcely acknowledge each other. At the table, his father immerses himself in the newspaper. 
'Do you have to spread that thing everywhere?' his mother complains. 
'I might as well read while I'm waiting.' 
'Do you expect lunch to be ready the moment you decide to come in?' 
'No - that's why I'm reading the paper till it's ready.' 
'It's ready now.' 
His father shifts his paper off the table and continues reading. Martin watches his mother and hopes there will not be another row. He wishes they could have chicken on Sunday. Several times he has looked for the right moment to broach the topic. 
As his mother put the food on the table, his father folds the newspaper and drops it on the floor. Nothing is said. Martin begins to relax. It is not until they have been eating for several minutes that his mother announces, 'Jenny and Peter have invited us for the weekend.' 
'When?' His father looks up.
'I've just told you - next weekend.' 
'You didn't say which weekend.' 
'I thought that was obvious.' 
'Not to me.' 
'I take it you don't want to go?' 
'It’s a bit short notice.' 
'Jenny only invited us last night.' 
'I gathered that.' 
'You're always complaining that you need a break.' 
'What about Martin? Is he coming?' 
Martin keeps his eyes fixed on his food, unwilling to confess that he would rather stay at home. He does not like staying in other people's houses and trying to adapt to their routines. 
'He can come if he wants to,' his mother says. 'Otherwise I thought I could leave him some food. He's old enough to heat up a pie and put some frozen vegetables with it.' 
'We just leave him to it?' 
She looks at Martin. 'What do you want to do?' 
'Stay here.' 
She glances triumphantly at her husband. 'He doesn't need a baby-sitter at his age.' 
'I don't like the idea.' 
'You mean you don't want to come?' 
'Not particularly.' 
'I don't know why I bothered to ask. Okay - I'll tell her we're not coming.' 
'You can go on your own. That's what you wanted in the first place.' 
'Jenny invited both of us.' 
'Tell her I can't make it. Tell her I’ve got a lot of work on.' 
'I don't suppose Jenny realised it was going to be so difficult for you.' 
'I don't know why you're so keen for me to go. They're your friends.' 
'Don't you like them?' 
'Not particularly.' 
'At least now we know.' 
Martin eats quickly. He is the first to finish. 
'Do you want any more vegetables?' his mother asks. 
Martin shakes his head. He wants to go upstairs where he can be away from his parents, but the smell of the sweet in the oven makes him hesitate. 
'Martin - I'm talking to you!' 
'Can I get myself some sweet?' 
'When we've finished.' 
Martin swings his legs as he waits. 
'Stop tapping your foot against the chair, please, Martin. Why don't you act your age?' 
He becomes still, watching his parents as they eat. His thoughts drift to the evening and what is on the radio. He considers looking in the Radio Times while he is waiting, but he does not want to antagonise his mother any further by getting up. Instead he stares at the photograph on the wall behind his father, speculating as he has done many times before what it would be like to tramp across the Swiss landscape. 
When his parents finish eating, he helps his mother to clear away the plates and dishes, watching as she cuts the apple and apricot pie. It has flaky pastry, which diminishes the pleasure of pushing his spoon cleanly through the crust. 
His appetite revives as he carries his dish to the table. The first mouthful makes him draw breath. His mother glares at him. 
'You knew it was hot - you saw me take it out the oven.' 
He lifts the piecrust, watching the steam rise. Usually he dislikes doing that - the contents of the pie never look so attractive when they are exposed. It is like opening up a body. At least the custard is cooler. He contents himself with spooning it up, along with flakes of pastry, until the contents of the pie have cooled. One good thing about eating at home - there is no problem about getting a second helping. 
Afterwards, father and son do the washing up. Martin hates cleaning greasy plates, so he is glad to be given the drying. When they have finished, he goes upstairs, leaving his parents to read the papers. As he lies on his bed he tries to make sense of his mother's irritation. The food lies heavily in his stomach. From his prone position, the relentless movement of the clouds is the only thing visible through the window. The sight hypnotises him, fleetingly overcoming other preoccupations. The coming day already looms menacingly in his thoughts. He does not want to be different from other boys, but all his experiences at school show that he is. The rest of his class look forward to games lessons; nobody else prefers to read during morning break, or enjoys music lessons. He suspects that his home life is not ordinary. Once he watched infants leaving school, running to their mothers who were waiting by the gate. He saw their mothers embracing them and kissing them. Thinking back to his own first days at school, he could not remember behaving like that. 
The roar of a motorcycle jolts him from his reverie. The use of the road by motorcyclists is a recurring source of annoyance to his parents and to other residents. The police have been called several times, but there is little they can do. His eyes drift from the window to take in the plainness of the room. Sometimes he longs to paint the walls and ceiling in bright, contrasting colours and to have spotlights pointing at the ceiling, but his parents would not allow it. He wonders what his enemies' bedrooms is like. Jackson lives in a detached house on the new estate beyond the main road. His room will be like Martin's - tidy and expensively furnished. By contrast, Smith's bedroom will be nondescript in keeping with his appearance - small and untidy. It will be littered with sweet wrappers, for Smith is always eating. Something of Goddard's life is already known to him, for the third member of the trio lives on the council estate which is on the route to school. Martin has seen Goddard’s house. It looks well cared for. When they see each other in the mornings, Martin pretends not to notice his enemy. Goddard has a passion for racing cars. His room will be cluttered with toy cars. Pinned to the walls will be photographs torn from magazines - photographs of racing cars - 
The sounds of an argument come from downstairs. Martin strains to hear the words, but they are drowned by the roar of the motorcycle on its return journey. He puts his hands over his ears. 
* 
Apart from a woman exercising two Labradors, Martin is alone on the playing field. He walks carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. An unbroken expanse of sky dominates the park, diminishing the surrounding trees and houses to insignificance. Nowhere else in town is there a similar illusion of openness. Even on the school playing fields, the buildings are close enough to dominate the sky. 
A well-pruned thorn hedge surrounds the field on three sides. Martin heads for the shrubbery on the fourth side, which screens the pitches from the rest of the park. After the openness of the playing field, he likes the path through the laurel and privet bushes with its feeling of seclusion. From its shelter he pauses to listen to the sounds of the park - the cries of pheasants in their pens, the shouting of children and the regular thud of balls from the tennis courts. A blackbird hops in front of him across the path, as though he is invisible. That pleases him. He remains motionless until it disappears amongst the bushes. 
The path leads to the lake. The concrete at the waterline has crumbled; water laps the muddy hollows. A plank of wood bobs on the miniature waves. The children who trail toy yachts on string from the walkway have gone. The men with model boats are packing them away. The lake is a desolate place, forsaken even by the ducks. Martin's spirits drop as he contemplates the coming Monday. In a few hours, he will be facing his enemies. Once again he counts the days to the school holidays. They pass with painful slowness. The day when he finally leaves school is so impossibly distant that it remains little more than a mirage. When it comes, it will have to be celebrated. He is not sure how - perhaps by going to a concert in London. Sometimes he likes to dream of the ideal programme. There will be a piano concerto - it must be the Emperor - with Rubenstein as soloist, Brahms' Academic Festival overture and as a symphony the second Sibelius. 
The boy in his class whom he envies most has asthma and is away from school more than anybody else. Martin is hardly ever sick. He has thought of pretending to be ill, but his mother will not believe him. 
A boy calls. Martin listens, startled, fearing that the nightmare of encountering his enemies at the weekend has come true, but two boys he does not know running towards the gates. His body relaxes. In the peace of the park, his thoughts often turn to the future. Images crowd upon him so easily that they threaten to overwhelm him. The Christmas holidays and what he will do in those weeks away from school are his immediate preoccupation. In his more ambitious flights of fancy he imagines being a famous pianist, in demand with the world's greatest orchestras, but he knows that this is a dream. Sometimes he toys with the idea of leaving school before his O-levels, but even if his parents agreed, he knows that doing such a thing would lose him all chance of a place at music college. What is more important - his career or being away from his enemies?
Dusk is coming. The park is emptying. Martin watches the trees turning to silhouettes and wishes the tranquillity would last for ever. The peace is broken by the ringing of the handbell which marks the closing of the gates. He wants to stay in the park, hidden in the shrubbery, safe in the darkness, but he is afraid. A mongrel emerges from the bushes and bounds towards him, barking. He does not like dogs. His instinct is to flee, but he feels ashamed of running from a small dog. Instead he turns his back on it and forces himself to walk slowly away.

chapter 3

The experience of being enveloped by the warmth of the cloakroom is the only consolation about arriving at school. Martin lingers there for as long as he dare after taking off his coat. Some prefects are zealous in turning people out; others do not bother. The smell from the PE mats stored in the wire cage reminds him of the smell of the carpets at home. If he stays in the cloakroom long enough, the dryness makes his throat sore, but that is a small price to pay. The coats partially hide him. Unless his enemies come looking for him, he can remain unobserved.
Gangs meet in the cloakrooms. Though Martin tries to avoid them, at least the presence of other boys makes him less conspicuous. The risk is that if they draw attention to themselves, prefects will make everybody go outside. When that happens, he mingles with the boys congregating beneath the footbridge to the school entrance. It is out of sight of the playground. His enemies have to seek him out.
He presses against the coats, watching older boys copying each other's homework. Their voices flow meaninglessly around him as the familiar fear takes hold. He searches for the state of peace deep inside him, where nothing can affect him and there is no hurt. He is immobile, concentrating, but the world which he seeks eludes him. He cannot even be sure that it exists outside his imagination - when he tries to cling to it, it becomes a chimera. Meanwhile, the real world remains unchanging... 
He shakes himself free from his dreams, aware that a boy he does not know is staring at him. He hopes that he has not acquired another enemy.
When the whistle blows, Martin is one of the first to file into the hall. As his enemies are usually amongst the last to come into assembly, it is easy to evade them. This is his respite. He does not enjoy singing hymns, but at least several teachers are always on duty. 
In the classroom, Martin can no longer hope to avoid the confrontation. The critical moment is before his form teacher, Mr Jarvis, appears. The room has the transitory strangeness which comes to him after from two days in different surroundings. The blackboard is clean. Shoes squeak on the parquet flooring which gives off the smell of polish. The babble of conversation rises. Martin resolutely avoids looking at his enemies. His heart pounds as from the corner of his eye he sees Jackson sauntering towards him.
'Hello, Barron.'
Pretending he has not heard.
Jackson leans over the desk. He is chewing bubblegum. A pink bubble expands from his mouth and bursts in Martin’s face. 'I'm talking to you, Barron.'
Martin looks up, feigning surprise.
'Did you have a good weekend?' his tormentor enquires. 
'Yes.' 
'What did you do?' 
Smith and Goddard have ranged themselves on either side of their leader. Martin hesitates before muttering that he did nothing much. 
'What was it? Don't you want to tell us?' Jackson persists. 
'Why should I?' Martin feels his stomach going hard as he utters the words. He prays for Mr Jarvis to come. 
'Because we asked,' Smith says. 'Because we're being polite.' 
'We're being solicitous,' Jackson agrees. 'Do you know what that means?'
'Yes.' 
'What?' 
'Taking an interest.' 
'So what did you do?' 
'I went to the shops.' 
'You went to the shops. What shops?' 
'In the High Street.' 
'You went to the shops in the High Street. You liked that, did you?' 
'Yes.' 
'Got a thrill out of it, did you?' 
'Not really a thrill.'
‘What gives you a thrill?’
Martin is silent.  
‘Does wanking give you a thrill?’ Smith wants to know. ‘Is that what you like?’
Still not replying. His face reddening.
 'Sounds pretty dull - going round the shops,’ Jackson decides. ‘Aren't you going to ask us whether we enjoyed our weekend?' 
Martin looks at the grinning faces. 
'Ask us,' Goddard urges. 
'Did you enjoy your weekend?' 
'Yes.' 
They wait as Martin glances towards the door. 
'Go on,' Jackson prompts. 
'What?' 
'Ask what we did.' 
The conversations of Martin's classmates swirl about him, numbing his senses, making him dizzy. He repeats dully, 'What did you do?' 
'I started my Christmas shopping on Saturday,' Goddard informs him. 'You done yours yet?' 
Martin shakes his head. 
'Better start soon then, hadn't you?' 
'What are you going to get us?' Jackson asks. 
Surely somebody must come to see what all the noise is about. 
'You are buying us presents, aren't you?' Jackson persists. 
'I don't know.' 
'What do you mean, you don't know?' 
'I don't know.' 
'That's what you just said.' 
'I know.' 
'You're talking shit, Barron.' 
'If you say so.' 
Goddard adds, 'You'd better decide what you're going to buy us for Christmas, if you want to be around to enjoy it.' 
'If you say so.' 
'Can't you say anything else?' 
'If you say so.' 
'Are you stupid, Barron?' 
'If you say so.' 
Goddard thrusts his face closer, so that Martin can smell his breath. 'You're stupid - you know that?' 
Martin draws back, unable to think of a reply. He prays that Mr Jarvis will arrive soon. Smith is grinning. 
'Do you go on like that at home?' Jackson asks. 
'Why shouldn't I?' 
'So every time your mum asks you something, you say stupid things?' 
'If I want to.' 
'What's your dad do?' Smith asks. 
'How do you mean?' 
'What's his job, stupid?' 
'He's an accountant,' Jackson answers. He turns to Martin. 'Isn't that right?'
'Yes.' 
'Mine works in insurance.' 
'I know.' 
'How do you know?' 
Martin tries to remember how he found out. 
'Have you been spying on me, Barron?' 
'No.' 
'You have. You've been following me home.' 
'I haven't.' 
'I saw you the other night.' 
'You couldn't have done.' 
'You mean you thought you were keeping out of sight?' 
'I wasn't following you.' 
'You're lying again, Barron.' 
'I'm not!' His voice has risen. 
'You are. You were watching my house. I saw you dodge behind the hedge.' 
'I didn't.' 
'We'll have a word with you at break. We don't like being spied on. And we don't like liars.' 
'I haven't been near your house.' 
'Then how do you know where it is?' 
Martin knows that he should say no more. 
'I'm talking to you, Barron. How do you know where my house is if you haven't followed me?' 
Looking down. His own initials are not amongst those carved in the desk.
'We'll find out in the end, so why don't you tell us now to save yourself trouble?' 
The conversations become muted. Mr Jarvis has arrived. Martin relaxes. 
'I'll see you later,' Jackson murmurs, moving away with his two companions.
'Can we have some silence please?' Mr Jarvis calls. He is one of the younger teachers. He rarely wears a suit and his tie is loosely knotted. Martin admires his offhand manner. 
The class grows quiet. Mr Jarvis looks pleased as he seats himself at his desk. Martin tries to ignore the thought of what might happen at the break. He waits with a growing sense of resignation as the register is called. His own response sounds unduly loud in the silent room. As he queues to pay his dinner money, he stares fixedly at the neck of the boy in front of him. The conversations resume at a lower level, but when he goes back to his desk he does not join in. Instead he studies the map of Britain on the wall, imagining where he might go to escape from his enemies. One morning he will be absent and nobody will know why. The thought pleases him, unlocking fragments of music which flit through his mind. He cannot concentrate on them - in the classroom there is little respite. 
The morning starts well. The first class is mathematics. Mr Stephens' room is only two doors along from that of Mr Jarvis, so there is little opportunity for Martin's enemies to make contact. Martin is good at maths, though it does not hold any great interest for him. Afterwards there is literature, which is one of his favourite subjects. The class is reading Sherlock Holmes stories. Some boys dismiss them as old-fashioned, but Martin loves the atmosphere of Victorian London. They make him want to visit the places mentioned, to see whether anything of the atmosphere of the stories can be recaptured. That is an additional reason why he longs to attend music college in London. 
At break, his enemies always take a few moments to get together; if Martin leaves quickly he is sometimes lucky enough to evade them. His hiding place beside the cycle sheds no longer offers sanctuary. Instead, after visiting the toilets, he waits by the footbridge to the entrance where the milk crates are left. His enemies will come out that way, but he is less likely to be noticed amongst the crowd of first and second year pupils getting milk. The presence of two prefects increases his sense of security. The morning is still cold. Prefects bang their hands together and stamp on the ground. Their breath comes in clouds of steam. Martin keeps his hands in his pockets. His satchel is wedged between his feet. From the safety of the melee of boys, he watches the doorway. When his enemies come out, they go down the steps to the toilets without noticing him. This should fill him with relief, but today he is more concerned with whether the churning in his stomach will be audible during the next class. 
Break passes without incident. Geography next lesson and the teacher is not there when the boys arrive. Martin takes his accustomed desk near the front. Smith stands beside him. 
'We didn't see you at break.' 
Martin remains silent. 
'Where were you?' Smith insists, pressing his knee into Martin's thigh. He looks away. Goddard and Jackson loom in front of him, but before they can do anything, the teacher breezes in. 
'Seats everybody, please.' 
Martin can feel at ease again, as far as his stomach will allow. At least it stays quiet for the lesson if he tenses his muscles, though the discomfort mars his usual enjoyment of the subject. Finding out about distant places fascinates him. He likes to imagine himself as an explorer hacking through jungle; or if the subject is something closer to home like the coalfields of Britain, he is a visitor from another planet, trying to make sense of homo sapiens who burrow underground. 
The next lesson is history. It is his favourite subject after music. Once again his imagination can range free. He watches life in a Norman keep from the smoke-filled shadows, or wanders through the streets of Elizabethan London as an invisible observer, recognising some of the calls of the street traders and wrinkling his nose at the smells. This term the class is studying the nineteenth century. The Great Reform Act of 1832 was a watershed. The teacher reads from Middlemarch and Pickwick Papers to demonstrate how novels give a feel of the atmosphere of the time. Martin intends to borrow both books from the library in the Christmas holidays, when he will have plenty of time for reading. 
His bowels churn as he makes his way to the hall at the end of the morning. It is a pity that he does not feel hungry, for dinner is one which he would normally enjoy - beefburger, chips and peas. His preoccupation makes him forget to seek out a table where there is only one spare seat and where the other boys are strangers. 
'Hello, Barron. We thought we'd keep you company.' 
He looks up. His enemies are grinning. His heart pounds when they sit opposite. The unease inside him worsens. 
'Do you like history?' Smith asks. 
Martin keeps his eyes on his food. 
'You're being talked to, Barron,' Jackson prompts. 
Martin hopes a prefect will notice. A pea lands on the back of his hand and rolls on the table. Another follows. 
'You'll get into trouble if a prefect sees all that food round your plate,' Goddard warns. 
'Do you like history?' Smith repeats. 
'Yes.' 
'If you're so clever, why didn't you pass the eleven plus?' 
Martin chews a mouthful of burger. It tastes greasy. He wishes he could spit it out. 
'I asked you a question,' Smith persists. 
'I don't know,' Martin mutters, pressing his fork into a chip. 
'Speak louder.' 
'I don't know.' 
'What don't you know?' 
Martin is silent. 
'What don't you know, Barron?' 
'We're talking to you, Barron,' Goddard joins in. 
'What he said.' 
'What are you talking about?' 
Martin tries to ignore his interrogators. His plate is jogged. 
'What don't you know, Barron?' Goddard asks. 
Martin shakes his head. 
'Barron.' 
His plate is pulled away. 
'Mind it doesn't go on the floor, Barron.' 
Martin stares at the table, willing that a teacher or prefect will see what is happening. 
'Your dinner's getting cold,' comes Jackson's voice. 
'What is it you don't know?' Goddard repeats. 
'Why I didn't pass the eleven plus.' The admission he never wanted to make, though has asked the question of himself again and again. He expected to go to grammar school. The letter revealing his failure devastated him. Even music could not compensate. His parents made no comment, though he knew that they were disappointed and that when he was in bed, they talked about what had gone wrong. He expected them to suggest that he attend a private school, but they let him go to the secondary modern. 
'Your dinner's getting cold, Barron,' Jackson reminds him, pushing the plate in front of him. Saliva glistens on the burger. Martin closes his eyes. 
'What's the matter?' Smith asks, grinning. 
Martin shakes his head, steeling himself for more taunts. Fortunately a teacher comes near. That changes everything. Jackson and his companions resume eating. Martin toys with the chips, trying to ignore the spasms in his gut. He counts silently, hoping that this will prove sufficient distraction. All desire for food has gone. Chocolate pudding is one of his favourite sweets, but today he only takes it because he does not want to provoke more questions from his enemies by leaving after the main course. He pushes a lump of pudding into the custard as he steels himself to eat. The rumbling from his bowels is so pronounced that his enemies must hear. His hand shakes as he tries to eat.
'What's the matter with you?' Jackson asks. 
'Nothing.' 
'Doesn't look like nothing.' 
Martin pretends to be untroubled. He tries to eat, but he cannot take more than two mouthfuls of pudding. When he gets up from the table and Jackson tells him to wait, he pays no attention. He walks slowly to the serving hatch with his dish, his satchel clutched in the other hand. Nothing is said about the uneaten food when he pushes the dish across the counter. Turning away, he heads for the doors without glancing at his enemies. His satchel is held tightly with both hands. The doors have never seemed so far away. 
Once outside he walks to the toilets as quickly as the spasms will allow. Now he does not notice the cold. Hoping, praying that everybody will still be in the hall. It is not often that he prays. 
Two images have haunted his schooldays. One was from his second year at infant school. At playtime, a classmate ran excitedly around the playground, telling all the boys to go to the toilets. Curiosity prompted Martin to follow the others. The cubicles were gloomy - they were the only section of the toilets which were roofed. Sometimes, to see what it was like, he ventured inside with boys who played there. They paid no attention to him. He remembers the three cubicles on either side. The cast-iron partitions were painted dark green like the doors.  The pans had wooden pads instead of seats. On this occasion boys were crowding around a cubicle with its door open. He had to stand on tiptoe to see inside. A boy from the first year sat on the toilet, his pants and trousers around his ankles. He stared ahead expressionlessly. Why the sight aroused such interest Martin hardly understood, though he was as fascinated as the rest of the onlookers. He asked one of the others why the boy using the toilet had not bolted the door and was told scornfully that there was no bolt. That was when one of the older boys appeared, forcing his way to the front of the spectators. He pulled the door closed, standing guard until the audience drifted away. If the others soon forgot, Martin did not. He had shared their fascination with vulnerability as he rarely shared anything. That was when he vowed never be the object of such interest. The memory came back to him with renewed vividness when he ventured into the toilets of his present school on his first day. Each cubicle door stopped halfway down the doorway. A boy was walking along the row, peering under each door. The indicators on the doors were superfluous.
Near the entrance to the toilets it becomes clear that his prayers have not been answered. Laughter comes from inside. Older boys congregate by the washbasins. Normally he sidles past them to get to the urinal backing onto the cubicles. This time he walks straight ahead, not looking at them and not hesitating until he is shielded by the cubicles. His heart is thumping. All the doors are open. The farthest toilet has no seat. He is closing the door of the adjoining cubicle before he notices that the bolt is missing. With increasing desperation he runs his hand along the door of the next two cubicles - no bolts again. The final one is too near the entrance. He goes back to the second and pushes the door closed. The scant privacy it affords is pushed to the back of his mind as he fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. As he sits, his satchel between his feet, laughter from the direction of the washbasins echoes between the galvanised panels. 
Relief follows the first wave of diarrhoea. A secret fear has been exorcised. He almost welcomes the nearness of other boys - for once he does not feel different. For the first time he notices that there is no paper. That makes him groan. 
The footsteps do not concern him until somebody stops outside the door. He glimpses the hem of a blazer above grey trousers. The shoes look familiar. Then Smith is looking under the door and calling, 'He's in here. He's on the bog.' 
Martin cannot look away. He wants to pray, but the words do not come. More legs appear outside the door. He tries to catch the muffled conversation, but his main concern is controlling the spasms in his bowel. When the door is pushed open to reveal his enemies, he remembers his own fascination all those years ago. 
'We thought you'd walked out on us, Barron,' Jackson says. 
'He comes here to toss himself off,' Goddard tells them.
'No - he's got the runs,' Smith diagnoses. 
'Which is it, Barron?' Jackson wants to know. 'Are you tossing yourself off or having a shit? You can still speak when sitting on the bog.' 
The watchers fall silent, waiting for an answer. Two boys from another class join the audience. They seem fascinated. The older boys by the washbasins continue talking, unconcerned. 
'He's having a shit,' Smith says. 'You can smell it.' 
'Does your mummy make you go every day?' Jackson asks. 'Do you have to tell her when you've been?' 
'He's waiting for her to come and wipe his arse,' Smith says excitedly. 'Look at him - know-all Barron the teacher's pet sitting on a bog and having a shit.' 
'He's starting to cry,' Goddard announces. 
Jackson points at the pool of water. 'You been pissing on the floor, Barron?'
Martin can no longer control the next wave of diarrhoea. Smith staggers back, holding his nose. Jackson smiles benignly, as though he is watching the antics of a naughty puppy. 
'What are you going to use for paper?' 
Martin does not answer. 
'Got anything in your satchel? Do you want us to look for you?' 
He clutches his satchel more tightly between his feet, but Smith snatches it away. Martin watches helplessly as his enemies go through his possessions. 
'No bog paper,' Goddard says. 'Do you want your jotter instead?' 
Martin misses the jotter pad as it is thrown to him. It falls in the water. 
'We'll keep these for you,' Jackson says, returning the books to the satchel. 'We'll see you when you've finished. We're going to get some fresh air.' 
Martin leans forward to pick up the pad as Jackson and Goddard drift away. Smith and the other two boys remain. Smith grins. 'You think you're so much better than everybody else, don't you, Barron? You ought to see yourself now.' He holds the door open as Martin tries to push it closed. The audience shows no sign of leaving as Martin tears off the used pages from the jotter. 'You'll get told off doing that. And you've got it all covered in piss. Look at it.' 
Martin cleans himself, watched with rapt attention by his audience. Inconsequentially he remembers that the boy he saw in infants school must have had no paper. Only when Martin has finished do the watchers move away. He bangs the door closed, knowing that he cannot leave yet.
Nobody takes any notice when he washes his hands. His legs are weak. Outside, he shivers in the November dampness. The pathway to the school entrance passes the window of the headmaster's study. Martin expects to be called back as he walks to the gates, but nobody pays any attention to him. No teachers are in the staff car park; no prefects are on duty at the gates. He walks quickly. His heart is pounding again. Too late to go back for his coat. Going home is out of the question, for his mother will want to know what has happened. The public library is warm, but the staff might ask why he is not at school. There is only one place left to go. 
The park is deserted. He lingers on the path through the shrubbery, remembering times when he was happy there. Beads of moisture cling to spiders' webs and the leaves of the evergreens. He becomes aware that his hands are shaking. He looks at them in amazement, unable to control them, recalling how animals quiver when they are frightened. Then memories of his humiliation overwhelm him. His whole body quivers. His eyes are squeezed closed, his nails press into his palms, but he cannot shut out the images. He vows never to go back to school. The sun has no warmth. He stares at the great pink orb shrouded in cloud, wishing that he were looking at it from somewhere far away. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets. The animals and birds shelter in sheds at the rear of the pens. Their smells, intensified by dampness, are inextricably linked with his childhood. Several times he walks past the pens, not wishing to cross the mud of the football pitches where anybody in the park will be able to see him. Once he walks around the tennis courts to use up time. Finally he ventures into the rose garden. It is somewhere new to him. Old people sit there in summer, admiring the display and enjoying the fragrance. In winter it is empty, the roses pruned to prickly stumps, the trellises bare. Huddled in the corner of the shelter he watches the sparrows searching for food and he wishes that he had gone to the library after all. 
When he gets home, he goes upstairs without speaking to his mother and falls on the bed. The security of familiar surroundings makes him feel better. Though he turns the radio on, he cannot concentrate. When his mother calls, he does not respond. Only when she opens the door can he no longer ignore her. It irritates him that she should come into his room uninvited. 
'What's the matter?' she asks. 
'Nothing.' 
'I was calling you.' 
Not answering. 
'Has something happened at school?' 
Shaking his head. 
'Do you want anything to eat?' 
'No thanks.' 
'Can you take your blazer off before you lie on your bed, please? I've told you before.' 
Wanting to be on his own, to listen to music for ever. 
'If you going to sulk, I'll leave you to it.' The door closes. His mother goes downstairs. Wait long enough and people will go away. 
* 
Martin wakens early the next morning. Images of the coming day flood his mind. Closing his eyes again does not blot them out. He stares at the opposite wall. As light steals into the room, he avoids looking at the alarm clock. His father gets up first. Martin listens to the hissing of the cistern, followed by the splashing of water in the bathroom as his father washes. Afterwards, the bathroom will reek of aftershave. His mother will use it later, obliterating the distinctive smell with her own fragrance. She likes a leisurely bath when Martin has gone to school, but he will not be going any more. A stair creaks as his father goes downstairs. Martin begins the daily ritual of counting the days to the end of term and the number of terms to the end of his school life; except that everything has changed. If he goes to the park or the library each day, he wonders how long it will be before his parents are informed. Nobody can make him go to school. Morning sounds reach him - his father filling the kettle for coffee, the paper being pushed through the letter box, his mother getting up. Outside, the chorus of birds reaches a crescendo. Only when his father leaves does Martin glance at the clock. Quarter to eight. His mother switches on the kitchen radio. Martin lies still, gripping the sheets, knowing that he is embarking upon something unknown. 
At eight o'clock his mother knocks on his door. 'Martin.' When he does not reply, the door opens. His mother comes to the bed. When she sees that he is awake, she hesitates. 'Time to get up, Martin.' 
'I'm not getting up.' 
'You'll be late for school.' 
'I'm not going.' 
'What do you mean - not going?' 
'I'm not going.' 
'Don't you feel well?' 
'No.' 
'What's the matter?' 
'I don't want to go.' 
'Have you got a pain?' 
'No.' 
'Do you feel sick?' 
'Yes.’
‘Do you want me to get the doctor?’ 
'You've got to go unless there's something wrong with you.' 
'I'm not going.' 
'If you don't get up soon, you'll be late.' Her tone is sharper as he stares stubbornly at the wall. 'All right.' She leaves without closing the door. 
As Martin stares at the clock, voices assail him - teachers, enemies, the headmaster whose tones are only known from morning assemblies and officials from the education department, all telling him he must go to school. At ten past eight, his mother calls up the stairs, 'You'll be late if you don't get up now,' but he does not answer. At twenty past she calls, 'If you want to be late, it's up to you.' 
* 
Martin arrives at school as the whistle is being blown and prefects are coming to the gates to take the names of latecomers. It is some consolation that he has avoided meeting his enemies in the playground. In the hall they are further along the row. They notice him, but they cannot get to him. Neither his form master nor the other boys say anything to him. It is as though his last-minute appearance has remained unnoticed. Not until he is on their way to the classroom do his enemies catch up with him. 
'What happened to you yesterday afternoon?' Jackson wants to know. 
'I wasn't well.' 
'He had the runs,' Smith says. 
'Was that it?' Jackson enquires. 
'Yes.' 
'Are you all right now?' 
'Yes, thanks.' 
'We gave your satchel to Mr Jarvis. We'll see you later.' 
Martin feels relieved that the encounter is so painless. 
* 
At break when Martin goes to the toilets, he shivers. The events of the previous day make him feel that he has grown up. He avoids walking past the cubicles. Outside again, he waits amongst the crowd of boys by the milk crates, taking advantage of the sense of security afforded by the presence of a teacher. It strikes him as unfair that the teacher is allowed to wear a coat. His thoughts return to music. If he can stay focused on it, the break does not seem so bad. He envies people who can learn music away from the piano. For him, memorising comes as a final stage, when the technical and interpretative problems have been overcome. He visualises the first page of Schubert's sonata in A op.120. He can hear the melody, but when he tries to focus on a particular bar, the picture becomes blurred. Instead, he tries to concentrate on the song-like aspects of the work. A musicologist claimed in a radio talk that all Schubert's works are really songs. This prompts Martin to approach each phrase as a singer might - 
The blast of the whistle comes as a surprise. Thoughts of music vanish. The end of break. The prospect of a double period of games makes his spirits sink. He hates the cold, the showers and the humiliation of always being left till last when the two captains choose teams. His classmates display an enthusiasm for games which he does not understand. The only consolation is that he plays football, while his enemies play rugby. 
Two classes come together for games. They wait outside the cloakroom which serves as a changing room. Martin shivers. Every week he wonders how he might avoid games. As the playground empties, he hopes that Mr Sinden will be delayed, but the teacher is already emerging from the main building clad in the blue track suit he always wears in winter. He takes PE as well. Martin cannot think of him as a proper teacher. 
The cloakroom doubles as a changing room. When the doors are opened, Martin makes for the far side, hoping that his enemies will not bother to seek him out. He changes as slowly as he dare to avoid having to wait outside. The concrete strikes cold through his socks. The communal changing room which disconcerted him so much at first worries him less now. 
Another teacher referees the rugby match: Mr Sinden stays with the football players. Martin remains near the goal. In two and a half terms of football, he has rarely kicked the ball more than once in each game. During the summer term athletics replaces football, giving him a respite from the ordeal of team games -
The ball comes in Martin's direction. When that happens, he usually contrives to get out the way. 
'Kick it, lad!' Mr Sinden shouts. 
Martin obeys, concerned only to get the ball as far away as possible. It soars high into the air, to fall at the feet of one of the opposing team. Jeers come from his own side. 
The bell rings for the end of the first period. It is the signal for half time on the football field. Martin stays on the edge of the field as the rival teams separate to discuss tactics. He rubs his hands together to keep warm. Half a games lesson less until the end of term. Each week he counts the number of games lessons and PE lessons remaining. When the classroom windows were open in summer, he heard Mr Morrison playing the piano. How much more civilised is listening to music than running about a muddy field. 
'Let's get back,' Mr Sinden calls. Obediently, Martin takes up a place near the goal. He has never worked out what the positions on the football field are called. Unusually, the ball comes near him again in the second half. He backs away. Other members of his team shout at him, but before he can decide what to do, one of the opposing team kicks the ball into the goal. 
'Why didn't you take it away from him?' Mr Sinden shouts, but Martin pretends that he has not heard. 
When the final whistle blows, Martin jogs back to the changing room with the leaders. If he is lucky, he can have his shower before the rugby players return. On this occasion they have got back first, though he does not see his enemies immediately. Some boys are covered in mud. Martin has none on him, but Mr Sinden insists that everybody has a shower. 
It is by the shower entrance that Martin encounters his enemies. Goddard flicks him with a towel. 'What are you flinching for?' 
'Did you enjoy football?' Jackson asks. 
Martin does not answer. 
'Have you gone deaf, Barron? Did you enjoy yourself?' 
'No.' 
'Why not?' 
'I don't like football.' 
'Why don't you try rugby? Ask Mr Sinden to let you change.' 
'I don't want to.' 
'What do you mean? You don't want to ask Mr Sinden, or you don't want to try rugby?' 
'I don't want to try rugby.' 
'Have you played it before?' 
'No.' 
'Then how do you know you don't like it?' 
Martin stays silent. 
'I asked you a question, Barron.' 
'I don't know.' 
Goddard flicks him again with the towel. 
'He doesn't know,' Smith mimics. 
'Is it because you're scared of getting tackled?' Jackson persists. 
'Would you like us to show you how to play?' Goddard asks. 
'No.' 
'Didn't your mummy teach you to say thank you when somebody offers you something?' 
'No, thank you.' 
'We can show you in the playground after dinner.' 
'When he's had his shit,' Smith puts in. 
'Is it because you don't want to get dirty?' Jackson asks. 
'He's afraid his mummy's going to tell him off for getting mud on his football clothes,' Smith jeers. 
'Is that the reason?' Jackson wants to know. 
'No.' 
'Then why not try rugby?' 
'I'm all right as I am.' 
'You said you don't like football.' 
'I'm all right,' Martin insists, wishing that Mr Sinden would appear. 
'Rugby's good fun,' Goddard urges. 
'Better have your shower before Mr Sinden sees you,' Jackson prompts. 'Take your towel off then.' 
Martin is glad of the excuse to get away from his enemies. He turns his back on them, dropping the towel by the screen as he runs into the shower. 
'We turned it on cold specially for you,' Goddard calls. 
'Don't shit in there, Barron,' comes Smith's voice. 'We want to come and watch again after dinner.' 
When Martin was first told to bring a towel, he assumed that there would be individual shower stalls. His disillusion was another of those images school has seared in his memory - taking off his clothes alongside the others for the first time and running with them through the shower. Nobody else appeared embarrassed. 
Showering worries him less than it did at first, though he still does not like it. At least the water is warmer than it sometimes is after PE. He runs through quickly. When he gets out, his enemies have gone - but so has his towel. He searches frantically amongst the nearby clothes. 
'Watch it,' one of the other boys says, snatching a towel away. 
Martin runs naked across the changing room amongst boys who are dressing, wishing, wishing that he had not left his clothes in the farthest corner. 
'There's Barron showing off his body again,' Smith jeers. 
'Put your clothes on, Barron.' 
Reaching his clothes. Behind him is a trail of damp footprints on the smooth concrete. His trousers are missing. Nobody shows any concern. Awkwardly he dries himself on his football shirt. His vest and pants cling to his skin. It is only when he has struggled into his shirt that Goddard and Smith approach him. Smith is grinning. 
'We found this,' he announces, producing a towel from behind his back. 'We wondered if it was yours.' He pulls it away as Martin reaches out. 'Don't snatch.' 
The towel drops to the floor. Martin picks it up. 
'Aren't you going to thank us for finding it?' Goddard asks. 
Martin sits on the bench below the coat hooks to dry his feet. He does not reply. 
'Why don't you put your trousers on?' Smith asks. 
'Where are they?' 
'How should we know? Have you lost them?' 
Martin remains silent. 'You never answer anybody,' Goddard complains.
'There's a pair of trousers in the showers.' Smith says. 'I don't know if they're yours.' 
Martin puts on his shoes. He stuffs his belongings into the satchel and takes it with him to the shower. The water is still running. His trousers lie halfway along the passage. To venture into the shower with his clothes on, or to risk Mr Sinden's wrath by turning the water off? Watched by his enemies he turns off the first of the three valves, which allows him to dart into the passage and retrieve his trousers without getting too wet. Afterwards, he turns the water on again. Thankfully, Mr Sinden does not appear. 
'Are you going to wear them?' Smith asks. 
Martin puts down the rest of his clothes. He struggles into his trousers. Smith laughs. 
'You look as if you've wet yourself.' 
'You put them in the shower.' 
'Who says? You must have dropped them.' 
Martin shoulders his satchel and goes outside. Wetness makes his legs cold.
Dinner is macaroni cheese with peas and mashed potato. Martin likes having no meat to worry about. His enemies saunter into the hall as he turns from the hatch. He takes his plate to a table where the first year boys sit and where there is safety. He eats hungrily. 
'Barron,' comes Goddard's voice. Martin’s stomach tightens. He looks round. His enemies sit at the table behind him. 
'There's a spare seat here,' Jackson calls. 'Come and sit with us.' 
Martin turns back to his food. A pea lands on the back of his neck, another in his hair. 
'Have your trousers dried out, Barron?' Smith asks. 
The boys around Martin are grinning. For the thousandth time he wonders how long his ordeal must continue.

chapter 4

The Christmas holidays. Martin loves carols and the way the spirit of Christmas permeates every aspect of life. There is a different atmosphere at school in those final days before the end of term. The last morning is taken up with a carol concert. It is enjoyable because he contrives to be away from his enemies.
The stores in the high street are magical with decoration. The sight of children crowding the toy department rekindles memories of his own excitement as he imagined what presents he would be given. The best moment was waking on Christmas morning and knowing that the presents from his parents would be outside the door. When he was very young, he ran into his parents' room to show them what Father Christmas had brought him. Later, he chose to be alone when he opened his presents. He did not know how excited he should be, nor how best to show his pleasure.
The house is different at Christmas. His mother always puts up decorations.  Martin still experiences a childish delight in watching the spirals of tinsel curling in eddies of warm air. Everyday concerns can be put to the back of his mind. Even his enemies no longer preoccupy him.
Buying presents demands much thought. On the days leading up to Christmas, he spends hours looking around the shops. The things he wants to buy are always out of his price range. This year he has bought his father a woollen tie and his mother a patterned headscarf. His parents will pretend to be pleased, yet he knows that the presents he bought in the past are tawdry and unsuitable. He is not sure what they will give him. His mother usually buys clothes, though when he was younger she often gave him books. Those were what he really liked. They are still in his bookcase, though now he reads adult books from the library. His father continued to buy him toys when he was too old for them, as though failing to notice that his son had grown up. Now he often gives Martin money instead of a proper present.
The friendliness of people at Christmas always touches Martin. Teachers become more human. Shop assistants wish customers a happy Christmas. Even postmen and dustmen are caught up in the mood of the season. One person he makes a point of remembering is his music teacher. He has remained with Mr Kelly since his first music lesson at the age of five. The old man is widowed and lives alone. On the piano is a yellowing photograph of him with his wife. At each lesson Martin is fascinated by those smiling faces captured on a holiday many years ago. It is difficult to visualise the stooped, white-haired figure with frayed cuffs and stained waistcoat as a young man. The furnishings in the music room can hardly have altered, though everything has become shabbier. Martin has become used to the clutter of scores, records and photographs, though the kitchen and bathroom he finds distasteful. They are dirty - he makes a point of declining offers of tea. Once a year the old man goes to see his daughter in Brighton. The visit means a lot to him. He talks about it for weeks afterwards.
Each year Martin buys Mr Kelly a present. This time he has bought a record of Janet Baker singing English songs. His teacher is particularly interested in singers. Shellac records of singers are stacked beside the piano. The old man often reminisces about the days when he played for an opera company. He is always pleased to be given a present. Martin suspects that he does not receive many. Few Christmas cards adorn the music room.
Music lessons are on Tuesdays. Martin looks forward to them. Even after so many years, he has not exhausted what Mr Kelly has to teach him. Such a store of wisdom fascinates him. He knows that he is fortunate in his choice of teacher. His marks in Associated Board examinations are always good, which pleases his parents. That is their only interest in his music.
Choosing a second instrument was a problem, but Mr Kelly stressed that to get into music college, playing the piano was not sufficient. After much thought Martin chose the clarinet. That was at the time when he started at secondary school. His next task was persuading his father to buy him an instrument and to pay for lessons. It took several weeks to pluck up the courage to ask. Fortunately his mother was on his side, which surprised him. He often wonders why she was so supportive. Perhaps she realised that he would not get into higher education any other way - his prowess in other subjects is unexceptional. Now he has a clarinet lesson every two weeks from a teacher recommended by Mr Kelly. They are not so enjoyable as piano lessons, but he likes exploring different repertoire. His clarinet teacher suggested playing in a chamber group, which is something he has never tried before. His dream is to play the Brahms clarinet quintet, but he knows that his technique is not good enough.
At Christmas there is the fun of smuggling gifts into the house and trying to surprise his mother as she wraps his presents. She always wraps them using expensive paper tied with coloured ribbon and with a bow on top. When he tries to emulate her, his parcels never look as neat. His hope is that she will give him a record token so that he can buy a recording of the Brahms quintet. When his mother buys records, she never considers the quality of the interpretation.
This year, the days leading up to Christmas are marred by his mother's annoyance. He keeps out of her way as much as possible to avoid irritating her more. In spite of going over his behaviour again and again in his mind he cannot see that he has done anything wrong.
'You're very quiet, Helen,' his father remarks at dinner.
Martin looks up, expecting some reply from his mother. Instead, her face remains impassive. He wonders whether it is only in his imagination that anger grows inside her.
'All right,' his father says mildly, turning back to his newspaper. Martin suspects that he only brings the paper to the table to avoid conversation.
An advantage of the clarinet is that Martin can practise in his bedroom. This evening, he is more relieved than usual to be away from his parents. He longs to tell them that they are not behaving as though it is Christmas, but he does not want to become embroiled in their squabbling.
The atmosphere unsettles him more than he imagines, making him stop his practice, which is something he rarely does. He tries to read until the recital on the radio is due to begin, but he cannot concentrate. Downstairs, his parents are talking. These days they eat together less frequently; when they do, they rarely stay together at the table afterwards. He puts the book aside and goes to the door. Even with his ear against the panel, he cannot hear what his parents are saying. It seems important that he should. He opens the door quietly.
'Don't you think it's time we sorted things out?' his mother is saying.
'I think we've done enough talking,' comes his father's resigned voice.
'We leave it again, is that it?'
'All I'm saying is I've been working. When I come home, I want a rest, not an argument.'
'I'm not arguing.'
'That's what it sounded like.'
'I want to sort things out.'
'What things?'
'You don't listen, do you?'
'I'm still not sure what you're talking about.' 
'I'm talking about us. Is that plain enough?' 
'Can we leave it? Please.' 
Martin can imagine his father trying to read the paper in the face of his mother's irritation. He hears her saying, 'We can't go on like this.' When there is no reply, she continues, 'I want us to have a separation and then think about a divorce.' 
Martin closes his eyes, pressing his face against the edge of the door till the pressure is painful. He hears the note of caution as his father asks, 'Why have you brought this up now?' 
'I should have thought that was obvious.' 
'Not to me.' 
'You should start living in the real world.' 
'What's that supposed to mean?' 
'Forget it.' 
'You start talking about divorce and living in the real world, then in the next breath you say forget it.' 
'One thing I don't like is being ignored.' 
'And I'm ignoring you, is that it?' 
'You shouldn't need to ask.' 
'I think you ought to see a doctor. I'm serious.' 
'You don't realise you're doing it. That's what I mean - you're living in another world.' 
'You are.' 
'You're so short-tempered these days.' 
'If I am, it's because I've had a long day, I've got a headache and I want a rest, not an argument.' 
'Pity you didn't come home earlier in that case.' 
'You never stint yourself when it comes to spending money.' His father's voice is more animated. 'That's fine, but if I'm to earn enough for you to have the sort of lifestyle you want, that means working long hours and seeing clients in the evening. You don't like it when I bring work home, so what can I do?’ 
'So it's all my fault?' 
'I'm not saying that.' 
'I thought you were.' 
'The point I'm trying to make is that you can't have it both ways. I can come home earlier, but I won't earn so much, which means we have to economise.'
'You think I spend too much?' 
'Yes.' 
'As long as I know.' 
'There are plenty of things I'd like. I'd like Martin to go to a private school, but I realise we can't afford it.' 
Martin opens his eyes. The light from the lounge illuminates the landing. He wants to cry out that things can be different, but he says nothing. 
'Getting you a car of your own cost enough,' his father complains. 
'It's only second hand.' 
'You see what I mean? I get you a car - you're still not satisfied.' 
'I didn't say that.' 
'Who pays the tax, insurance, petrol - ' 
'There's not much point talking, is there?' 
'You're the one who wanted to talk.' 
'It's my fault as usual. Let's leave it at that.' 
'It's not a question of anybody's fault.' 
'I've told you - I want a separation.' 
There is a pause. Martin stares into the shadows of his room. 
'How long have you been thinking about this?' his father asks dully. 
'A long while.' 
'And I'm supposed to sit back and accept it?' 
'That's up to you.' 
'Supposing I don't think it's the best way?' 
'It won't make any difference.' 
'Okay.' His father hesitates again. Martin can imagine him groping for words in this unfamiliar situation. 'What happens now?' 
'One of us moves out.' 
'One of us. You mean I move into a room somewhere and you stay here?' 
'That seems more sensible.' 
'And what about Martin? I suppose you haven't considered him in all this?' 
'Don't be silly.' 
'Why is it silly?' 
'If I hadn't been concerned about him, I'd have got out years ago.' 
'So what happens to him?' 
'He stays here, obviously. He can hardly live with you.' 
'Isn't he old enough to have a say?' 
'I don't want him changing schools now.' 
Martin wants to cry out that she is wrong. 
'I'm sorry, but it's taking me a while to get used to the idea,' his father says in a voice which sounds barely controlled. 'I get thrown out of my own house - ' 
'Who's talking about being thrown out?' 
'I get thrown out, but I'm still expected to meet all the expenses. Is that right?' 
'You've got some responsibility to Martin - and to me.' 
'I suppose it's not part of the plan that you go to work?' 
'What sort of work would I get?' His mother sounds scornful. 
'You were a secretary once.' 
'Once. Do you think I'm going to walk into a job as a secretary after twelve years?' 
'You could do a refresher course.' 
'Even if I did and I got a job, I wouldn't earn enough to keep this place.' 
'And I suppose you wouldn't consider moving somewhere more affordable?' 
'I told you - I don't want Martin having to change schools.' 
'That doesn't stop you moving.' 
'Where would you like us to go?' 
'There are plenty of cheaper places - only you'd always find something wrong with them.' 
'So I'm wrong for wanting a decent standard of living?' 
'I didn't say that.' 
'That's what it sounds like.' 
'All I'm saying is you're taking a lot for granted.' 
'What’s that supposed to mean?' His mother sounds suspicious. 
'You seem to think that if we separated, the only difference is that I'd be living somewhere else. A lot of things would have to change.' 
'I realise that.' 
'There'd be less money to go round if I'm keeping two homes.' 
'I have thought about this.' 
'You were going to explain why you want us to separate.' 
'I should have thought it was obvious.' 
'No.' 
In the silence, Martin imagines his parents glaring at each other. His father continues, 'Can you tell me one occasion when I've stopped you doing what you want, or shouted at you or hit you?' 
'It's not that sort of problem.' Now his mother sounds weary. 
'So what sort of problem is it?' 
'When you are here, we can hardly be civil to each other.' 
'So it's separation on the grounds of lack of sparkling conversation?' 
'Do you know how long it is since we went out together?' 
'And do you know why it's so long? Because whenever I suggest going out, you never want to come. Either you're too tired, or you're seeing your friends.' 
'What about when we were invited to Jenny's? You were the one who didn't want to go.' 
'Because you sprung it on me at the last moment.' 
'When we are together, we've got nothing to say to each other. We've got nothing in common.' 
'Has it taken you fourteen years to work that out?' 
'To say it.' 
Martin closes the bedroom door gently as his mother comes upstairs. His hands are shaking. He hears her opening her wardrobe. A few minutes later, she goes downstairs again. The front door bangs. In the silence after she drives away, he tries to make sense of what he has overheard. There is another boy in his class whose parents are divorced. Martin does not want to be like him. He does not want things to change. 
* 
When Martin goes downstairs for his supper, his father is staring at the blank television screen. The boy hesitates, wondering whether to speak. His father looks up. 
'Your mum's gone out.' 
'I know.' 
'It's no use asking me where she's gone. I don't even know if she's coming back tonight.' 
Martin waits. When his father seems disinclined to continue, he goes into the kitchen, staying there until he has finished his dish of cereal. 
'I'm going to bed now,' he announces from the doorway. 
'I'll be up soon. If you hear any noise later on, it'll be your mother coming home.' 
Martin nods. He cannot think of anything to say. 
* 
The day of the move. Martin watches from his bedroom window as his father carries boxes to the car. Irrationally, he agrees with his mother that the failure of the marriage should not be paraded before the neighbours. His father said it could not be covered up - that caused another argument. His mother stormed out of the house declaring that there would be trouble if any of her things were touched. 
Martin has not been to the flatlet. It is near the station, where a lot of property is being pulled down for office development. It is not a pleasant district. As his father keeps insisting, with the mortgage payments on the house to keep up, getting anything larger or more expensive is out of the question. His mother takes little interest in where his father will live - she changed the subject when his father suggested that Martin might like to visit him in his new home.
Watching from the window, Martin feels remote from his parents' lives more than ever before. From now on he will no longer regard himself as part of a family even if his parents come back together. Music helps to preserve that separation. Since his parents decided to separate, he has fantasised about living in a flatlet on his own. It is pointless to mention the idea - his mother would never countenance it - but the attraction is being able to distance himself more effectively from the rest of the world. If it has to remain a dream, at least there will be no more rows. He will see little of his father in future. He would prefer to live with his father, but nobody asked him. Though his mother can be kind, she interferes more in his affairs, telling him how he should behave and what he should wear. And she can be spiteful towards his father, finding fault with everything he does. When that happens, Martin is sorry for him. 
His father is struggling with a suitcase, trying to force it on the back seat between the boxes. Martin watches impassively, hidden by the net curtain, wondering whether he should have helped and feeling guilty for not offering. With the manoeuvre completed, his father closes the car door and comes back into the house. 
'Martin.' 
The meeting which cannot be avoided. Martin leaves his room as reluctantly as he accepts the summons to the dentist's surgery. His father is standing by the front door. 
'I've got the car loaded. I expect I've left something important behind. I'll find out when I unpack it all. And you can tell your mother I've haven't taken anything out of the kitchen. I'll buy all the bits and pieces I need for cooking.' 
Martin remembers his mother's possessiveness about kitchen utensils. He cannot envisage relaying his father's message to her. He half suspects that his father is being ironic. 
'When I've got myself straight, I hope you're going to come and visit me?' 
'Yes.' 
'If your mother tries to stop you or persuade you not to, I want you to tell me. You could come into the office on your way home from school, or ring me.' 
Martin nods. In his imagination, he can already hear his mother parading the arguments. This is his future. 
'I'm sorry you've got caught up in this.' 
Martin stares at the carpet, reflecting that the morning routine will never be the same again. 
'We'll have to see how it works out,' his father says. 
'I suppose so.' 
'I don't know where your mother's gone. You'll be all right, won't you?' 
'Yes.' 
'I'd like to leave before she gets back. You've got my address and telephone number, haven't you?' 
'Yes.' 
'See you, then.' 
'See you.' 
After the front door is closed, Martin wonders whether he should have waited to watch his father leave.

Part 2     1968

chapter 5

Is it usual in London not to have a bolt on the bathroom door? Does the omission confer prestige on the household? These seemingly insignificant questions preoccupy Martin during his first days in London. The Brocks have detached a house in Belsize Park which sprawls over four floors. Surely the omission of a bolt cannot be a petty economy? Is a joke being played on him? One wretched experience of trying to take a bath whilst splashing water noisily to announce his presence every time a board creaks convinces him that a better strategy is needed. The one he evolves is to make do with washing in the basin in his room. Lest the Brocks should think he does not keep himself clean, he runs a bath once a week. For five minutes he stands behind the bathroom door, wedging it closed with his foot and only abandoning his post to make splashing sounds by running his hand though the water.
Nobody else appears to notice the absence of a bolt. Martin cannot decide whether the Brocks have devised some unspoken rota, or whether encounters in the bathroom do not concern them. The latter possibility fills him with wonderment. If Miranda were the only other person in the house, he would welcome such impromptu meetings. He even tries to engineer one, but his courage fails as he hesitates outside the closed bathroom door. Hardly any noise comes from the other side, though he knows that she is there. He imagines her lying back in the bath, soaping herself. It would be easy to burst in and claim that he thought the bathroom was empty; instead he creeps back to his room, hoping that his indiscretion has remained unobserved by the rest of the family and by Ashley in particular. Ashley is Miranda's younger brother. His most annoying attribute is his ability to know what Martin is thinking.
'When are you going to make a pass at Miranda?' Ashley enquires over breakfast in Martin's third week. Miranda is sitting on the other side of the pine table, toying with her cereal as she listens to her transistor radio. Her brother's words arouse her interest. She watches Martin's confusion with amusement.
'You've taken longer than the others,' Ashley continues remorselessly. He is a precocious twelve year old, with large spectacles which make him look intellectual. Martin tries to remember whether he was equally insufferable at that age. Certainly he lacked Ashley's worldly wisdom; he suspects that he still does.
'The way you keep looking at her, you obviously find her attractive,' the precocious one observes.
'Get back to your snails,' Martin snarls, surprised by his own temerity. Three weeks have changed him.
'I've already cleaned them out, stupid.'
Ashley has a passion for biology. According to his older sister, this accounts for his mature interest in sexuality. Assorted creatures share his bedroom and  occasionally escape, to the consternation of the rest of his family.
'Don't talk about snails,' Samantha commands, giving a melodramatic shiver. At four, she is the youngest of the Brock family and the one accorded greatest licence. Martin was disconcerted when she wandered into his room naked and unannounced to show him her spots. Since then he has become accustomed to her ways.
The absent member of the household is Mr Brock, who is working in Hong Kong. Each Sunday his telephone call bestirs the family into a frenzy of activity as they gather to speak to him. Mrs Brock becomes almost girlish. She is out all day during the week, which makes Martin curious about her work. Questioning Ashley reveals that she is a social studies lecturer at a polytechnic. From the array of books covering one wall of the breakfast room, Martin deduces that she teaches sociology, though he is hazy about what this means. She always gives the impression of being late for an appointment. At the weekend, in one of her rare moments of repose, he watches her cuddling Samantha and allowing Miranda to comb her hair. Tactile things fascinate him. He tries to imagine what his own home life might have been like if he had a sister.
One source of pleasure is the house itself. There are so many steps and landings that sometimes it is difficult to tell which floor he is on. And there are doors everywhere, like a stage set. It is easy to find privacy in such a rambling place. Martin's room is in the attic. From its remoteness he eavesdrops on the squabbles going on below. His initial embarrassment gives way to the suspicion that the family enjoy quarrelling. When he wants a break from studying, he stares out the window, daydreaming. His eyrie gives a view over the treetops to the flats of St John's Wood. Hidden in the green chasms between the trees are gardens. He has glimpsed neighbours sweeping leaves from their lawns and pruning bushes. The autumnal changes fascinate him, as though he is experiencing them for the first time  - the garden at his own home consisted of little more than a lawn. New vistas are revealed as trees shed their leaves - a Victorian church in rose-coloured brick, houses whose existence was unknown to him and a previously hidden garden where children play, wrapped against the autumn damp. As darkness comes, he watches the orange glow of street lamps suffusing the sky. His attention is attracted whenever a light is switched on in an upstairs room. His hope is to glimpse a girl changing her clothes, but the girls of Belsize Park are careful to pull their curtains. By contrast, living room curtains are left open. Neighbours unwittingly play out their lives for him, reminding him of the days at home when he watched the girls in the house opposite from his bedroom window. 
One thing he notices from these glimpses into other people's lives is the popularity of bare wood in Belsize Park. The Brocks' tastes strike him as equally odd - they have heavy, old-fashioned furniture of the sort his mother would never countenance. At first he thought this might be another sign of meanness or poverty, but wandering the streets of Hampstead and looking through people's windows has changed his understanding of what is fashionable. Now he can appreciate the Brocks' tastes even if he does not share them.
Though the piano is of the same vintage as the furnishings, he does not think of it as furniture. It is a Blüthner, well maintained in spite of its age. He loves its veiled tone.
'You can use it as much as you like,' Mrs Brock offered when he first came to look at the house. 'So long as it's not in the middle of the night, of course.' 
That was the first time he had heard of a Blüthner. It was the piano which decided him. He accepted the room even though it was expensive and he felt intimidated by the house and in awe of its owner. Mrs Brock watched him. He felt as though some elaborate joke was being played on him and she was awaiting his reaction. His immediate instinct was to flee, but by his second day in London he had already discovered the difficulty of finding good accommodation, let alone lodgings with a piano. He was tired. The prospect of another day spent making phone calls and trekking across an alien city to look at unsuitable rooms filled him with dread. He consoled himself with the thought that if he stayed with the Brocks, he could look for other accommodation later, but over the weeks he has grown used to the house and its occupants. Other students are envious when he tells them about where he is staying. 
The piano is in a room of its own to the rear of the hall. He tried it out the first evening after moving in, experiencing the excitement of having a good instrument at his command. For an hour he explored its tone colours and revelled in the responsiveness of the keys. He played pieces he knew by heart, conscious that his hosts would be listening. Everything sounded different. Phrases which he had scarcely noticed before assumed new significance. Some became easier; some needed different fingering. As his confidence grew and he became absorbed in the music, the tempi became faster, the rhythms more incisive.
The smell of perfume made him aware that he was no longer alone.
'Don't stop,' came a girl's voice. He turned. She stood in the doorway. He loved the way she was stroking her long, chestnut hair. She was like a girl from the cover of a magazine. The way her smile accentuated her high cheekbones mesmerised him. 'I'm Miranda,' she introduced herself. 'You must be Martin.'
He nodded. Her name meant nothing to him. When he tried to smile back, the corners of his mouth quivered uncontrollably.
'You're the third music student we've had here,' she informed him. 'Daddy got the piano for me originally, but it wasn't my scene.'
The thought of living in the same house as this vision excited him. He could not drag his gaze from those liquid brown eyes.
'It should be fun having you here,' she said, raising her eyebrows provocatively. 'Go on playing.'
For once, music was driven from his thoughts. His hands trembled as he held them over the keyboard. He tried to hide them from her. The way his body let him down was disconcerting - the nerves which marred his first music festival performances and which he thought were conquered had returned to haunt him.
'If you have to be on your own to play, I'll leave you to it.'
He wanted to tell her not to go. Her eyes seemed more luminous every time he looked at her, which disconcerted him.
'You will be having supper with us, won't you?' she asked. 'It's at ten. Come down to the kitchen.'
His face went red, which added to his annoyance. He did not know how to answer. When she left, what he felt most was a sense of an opportunity lost. It took away his interest in playing. Never before had anybody affected his music-making in that way. He never expected that anybody could. The realisation of how easily his life was blown off course disturbed him. Not only that, but the image of Miranda would not leave him. As ten o'clock approached, his agitation increased till there was nothing to be gained by sitting at the keyboard any longer. He wanted to creep unobserved to his room and to stay there, but he was afraid of offending anybody. And he wanted to see Miranda again.
That first supper was all he expected - a confusion of embarrassment and ecstasy. Mrs Brock, Miranda and a boy whom he did not know then were sitting in the kitchen. Miranda uncurled herself from her chair as he hesitated in the doorway. She was smiling. When he tried to smile back, the muscles of his face contorted in a parody of what he intended. 
'We wondered if you'd gone out,' she said, going to the cooker. 'We didn't hear you playing.'
'I was doing theory,' he lied. Elation and apprehension were a heady mixture. It was what he imagined being drunk must be like. He watched Miranda filling a mug from the milk saucepan and he marvelled at the tightness of her jeans.
'Cocoa for Martin,' she said, carrying it carefully to the table. 'Help yourself to biscuits.'
His movements were clumsy as he sat opposite her. He drew the mug close, putting his hand where hers had been. Mrs Brock smiled benignly on him, making him feel like a newly-acquired family pet.
'Can we call you Martin?' she enquired.
He nodded.
'It is his name,' Miranda pointed out. 'It's a bit stupid calling him Fred.'
'He may not like strangers calling him by his first name.'
'What are we supposed to call him - Mr Barron?' 
'I think we should have numbers,' the boy volunteered. 
'Don't speak with your mouth full, darling,' Mrs Brock chided. 
'It's not full.' 
Mrs Brock smiled at Martin, ignoring the interruption. 'You haven't met Ashley, have you?' 
Martin admitted that he had not. If he could have sipped cocoa and watched Miranda to the exclusion of everything and everybody else, he would have been happy. 
'I told him to come down to supper every night if he wants,' Miranda volunteered.
Mrs Brock nodded approvingly. 'We want you to think of yourself as one of the family, Martin. Will you do that?' 
He assured her that he would. 
'And you're happy with your room?' 
'More than happy.' 
'I don't suppose you've had much chance to look around Hampstead yet.' 
'He only moved in today,' Ashley pointed out. 
'That's what I said - he hasn't had time to look around yet.' She fondled Ashley’s hair. 
'I wish you wouldn't do that,' Ashley protested, wriggling away. 
'She thinks we're still babies,' Miranda explained to Martin. 
'You'll always be my babies,' Mrs Brock proclaimed proudly. She turned back to Martin. 'I expect your mother misses you.' 
'I expect so,' he agreed. 
'It's always difficult, being away from home for the first time, but remember that all the other first year students are in the same position. You'll soon get to know them.' She gave him an encouraging smile, affecting not to notice Miranda stifling a laugh. 'I hope you'll like Hampstead. I think it's got a totally unique atmosphere.’ 
'Stinks of money,' Ashley summed up. 
'Did you know Keats lived here?' Mrs Brock continued, undaunted. 
Miranda raised her eyes to the heavens. 'I don't suppose he's interested.' 
'Some of the old cottages have hardly changed since Keats's day. The farms have gone, of course, but you've got the heath to explore - ' 
'I'll show him the heath,' Miranda offered. 
'If he wants you to.' Mrs Brock turned back to Martin. 
'If you go the other way, there's Camden. They have a market at weekends which is quite fun.' 
'They sell crap,' declared Ashley. 'Old women's drawers and bedpans for putting flowers in.' 
Miranda scowled. 'You're too young to understand. You go there for the atmosphere.' 
Martin remained silent and bewildered. 
'What do you think of the piano?' Mrs Brock asked him. 
'It's great.' 
Miranda grinned. 'Your face really lit up then. You are funny.' 
'You're embarrassing him,' Mrs Brock chided. She gave Martin what he came  to recognise as her sympathetic smile. 'You mustn't take any notice of Miranda - she loves teasing.' 
Martin smiled back, unable to think of anything to say. Ashley was watching him. 
'Very strange, blushing,' the younger boy mused. ‘Did you know we're the only animals to blush? And we're the only ones who cry.' 
'I don't think Martin wants to know,' Mrs Brock interrupted. 'Some people blush very easily.' 
'He certainly does.' 
'That was quick,' Miranda commented as Martin drained his mug. The scalding liquid brings a burning sensation to his chest. His mouth is numbed.
'You haven't had a biscuit.' Mrs Brock pushed the packet of digestives towards him. 
'He'd have taken one if he wanted it,' Miranda pointed out. 
'Not everybody takes things without being asked, especially in other people's houses.' 
'I told him to help himself.' 
'People don't always like to.' 
'He's not that shy.' 
'Some people are more polite than you.' 
'I'm going to bed now,' Martin announced, ending the debate. He rose awkwardly, trying to ignore the rawness in his mouth from the hot cocoa. 
'I'll be thinking of you,' Miranda called. 
As he closed the door, he visualised her breaking into giggles and being scolded by her mother. He was still puzzled by why the Brocks left their doors unpainted. So much was different in London. In his room, he switched on Radio Three, trying to immerse himself in Boulez in an attempt to blot out the thought what the Brocks might be saying about him. Never had music seemed more remote, stubbornly refusing to transport him. With the radio turned low he lay fully dressed, listening until the others had come to bed and the house was quiet. When he fell asleep, the image of Miranda still haunted him.
*
When he awoke, his anxieties returned immediately at the thought of his first day at college. Going down to breakfast was itself an ordeal in a strange household. Ashley was making toast. He wore school uniform. Martin envied his assurance. 
'If you want to use the bathroom, now's the time,' Ashley advised. 'The women spend hours in there. It drives daddy mad. I think all woman are like that.' 
'My mother is.' 
'Have you got any sisters?' 
Martin shook his head. 
'You're lucky. It's bedlam with three women trying to get into the bathroom at the same time. Then they grope their way in here for coffee - or orange juice in Samantha's case. Have you noticed how women take ages to get going in the morning?' 
'Not really.' 
'You will, living in this place. What do you think of my sister?' 
'Which one?' 
'Miranda, of course.' 
Martin turned away to hide his confusion. 
'She likes you,' Ashley confided. 'It's the way she looks at you. You can always tell - she's so transparent.' 
'Where's the cereal?' 
'Help yourself to whatever you want - they're all in there.' Ashley waved towards the wall cupboards. 'We've got herb teas and muesli if you like that sort of thing. Mummy thinks they're good for her - when she remembers to have them.' 
Martin looked helplessly at the array of packets. Everything was there except Shreddies, which was his favourite. 
'Miranda doesn't come down till the last minute,' Ashley explained, 'so if you want to catch her, you'll have to wait till about eight.' 
'That's when I've got to leave.' 
'In that case early evening is the best time to catch her. She likes going to films, if you want to take her out. Anything weepy or pseudo intellectual. There's always something on around here to keep her happy.' 
'I'd better use the bathroom before the others come.' 
'And she likes white wine,' Ashley called as Martin retreated. 'She gets giggly on three glasses.' 
Martin closed the door on her precocious younger brother. He was more concerned with getting away from Ashley than in using the bathroom. The sound of running water indicated that one of the women was already taking a bath. He has sweated with embarrassment at the thought of what might have happened had he opened the door unknowingly. In his attic room he lay on the bed again, staring at the empty shelves where somebody else's books had been. His instinct was to scuttle back to his room at home where he could have his books and records around him as an alternative to facing the unknown, but that could not happen. His new life was starting - what he had always wanted. The world had to see another Martin. Yet even as he resolved to change, fear and frustration mingled inside him. He knew that he would never become part of Miranda's circle. The differences which set him apart at school were still with him, in spite of his determination to begin anew. He suspected that in the few hours since he moved into the house, his weaknesses had become evident even to Samantha. He could comfort himself with the thought that at college, a shared interest in music would stop him from becoming apart from the others, but music was no bond in the Brocks' house.
Miranda's image insinuated itself in his mind - Miranda smiling, or playing with her hair. More excitingly there was Miranda changing her clothes, or in the bath. He could not believe that he was living in the same house as a girl who was so beautiful. And as he thought of her, Ashley's mocking tone came back to him. Ashley already knew him too well. 
* 
The first day at college left a blur of impressions - introductory talks, book lists and walks along endless corridors which reminded him of school. None of the other students said more than a few words to him. He ate lunch alone in the canteen. At the end of the day, he travelled back to Belsize Park on the tube, feeling a sense of disappointment with what should have been the greatest day of his life. At the house, he waited in his room with the door open, unsure whether Mrs Brock was going to provide him with an evening meal. By seven-thirty it was obvious that she was not. Hunger drove him to seek a fish and chip shop. He went into Hampstead. Even at that hour, the atmosphere was vibrant. Easy to imagine Miranda shopping there. 
Nobody noticed his return. He ate in his room, making it reek of fish and covering his hands in grease. After a thorough wash he went downstairs to practise. His fingers worked mechanically; his thoughts were on Miranda again. The music was chosen with her in mind. When he heard the click of the door handle, he wanted to launch into something jaunty and carefree to signify that he was aware of her presence. The listener made no sound. When he turned, Samantha was regarding him solemnly from the doorway. A child did not induce feelings of self-consciousness in him as the presence of an adult would. He even encouraged her to play, though her musical inclinations were limited to hitting the keyboard with her fists. 
'Would you like to learn how to play properly?' he prompted. 
'No.' 
Perhaps his own first encounter with music had been like that. Perhaps love of music is something to be learned. Accordingly, he persevered in teaching Samantha to pick out a tune with one finger, though his efforts met with little success. To test his teaching abilities for the first time and to have them found wanting was disconcerting. His own teacher used to beat time by clapping, but this had little effect upon Samantha. 
'Can I play now?' he asked, trying to end the encounter. 
'No.' Samantha banged her fist on the keyboard again while the hapless teacher watched, conscious of his lack of expertise in dealing with little girls. His hope that Miranda - or anybody - might investigate the source of the noise proved forlorn. His only recourse was to wait until Samantha tired of the game. What was happening to the piano grieved him as much as his own inadequacy as a teacher. 
Samantha did tire after what seemed like hours. When Martin tried to show her what she could achieve with perseverance, she closed the piano lid on his fingers. Her power over him was frightening. His helplessness reminded him of his schooldays, but the anger in him was new. The emergence of this unexpected facet of his personality was almost as alarming as his immediate predicament. Samantha ignored his pleas to go away. Hitting her was out of the question: he guessed that Mrs Brock had enlightened views on rearing children. All he could do was to wait until his errant pupil became bored. Since those early days, he has developed a better tactic - snarling at her if she comes into the music room during his practice. Surprisingly, that frightens her. When she hesitates, judicious shouting and prodding send her scuttling away. Sometimes he suspects she is plotting her revenge. 
Miranda never did appear that evening. His practice degenerated into fragments of sonata movements played between glancing at his watch. All his hopes of seeing her became pinned on the supper. At ten o'clock, he went into the kitchen. Mrs Brock and Ashley were there. 
'You've been working hard,' Mrs Brock greeted him. 'We heard you practising.' 
'You don't mind?' The alarm must have showed on his face, for Mrs Brock gave him her reassuring smile. 
'You're not disturbing anybody, are you?' 
'I suppose not.' 
'Then why worry about it?' Ashley asked. 
'Don't forget Martin's our guest,' his mother chided. 
'I thought we were treating him like one of the family?' 
'I hope you're not going to work all the time,' she said, turning back to Martin. 'You want to enjoy yourself while you're in London.' 
He nodded. 
'How did your first day go?' 
It was the question which he wanted Miranda to ask. He had imagined sharing her laughter as he recounted the silly things which had happened, but instead he was facing her mother and he could think of nothing to say. It was both disappointing and disturbing that the day reminded him of his first day at secondary school. 
'It was all right,' he vouchsafed. 
'Does that mean it wasn't what you expected?' she probed, watching him. 
'I didn't do much except meet the professors, get book lists and timetables - that sort of thing.' 
'What about the other students?' 
'What about them?' 
'Have you made any friends yet?' 
He stared at her. 
'You won't enjoy college unless you get to know people,' she said gently. He went on staring, not understanding. 
'Got to have friends,' Ashley mimicked his mother. 'Got to be a social being, or you're doomed. She thinks like that.' 
'You did have something to eat this evening, didn't you?' Mrs Brock asked. 
Martin nodded. 
'That's good. I'd have said eat here, but I don't always know when I'll get back.' 
'You usually skive off early,' Ashley accused her. 
'I try to get off early to collect Samantha's from nursery school,' his mother defended herself. 'Then sometimes I have to go to meetings in the evening. And don't use expressions like "skive", please.' 
'Common, very common,' Ashley mimicked. 
'I don't like some of the language you pick up at that school.' 
'You sent me there.' 
'I'm beginning to wonder whether I made a mistake.' 
'Anyway, why do you have to hurry home for Sammy? Don't you think she's a bit old for you to worry about bonding?' 
'I wish you wouldn't call your sister Sammy. And don't flaunt your psychology - it's deficient.' 
Undaunted, Ashley turned to Martin. 'Do you want to see my snakes?' 
'Not at the moment.' 
'Not everybody likes snakes,' Mrs Brock reminded him. 
'Only people who don't know anything about them.' 
'Some people aren't interested - I wish you'd understand that, Ashley. I'm not interested. I hate your snakes.' 
'You see what I have to put up with?' Ashley appealed to their guest. 
'Where's Miranda?' Martin asked, not wanting to get involved in what gave the appearance of an oft-rehearsed squabble. 
A smile passed across Mrs Brock's face. 'When she's done her homework, she likes to enjoy herself.' 
'She goes out with her friends,' Ashley added. 'My sister is a social being.' 
'You'll see more of her at weekends,' Mrs Brock promised. 'That's if you're staying here rather than going home. I was going to ask you about that.' 
'I'd like to stay here,' Martin told her. 
'I'll give you lunch on Sundays so save you looking for a restaurant - they're so expensive around here.' 
'And you'll see my sister stuffing herself,' Ashley told him. 'That is if you really want to.' 
Martin did not answer.

chapter 6

On Sundays the household is more chaotic than usual. Everybody is home, apart from Mr Brock. Martin leaves his door open so that his isolation is not complete. He feels like a spider in the middle of his web, aware of everything going on around him. Samantha is having a tantrum. The radio blaring pop music belongs to Miranda. As she runs a bath, plumbing hisses and gurgles in the roof space beside the attic. Martin lies on his bed, remembering Sundays at home. In the weeks since coming to London he has not written to his mother or father. Anything which he can recount about his new life seems trite. He knows that he should write, but he does not want to share his new life with his parents. He suspects that whatever their protestations, they are not really interested. The house is a constant source of tension between them - his mother insisted she would not move while he was at school, while his father objected to the expense. Things may change now.
Martin misses having his own things around him, though one advantage of student life is being free of his mother's oft-repeated criticisms of his father. The other advantage is getting away from school. Even after four months it is hard to believe that he will never walk through the faded green gates again. Excitement united the whole class in the last week. There was talk of keeping in touch. Surprisingly it was Jackson who broached the idea to him. Smith and Goddard had left the previous year. The old antagonisms seemed like games.
'So you're going to music college are you?' Jackson said.
'I hope so.'
'If you're off to London, you won't be coming to our reunion.'
'I can't.'
'Pity.'
'Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing?' 
'What?'
'I'm got a job in a bank.'
'Congratulations.'
'We could meet up one evening before you go - have a night out.'
Martin hesitated. In spite of the change in their relationship, he still looked for an excuse to keep away from his former enemy.
'I've got a lot of stuff to get ready for college,' he excused himself. ‘And I’ve got to find somewhere to live.’
'Think about it.'
'Okay.'
The final day. The end of all his counting. His remaining school life could be measured in minutes. Nobody did any work. He read in the library until the bell rang to mark the end of the morning session. His last school dinner seemed charged with significance. If the others in his class shared his ambivalent feelings, they did not show it. He did not ask. There was even something symbolic about his last visit to the school toilets. He hesitated there, remembering. The humiliation still makes him shiver. He wonders if Jackson's thoughts often go back to the incident.
In the afternoon, the headmaster shook hands with everybody in the form. Then they were free to go. Martin never said goodbye to anybody, not even to Mr Morrison. All the emotions which he expected to feel were absent. Only later as he looked back on the final day did it seem memorable. Perhaps the first day at college will seem different when he can put it in perspective.
It is a dull morning, threatening rain. Martin plans his Sunday - practice first, a walk after lunch, followed by listening to the radio. He enjoys his weekend walks, discovering previously unknown streets and savouring the cosmopolitan bustle which distinguishes Hampstead from his home town. The girls dress stylishly. That both intimidates him and draws him into watching them covertly. The shops are open on Sundays. As he passes boutiques, he always looks for the changing cubicles, hoping to glimpse girls' legs beneath the scanty curtains.
Steps on the stairs interrupt his reverie. Nobody has visited to the attic since he moved in. He sits up, picturing Miranda, his pulse quickening, but it is Ashley who appears at the head of the stairs.
'I wondered if you wanted to see my biology corner. I thought you'd have asked before now.' The younger boy sounds reproachful.
'I've been busy.'
'You can't be busy all the time.'
'Come on then - let’s see it.' Martin climbs off the bed and follows his host downstairs, annoyed with himself for not being able to refuse. Ashley's bedroom is cluttered with books, boxes, plants and cages. Every available surface is the lodging place for something  - frequently something alive. The smell is familiar. It takes Martin a few moments to associate it with the animal pens in the park. It grows stronger as he ventures towards the corner which has been converted into a laboratory. Spread on a board, its legs pinioned to the wood, is the carcass of an animal. Ranged around it, as though in some religious ritual, are its organs. Martin closes his eyes as nausea threatens to engulf him.
'Look at the slide,' Ashley urges.
Martin opens his eyes, averting them from the sight on the work top. Dutifully he squints into the eyepiece of the microscope. The whorls of colours remain obstinately out of focus. They mean nothing to him.
'What do you think?' Ashley asks, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. 'Pretty good, eh?'
'It's interesting.'
'You know what it is, of course?'
'I was trying to work that out.'
'You don't have to work it out!'
'What is it then?' Martin asks, bridling under the scorn.
'Small intestine. Nothing else has got villi like that.'
Martin looks again, wondering which of the coloured whorls are villi. Raising his eye from the eyepiece, he asks, 'What's the animal?'
Ashley points to the corpse. 'I've just dissected it, haven't I?'
'I don't know.'
'I should have thought it was obvious.'
'If you already know.'
'So what is it?'
'You've just told me - villi.'
'Which animal, stupid?'
'You tell me.'
'Look!'
Martin peers into the eyepiece of the microscope again. 
'That's not going to tell you what animal it is,' says an exasperated Ashley. 
'So what is it?' 
'Haven't you seen a rat before? I found it in the garden.' 
Though Martin's primary concern is quelling the nausea, he tries to show polite interest. 
'I'm making a slide collection,' Ashley explains, oblivious to his guest's discomfiture. 'Animal tissues are more interesting than plants.' 
'Isn't it difficult getting animals around here?' Martin asks for want of anything else to say. 
'Not especially. If you take a walk first thing in the morning, you find hedgehogs that have been killed by cars. The ones that have got glancing blows are best - if they're squashed, they're not worth having. And if you go around the ponds on the Heath, you find frogs that have been killed by cats. Obviously you wouldn't catch them yourself.' 
'Obviously.' 
'I was lucky finding the rat. A cat must have got it, by the look of it.' 
'Very lucky.' 
'Look around,' Ashley urges with the enthusiasm of a salesman on commission. 'See if there's anything that particularly interests you.' 
Martin looks around, taking care to avoid the eviscerated rat. Small pairs of eyes gaze back malevolently from cages. 
'I can't let you feed the animals, unfortunately,' his host apologises. 'That's what everybody wants to do.' 
Martin regards Ashley's furry companions with suspicion. Each tail has a life of its own, thrusting and curling between the bars as through trying to escape from its owner. 
'Would you like to see a slide of liver?' the amateur biologist offers. 
'I'd better be getting back.' 
'You don't seem all that interested.' Ashley sounds reproachful. 
'I'm tired.' 
'It's only ten o'clock in the morning.' 
'I woke up early.' 
'Don't let me keep you up.' Ashley turns away, leaving Martin to creep from the room feeling that he has sunk irredeemably in the younger boy's estimation. The attic seems changed by Ashley's intrusion. Its seclusion has been violated. Increasingly, Martin has found that minor changes in his routine upset him out of all proportion to their importance. An event such as Ashley's appearance will disturb him for the rest of the day. He has tried immersing himself in something complex such as music theory as a distraction, but the ruse does not work. Sometimes practising the piano or clarinet helps; otherwise he has to go out. Walking alone allows him to avoid dwelling on his problems. He enjoys the anonymity of London. There is always something to take his attention - an interesting shop, a beautiful girl or buildings which he has not seen before. 
Later, Martin creeps downstairs, aware that it is silly to be quiet when everybody in the house will be able to hear him playing the piano. The doors of Ashley's and Miranda's rooms are closed. As usual on a Saturday, Miranda did not get home until after midnight. Martin knows that because the noise from the plumbing woke him when she flushed the lavatory. On Sundays she likes to lie in. 
His playing is mechanical. His thoughts keep drifting towards Miranda lying asleep upstairs. There is little point in playing in that mood - it cheapens the music. He stares at the page as bleakness grips him, stifling his responses. In such a state of distraction, he wishes that he had never been born. 
The sound of the door opening startles him. He turns, annoyed at being caught unawares. Miranda is wearing a dressing gown. She grins. 'What are you looking so guilty about?' 
'I'm not.' 
'All right - you're not.' 
He knows that she is humouring him. 
'Why weren't you playing?' she wants to know. 
'I was thinking.' 
'Something exciting?' 
'What do you mean?' 
'Don't be so prickly. I just wondered what you were thinking about.' 
'Nothing much,' he says sulkily. 
'All right. If you don't want to tell me.' 
'I wasn't thinking of much at all.' 
'Fancy coming out?' 
He stares. 'Where?' 
'Does it matter where?' She gazes at him quizzically smiling, waiting for an answer, but all he can do is to regard her helplessly. Place is so important to him that he would never have asked such a question. 'Wherever you want,' she asks at last, shrugging. 
'I'll have to get ready.' 
That amuses her. 'Can't you come as you are?' 
'I've got to comb my hair and put my coat and shoes on.' 
'I'm going to have a bath first, so there's no hurry. You might as well carry on with your practice, or your thinking or whatever it is you're doing.' 
When she has gone, the vitality returns to his playing. He chooses Beethoven's sonata op.31 no.2, taking the allegro of the first movement faster than usual. Miranda likes a leisurely bath, so there is time to play all three movements. Afterwards, as the rising fever of anticipation affects his concentration, the desire to play wanes. On his way upstairs, his excitement becomes tinged with apprehension. He hesitates on the first floor landing, listening to the splashing from the bathroom and savouring the knowledge of what Miranda is doing. It gives him a feeling of power over her.
There is no need to get ready so soon, but impatience drives him. He feels ashamed of his clothes. They look dowdy and out of date. People in Belsize Park take good dressing for granted. Even the Brocks' casual clothes are expensive. Martin dislikes asking his father for more money. When he has put on his only coat and the shoes he wears for concerts, he looks in the mirror. The startled youth staring back at him is hardly a worthy consort for the beautiful Miranda. Fifteen minutes of combing his hair and trying to clean his shoes effects little improvement. His door is ajar. He hears the bath emptying and Miranda humming to herself as she crosses the landing to her bedroom. The scent of bath salts wafts up the narrow staircase to the attic. 
'I'm ready, Martin,' she calls half an hour later.
His heart beats fast as he goes down to the landing. Miranda is dressed in jeans and a sweater. He is mesmerised at the prospect of being seen with her. She smiles at his expression. 'Don't look so alarmed.'
'Was I?' 
She leads the way downstairs without replying. He watches her dancing buttocks outlined by the tight leans. In the hall she dons an ankle-length coat before they venture outside. It is late morning, but the lawn is still white with frost. The path glitters. The coldness stings Martin’s face. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, content to go where Miranda takes him. 
'I wish we had a dog,' she says wistfully, watching a neighbour returning from exercising his Labrador. 'Something large you can take on the heath for a run, not one of those silly toy things. Do you like dogs?' 
'I've never had much to do with them.' 
'I suggested getting one, but mummy wasn't keen. She said you can't look after a dog unless there's somebody at home all the time. Anyway, it's a bit late now - I shan't be there for long.' 
The words make his stomach lurch. He glances at her face. 'What do you mean?' 
'I'm going to share a flat when I leave school. I'm sick of living at home.' 
'Where will it be?' he asks after digesting her words. 
'There you go again. What's it matter where it is?' 
'I just wondered.' 
'You're so literal. You ought to be an accountant, not a musician.' 
He remains silent, stung by her rebuke. 
'Have you got a girlfriend?' she wants to know. 
'No.' 
'What about the girls at music college? Don't you like any of them?' 
'Not especially.' 
'Haven't you asked any of them out?' 
'No.' 
'You're not queer, are you?' 
'Of course not.' 
'Lots of musicians are.' 
It is not something which he has thought about before. Suddenly the people he mingles with at college do not seem so benign. 
'Do you want to know where we’re going?' 
‘Yes.’
'Wait and see.' 
She crosses the main road and he follows. The gaunt, dark church on the corner chills him whenever he sees it, reminding him of the emptiness of Victorian church music. For a moment he thinks that is where Miranda is taking him, but she steers him towards the adjoining road. Their steps quicken on the downhill slope. 
'You don't go out, do you?' she says. 
'I'm out every day.' 
'I mean socially. You practise every evening.' 
'I go for walks at weekends.' 
'By yourself. Haven't you got any friends?' 
She glances at him. 
'Obviously you haven't.' 
'I haven't had any spare time.' 
'Don't be silly. It's nothing to do with time.' 
He does not know how to answer. 
'That's what living in London is all about - meeting people and enjoying yourself,' she continues. 'If you don't make the most of it, you might as well be a hermit in the middle of Dartmoor.' 
'I'm all right.' 
'Have you been down here on your walks?' 
'I usually go the other way - into Hampstead.' 
'You mean Rosslyn Hill way - where all the tourists go.' 
'Don’t you like it?’ 
'I don’t like the tourists. You feel like you’re living in a museum. Our local cinema's down here. I used to take Ashley when he was younger.' When Martin does not respond, she adds, 'We could see a film one day, if you like.'
'All right.' 
'There's another cinema by Hampstead station - the Everyman. Have you come across it on your walks?' 
'No.' 
'It's tucked away in a side street. That's where the offbeat films get shown.' From the corner of his eye, he tries to glimpse Miranda's legs between the folds of her coat as she strides beside him. Being with her is beyond anything in his dreams, yet he can think of nothing to talk about. 
'Don't the other students have parties?' she probes. 
'I don't know.' 
'That's the first thing I'd find out.' 
'We don't meet up as a group - unless there's a lecture.' 
‘When I have a party, I hope you're not going to lock yourself in your room?' 
'I don't know.' 
'If you were in a bedsit where you had to do your own cooking, I don't think you'd speak to anybody.' 
'Probably not.' 
'You're weird.' 
'All I want is to get on with practising.' 
'The other students we've had joined in things.' 
'It's the way I am.' 
'Are you an only child?' 
He nods. 
'You could at least answer,' she says impatiently. 
'Yes I am,' he retorts, louder than he anticipated.  
'You know you're lucky to be staying with us? You're in the best part of town and you've got a much nicer room than most students.' 
'It's a good piano.' 
'You're obsessed with pianos.' 
'Am I?' 
'Sure it isn't because you're afraid of living?' 
'I don't know what you mean.' 
'Forget it.' 
They have come to a square, its lines softened by trees. In the centre is a memorial beside a tiny patch of garden protected by low a low chain link fence. On the opposite corner is a cafe - first of a parade of shops extending towards the heath. Miranda leads the way past a reassuringly ordinary cinema like the one which Martin knows at home. Meekly he follows her across the next junction to the pub on the corner. She pushes open the door. There is a rush of heat. The air is saturated with tobacco smoke and the smell of beer. 
'Come on,' she urges as he hesitates. 'I'm getting frozen.' 
Some of his fellow students go to pubs regularly. Even in the sixth form at school, some of his companions boasted of Saturday evenings spent drinking. Martin was never invited - not that he would have accepted. His father gave him a can of beer one Christmas. It almost made him sick. 
'Some of the Hampstead pubs are full of plebs,' Miranda is saying. 'It used to be only in summer, but it's getting to be all the year round. This place isn't too bad - it's where the locals go.' She watches him expectantly. ‘Go on.’
‘What?’
'Aren't you going to buy me a drink?' 
'What do you want?' 
'White wine.' 
Martin tries to get to the bar, but the people standing in the way show no willingness to move. 
'Push your way through,' Miranda urges. 
Martin pushes. 
'Look what you're doing!' one of the men rounds on him. 
'Sorry. I was trying to get through.' 
The man wipes beer off his cuff. 'Try saying "Excuse me" instead of using your elbows.' 
'What's the matter?' Miranda asks as Martin retreats. 
'I can't get through.' 
'Then push harder.' 
'I've already spilt somebody's drink.' 
‘So be more careful next time.' 
He tries again at another part of the bar. On this occasion he does at least get to the front. Two girls of Miranda's age are serving: they pay no attention to him. All his attempts to attract their attention fail. Somebody presses against him from behind, making him start. 
'What are you doing now?' Miranda murmurs in his ear. She sounds annoyed. He can smell her scent. In other circumstances he would enjoy her closeness. 
'Trying to get served.' 
'It's going to be closing time before I get a drink at this rate. Let me do it.' She squeezes past him. That excites him. He barely hears her asking, 'What are you going to have?' Some of the headiness evaporates as he scans the array of bottles. The only alcoholic drink which he likes is ginger wine. 
'I'll have a cider, please,' he says at last, remembering the cider which he drank as a child. 
'Exciting stuff.' 
To his chagrin, Miranda is served quickly. 
'Have you got the money?' she asks, looking back at him. He gives her a pound note, reflecting that the drinks cost almost as much as he spends on lunches for a week. 
When Miranda has given him his drink, they move away from the bar. It disappoints him that she does not have to press so close again. 
She looks at him speculatively, as though reading his thoughts. 'Don't look so worried.' 
He tries to smile. 
Miranda’s gaze ranges over the crowd and comes to rest on him again. 'I hoped we'd get a seat. Still, never mind.' She smiles complacently, knowing the effect she is having on him. 'Tell me about yourself.' 
'What do you want to know?' 
'What's important to you? And don't say music.' 
'I don't know in that case.' 
'You shouldn't be so apologetic. At least you're standing up to Ashley more -  when you first came, you wouldn't say boo to a goose.' 
'Tell me about you,' he counters. 
She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. 'I'm attractive, I'm talented, men flock to go out with me...' 
'Are you in the sixth form?' 
'Haven't you found that out yet? I'm doing four A levels - English, history, maths and geography. I might do a secretarial course later - not that I'll ever be a secretary.' 
'Why not?' 
'It's boring.' 
'So what are you doing the course for?' 
She shrugs. 'Something to do.' 
'What happens at the end of it?' 
'Who knows? I might get a job in an art gallery, or in advertising. Perhaps I'll find a rich husband, then I won't have to work at all.' 
Martin sips the cider. It tastes drier than the cider of his memory and less sweet. The hum of conversation around him makes him wish that he had a repertoire of small talk. 
'I think I might go abroad first,' Miranda is saying. 'Where would you go if you had the choice?' 
For a moment he thinks that she wants to go with him. The prospect fills him with exhilaration and terror in equal measure, until he realises that he has misunderstood her. 
'What are you staring at me like that for?' she asks. 
'Nothing.' 
'Don't be silly. You must have a reason.' 
'Where would you go?' She rolls her eyes. 
'The States, perhaps. I've always wanted to go there. Or France - I might live in the south of France for a year or two. What about you?' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Where would you live?' 
'I don't know.' 
'There must be somewhere you'd like to go.' 
'I'd love to tour round all the European music festivals.' 
'You would?' She eyes him speculatively. 'Isn't there anything apart from music that turns you on?' 
'Not really.' He turns away, unwilling to face her. 
'I could read a lot into that. Did you mean me to?' 
'Not especially.' 
'Don't you think it's strange, not being concerned about anything except music?'
'Not really.' 
'Wouldn't you like to travel and find out about people?' 
'No.' 
'Don't you ever want to get married?' 
'Not particularly.' 
She shakes her head. 'Something must have happened to you to make you the way you are.' When he does not respond, she prompts, 'What was it, Martin?' 
He has to face her. The mischievous look in her eyes tells him that he should confess nothing. 'Come on, Martin. You can tell me.' 
He shakes his head. 
'Please.' 
'No.' 
'Go on.' 
'No.' 
'Do you want people to think you boring?' 
'I don't care.' 
Her smile fades. Her eyes have lost their pleading expression. 'You're a head case,' she decides, looking at him pityingly. And he knows that it is too late to win her support. When her glass is empty, she turns away. As he watches her sidling through the crowd to the bar, the thrill of being with her vies with the desire to escape from her contempt. A man speaks to her, halting her progress. Her vivacity as she answers makes Martin jealous. The emotion is new to him, alarming him in its power. He watches covertly, conscious that his own company cannot arouse such animation, fascinated by how her expression changes in an instant from furrowed brow to uninhibited laughter as she responds to what her companion is saying. She leans forward as he talks, her eyes large, her fingers furrowing her hair and pushing it back. Martin despises himself for the excitement which the sight of her brings, but when he looks away, her fascination draws him back. Now the clever remarks which he should have made flash through his mind. Conflicting emotions make him want to run away. Tobacco smoke tickles his throat. What he cannot understand is why people should willingly spend their time in such a place. He sips the tepid, flat cider, hoping it will last until Miranda returns, but even at his modest rate of drinking, she is still talking when his glass is empty. Then the choice is to wait for her or to leave. Leaving is easier, except that he does not want to upset her. Part of him yearns to walk back with her, in spite of everything. His dream is to ask her to a concert, but as he watches her in conversation, he knows that the invitation will never be given.
After the warmth of the pub, Martin shivers. He waits on the pavement, but Miranda does not follow. He studies the posters outside the cinema until he tires of them before crossing the road to the traffic island. Reading the inscription on the war memorial only holds his attention for a few moments. When he looks back, Miranda has still not appeared. He turns towards home - her home. On his way up the hill, he reflects that she never did give him the change from his pound note.

chapter 7

Deirdre is fat. She plays piano and cello. Martin feels self-conscious in her company because her extrovert behaviour makes people smile at her. He does not want to be mistaken for her boyfriend. Keeping well away from her at lunchtime does not deter her from seeking his company. As she puts down her tray on his table, he looks around in despair for somebody to help him. Other people avoid his gaze.
'How do you like London?' she asks, settling opposite him.
'It's all right.'
'What I can't get over is having so many concerts to choose from.'
When she plays the cello, she breathes as though she is panting. The first time they played together, he thought that she was ill.
'It's not too bad in Bristol,' she is saying. 'We get the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra coming pretty regularly and there are plenty of chamber recitals, but it's nothing like London, of course. If I lived anywhere else in Somerset, I probably wouldn't have heard a symphony orchestra till I came here.'
Martin pretends to concentrate on his food.
'Do you go to many concerts?' Deirdre persists. 
He shakes his head, not looking up. His mouth is full - a perfect excuse for not replying. 
'I'm going to the Wigmore Hall on Saturday.' 
This time he does glance up to find her waiting for his response. 
'It's good to listen to as much music as you can of all kinds. Don't you think?' 
He nods absently, marvelling that somebody so ungainly can play the cello with such facility. His rational side tells him that size has nothing to do with musical ability, but he cannot wholly believe it. 
'We might as well make the most of being in London,’ she is saying. ‘That's how I look at it.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Are you free on Saturday?'
He shakes his head.
'Pity. It would be good if you could come.'
'Actually I'm going to a party.' 
Her face lights up. 'You're a dark horse.' There is envy in her voice. 
'It's only where I'm staying. Nothing special.' 
'I love parties. I haven't been to one for ages.' Her words hang in unanswered in the air. 'It would be nice if we could go to a concert one day.' 
'I'm a bit busy at the moment.' 
'You're not going to be busy all the time.' 
'Perhaps we'll go later,' he promises, wondering whether his stock of excuses will last for three years.
* 
They meet in the self-service restaurant of Bourne and Hollingsworth. Most of the customers in the middle of the afternoon are women. 
'Is that all you want to eat?' his mother asks. 
Martin nods, looking down at the Danish pastry. 
'I thought you'd want a meal. That's why I suggested coming here.' 
'I'm all right,' he assures her, but when he thinks of how long it will be till his evening meal, he wonders whether he should have chosen something more substantial. He is surprised by how his mother has become older and more tired in the weeks since he left home. Make-up does not disguise the shadows under her eyes. She is saying, 'I wanted to see how you're getting on as you've never been away from home before.' 
'I'm all right.' 
'I was expecting you to write.' 
'I didn't know what to say.' 
'Whether you're all right, whether you're enjoying yourself. You could ring me if you don't want to write. That's not too much to ask, is it?' 
'I suppose not.'
'Do you need any more clothes?' 
'No.' 
'And you're getting on all right with the Brocks?' 
When his mother drove him to Belsize Park with his luggage, she insisted on seeing his room. That meant introducing her to Mrs Brock. Martin hated the awkwardness as they talked. He wanted his new life to be entirely separate from the old. 
'Martin - I'm talking to you.' 
'Everything's fine.' 
'You're lucky to find somewhere that's got a piano.' 
'It's a Blüthner.' 
'Is that something special?' 
'It's one of the best makes.' 
'The piano we bought you doesn't get used now.' 
'I'm not there.' 
'I wondered if we could sell it.' 
A feeling of resentment comes over him. It is his piano - a present. He explains, 'I'll need it in the holidays,' though he has given little thought to what will happen in the summer. Neither the prospect of spending the long vacation at home with his mother nor remaining in Belsize Park holds much appeal. He does not wish his schooldays back, but he longs for the certainties which bounded his life and the hopes which kept up his spirits. 
'Do you know what you'll be doing at Christmas?' his mother asks. 
'I'll probably stay in London most of the time.' The first time he has not looked forward to Christmas. Since his parents separated, his mother has tried to make it a special occasion. She decorates the house and keeps presents under the tree the same as in the past. His father drops in during Christmas afternoon. It is one of the few occasions when his parents meet now. 
'You'll be home for Christmas Day, won't you?' his mother is asking. 
'Yes.'
'Things are going to be different in future.' She probes her cake with the heavy, ornate knife. Uncharacteristically, she has trouble choosing her words. 'Your father and I are going to divorce. You knew it was going to happen eventually, didn't you?' As Martin nods, she adds, 'Now you're not at home any more, he wants me to sell the house.' She watches Martin's face. 'I wanted to tell you in person.' 
'Where are you going to live?' He makes a point of betraying no emotion in his voice or expression. 
'I haven't sorted that out yet. I'll probably get a flat, but whatever happens there'll be somewhere for you to come home to. And I'll keep the piano if you think you're going to use it.' 
He stares at the counter, hearing the staff shouting above the clatter of metal and crockery. The savoury smell makes him hungry. The flat will be better than where his father lives - his mother would not tolerate sharing a bathroom. He tries to imagine his piano in a different setting. Moving will throw it out of tune, but his mother will not have considered things like that. 
'Did you get your father's money all right?' 
'Yes.' 
'He said he'll be sending you something every month. Will you to let me know if it doesn't come through?' 
Martin wants to pick up the pastry in one piece with his fingers, but he knows his mother will object. 
'When I move, I'll have to pack all your things,' she warns. 
'I'll do it.' 
'It might be during the term.' 
'I still want to do it.' 
'I shouldn't have thought it was worth coming back to pack a few boxes, but it's up to you.' 
'I could get it packed at Christmas.' What surprises him is that the news of the divorce affects him so little. It might have upset him more if it were unexpected. There must have been a time when his parents were like any other couple. He remembers looking at their wedding photographs before his mother put them away. Hard to imagine himself marrying. Miranda is beautiful, but music means nothing to her - he cannot imagine somebody who cannot share the one thing which is important to him. The person he likes most is one of his fellow students, Alison. He always feels joyous in her company. Her smile haunts him. Asking her out preoccupies him. On the tube journey home he rehearses what he should say. In his bedroom he likes to imagine their evening together, attending a concert and talking about music with a freedom which he cannot not show to anybody else. 
'How are you getting on about washing your clothes?' his mother asks. 
'I use the washing machine.' 
'I hope you ask Mrs Brock first.' 
'She told me to use it whenever I wanted.' 
'What about things like sewing on buttons?' 
'I haven't needed to.' He does not mention the button missing from his shirt. It came off in his first week. He tried to pluck up courage to ask Mrs Brock to sew it back, but it is still in his pocket. 
'If you do need any more of your clothes, I can always bring them next time I come.' 
'I should be all right for this term.' 
'I was wondering whether to buy you some more shoes while I'm here.' 
'I don't need any more.' 
'You've only got two pairs.' 
'I'm all right,' he insists. 
'It's up to you.' 
He cuts up the pastry, hoping that his mother will not want to take him around the shops as she did when he was small. It is not the cake he would choose for himself - he still prefers the firm texture of shortcrust pastry. He eats slowly. 
When his mother has finished her coffee, she brushes imaginary crumbs from her lips. 'Is there anywhere you want to go this afternoon?' 
'Not really.' 
'I'd like to look round the shops while I'm here.' 
'I ought to be getting back.' 
'I thought we were going to spend the afternoon together.' 
'I've got practising to do.' 
'Can't you leave it till tomorrow?' 
'You have to keep up every day. Anyway, you'll be going round clothes shops.' 
They look at each other helplessly. 
'Do you know your way back from here?' his mother asks. Her tone is curt. Martin knows that he has upset her. 
'I do live in London now.' 
'It's a big place.' 
'I can find my way to the tube station.' 
'You'll remember what I said about money.' 
'Yes.' He stands, wishing his mother had not disrupted his routine. 
* 
The party is long threatened. 
'It's ages since we had one,' Miranda appeals to her mother. 'I want to bring all my friends here and make it a real happening - something that goes on till dawn.' 
'Let's have a party till dawn,' Samantha choruses, jumping up and down. 
'You can't come because you're too young,' Miranda informs her. 
'I'm not. I'm not too young.' 
Miranda ignores her and turns to Martin, her eyes wide and pleading in a way that he has come not to trust. 'You'll be there, won't you?' 
'I'll have to see.' 
'I won't be coming,' Ashley announces. 'I hate your parties.' 
Miranda switches off her pleading look and scowls at her brother. 'I wasn't going to ask you.' 
'Can I stay somewhere else?' he appeals to his mother. 
'Where?' 
'A hotel.' 
'Why should mummy pay for you to go to a hotel?' Miranda asks. 
'You ought to pay as it's your party.' 
'You must be joking.' 
'Isn't it worth it to get me out the way?' 
'You can stay in your room,' Mrs Brock intervenes. 
'It's too noisy once she gets going. I remember last time.' 
'So do I,' Miranda says with feeling. 'You let your rats out.' 
'Only one - and there wouldn't have been a problem if your friends hadn't frightened it.' 
'It frightened my friends! You shouldn't have let it out in the first place.' 
'What did they have to scream for?' 
'What did you expect when they saw a rat running around?' 
Ashley turns back to his mother. 'It would honestly be much better if I went to a hotel.' 
'I haven't said there's going to be a party,' Mrs Brock points out. She stirs her tea, deliberating as her offspring watch expectantly. 'I don't see why there shouldn't be, providing all animals are kept in their cages.' She turns to Miranda. 'You will only invite people you know well, won't you? I shall be away for the night, so I'll have to trust you.'
'That's not fair,' Ashley protests. 'You just said I couldn't go to a hotel.' 
'That's different.' 
'Why?' 
'Don't argue with your mother,' Miranda commands and surprisingly he does not. 
* 
Eight-thirty. Martin hopes that if he stays in his room, Miranda will forget him. He lies on his bed in the darkness, listening to the thudding rhythm which makes the wardrobe door vibrate. Miranda has told him that he should broaden his musical tastes, but he cannot accept that the noise is really music. It is punctuated by the continual ringing of the doorbell as more guests arrive. Bursts of laughter betray their presence. To Martin's ears, the proceedings already sound rowdy. Ashley announced beforehand that he would lock himself in his room. Martin can imagine him squinting down the eyepiece of his microscope, making notes about the structure of a rat's kidney. Mrs Brock is staying with friends, much to Ashley's indignation. She announced that on her return, she expects to find the house tidy, though Martin doubts whether she believed it herself. Freed from maternal constraints, Samantha is staying up for the party in spite of the protestations of her sister. 
The music is turned up suddenly, precluding hopes of sleep. A fascination with what is going on downstairs stops Martin from trying to drown the sounds by turning on his radio. A girl's laughter seems to come from the attic staircase. Not Miranda's laugh. Knowing that somebody is close stops him from relaxing. Miranda's cadences echo in his imagination, stirring memories of that fateful visit to the pub. She has never referred to the incident; nor has she invited him out again. Time passes slowly. Martin feels tired, but sleep is out of the question. The curtains are open. Sometimes the winking lights of an airliner glide silently across the darkness. He imagines the pattern of street lights being the travellers' first glimpse of London as their plane prepares to land. His gaze shifts to the shadows within the room. If he stares for long enough, he can recall his childhood fear of the dark. At least he has overcome that. 
However much he tries to think about proper music, the relentless rhythm from downstairs distracts him. In his imagination Miranda is dancing, her beauty making her stand out from her friends. His dream is to be seen with her by his fellow students. He still longs to invite her to a concert. Then the thought of Alison makes him feel disloyal. 
Nine-thirty. Each time the music stops, he expects that peace will come to the house, but there is always another record. Judging by the shrieks, the party is in full swing. A shattering of glass; a girl screams. He longs to be in the safety of his room at home with his parents both out, but he tells himself that all experience is valuable to an artist. His eyes close as he surrenders to the kaleidoscope of sounds, but they irritate him rather than lulling him to sleep. 
Somebody is on the stairs. This time there can be no mistake. He sits up hurriedly, not sure whether to call that he is there. The door opens before he can act. A shaft of light from the first floor landing flashes across the bed, illuminating him. He is glad that he had the foresight not to change into his pyjamas yet. 
She stops in the doorway, suddenly hesitant. Her dark hair is close-cropped like that of a boy. A mini-dress clings to her slim figure. He stares at her legs outlined against the light from the downstairs landing. White tights make them look like sculpture. 
'Are you Martin?' 
'Yes.' 
'Can I put on the light?' Without waiting for an answer she feels for the switch. In the sudden glare, his room is revealed to her. He sees her eyes heavily outlined in black, making them look larger than life. Her woollen dress has alternating horizontal bands of mauve and purple. She regards him with frank curiosity, a smile hovering on her features. 'Hello, Martin.' 
He does not want to encourage her by answering. 
'Have I struck lucky?' she enquires. 
'How do you mean?' 
A smile. He is fascinated by the way her teeth glisten. 
'What are you doing up here, Martin?' 
'Nothing very much.' 
'I can see that. Why don't you come downstairs?' 
The silence grows. Politeness makes him look away. His gaze settles on the music piled on the chest of drawers. He wills her to leave, though he would enjoy watching her in a setting where his interest would not be noticed. 
'Don't you like parties?' she asks. 
'Not much.' 
'Why not?’ 
'Not my sort of thing.' 
'It's a chance to let your hair down and enjoy yourself. Don't you want to do that?' 
'No.' 
Her forehead wrinkles in puzzlement. 'It's not as though you're a stranger. You live here, so you know Miranda. And now you know me.' She switches on her smile. 'Aren't you going to ask me my name?' 
'I thought you wanted to go back to the party.' 
'There's no hurry.' She leans against the wall in a pose he recognises from magazine covers - one leg bent, foot against the wallpaper. 'I'm Holly.' 
He watches, trying to think of her as Holly. She smiles again. 'What are you looking at me like that for?' 
'Did you know I was here?' 
'Miranda told me.' 
He wonders what else Miranda has told her. 
'You're a music student, aren't you?' she prompts, answering part of his question. 'That sounds exciting.' 
'I wouldn't call it exciting exactly.' 
'Tell me about it.' 
'I've always been interested in music, so I auditioned for music college and got in.'
She raises her eyebrows. 'You're really talented?' 
'Not compared with some people.' 
'What makes you say that?' 
'You know when you hear some of the other people at college.' 
'Modest with it.' 
He cannot think of an answer. 
'Are you going to play for me?' she asks. 
He watches her face, trying to decide whether she is laughing at him. It is an attractive face, the skin flawless like that of models. Her eyes bewitch him, making him feel at risk of agreeing to anything she asks. He tries to decide whether she is more attractive than Miranda - and then he is ashamed of himself for making the comparison.
'Come and join in,' she urges, coming closer. 
'I don't want to.' 
She stands by the side of the bed and he stares into her eyes, not sure whether he is hypnotised. 
'Come and play for me,' she urges. 
'I can't.' 
'Why not?' 
'Everybody's down there.' 
'So? You're not shy, are you? If you're going to be a musician, you'll have to play in public.' 
'It's different here.' 
'Nobody's going to care.' 
'There's too much noise.' 
'Not if you close the door.' Her voice has lost its playfulness. She pulls his hand. 'Come on.' 
'No.' His voice has risen in pitch, to sound like the voice of a little boy. As she tugs, the bed with him on it is inched across the floor, the castors squeaking in protest. Holly giggles, releasing his hand so that he falls back against the pillow. That makes her giggle all the more. She jumps on the bed, making the mattress quiver. Her weight presses against him. Close to, her face is less attractive. Her make-up is crudely applied as though for a stage performance. Her lips glisten. Her mouth is never still. It seems to have a life of its own. She is a creature from a nightmare. Alarm and repugnance overcome him as the reptilian mouth seeks his, her arms entwining him like tentacles. She sucks at his mouth, trying to thrust her tongue between his lips. The taste of her nauseates him. Desperately he pulls himself free. Now he is the one who is standing, looking down at her, finding something fascinating in the way her body is curled on the bed.
She stares back sulkily. 'What's the matter with you?' The contempt in her voice is obvious. 
'I don't want you in here.' 
'I'm not staying,' she assures him, turning her back on him as she clambers off the bed. She stalks from the room without looking at him again and without bothering to close the door. She has not smoothed down her dress. As he watches it riding over her buttocks, he cannot help feeling excited. 
The room no longer seems the same when she is gone. Her scent hangs in the air. He can taste the saltiness of her tongue. The door is still open. The alien music no longer distracts him as he struggles to make sense of his feelings. Holly and Miranda will talk about him. He closes his eyes, trying to blot out the images. And he prays that nobody else will come. 
* 
'I thought it was a terrible party,' Ashley declares at breakfast the next morning. 
'You were in your room all the time, so how could you know?' Miranda snaps. 
'He doesn't know,' a triumphant Samantha shouts, banging her spoon on the table. 
'I heard it. I couldn't help hearing it they way you had it turned up. And the whole thing was too grown up for little girls.' 
'I'm not a little girl,' Samantha responds indignantly. 
'Yes you are.' 
'You've got to have music,' Miranda intervenes. 'It wouldn't be a party if you didn't.' 
'So what did you play?' 
'I don't know. I wasn't keeping a list.' 
'You see - you weren't listening.' 
'You don't play it for listening. It's not like going to a concert.' 
'If nobody listens, you don't need it.' 
Miranda glares at him. 'Why are you such a misery?' 
'I approach life rationally instead of emotionally. Men do. Martin agrees with me.'
Martin studies his cornflakes and tries to pretend that he has not heard. 
'Don't you, Martin?' Ashley persists. 
'I suppose so,' Martin agrees reluctantly. 
'I should have thought music was more emotional than rational,' Miranda says. 'Or don't you think so?' 
The silence returns as he struggles to find an answer which will appease both sides. His dilemma is resolved by Ashley announcing, 'Music is an entirely rational activity - a matter of creating mathematical patterns in sound.' 
'What do you think?' Miranda asks Martin. 
'I suppose there's a bit of truth in it,' he concedes. 
'Are you rational or emotional?' 
'I haven't thought about it.' 
'I'd say you were more emotional, but you try to hide it.' 
'He's gooey over you,' Ashley judges. 'He's pretty rational apart from that.' 
'He's going all red,' says an excited Samantha. 
'Don't tease him,' Miranda scolds. 'He's very sensitive.' 
'Were you good at maths.?' Ashley want to know. 
'All right,' Martin responds.
'You never give a straight answer, do you?' Miranda complains. 
'That's the way I am.' 
'You never want people to know what you're thinking and feeling, do you?'
Martin sees all three Brock children watching him intently. 
'I'm not criticising,' Miranda assures him. 'I'm interested.' 
'Can we talk about something else?' 
'Why didn't you come down to join in the party?' 
'Why should anybody want to go to your party?' Ashley sneers before Martin can reply. 
'They obviously do, as you'd have seen if you'd come.' 
'I've got better things to do.' 
'Anyway, it wasn't for little boys.' 
'Just for little girls, I assume.' 
Martin toys with the idea of buying cereal, keeping it in his room and having breakfast there. The alternatives are enduring breakfasts with the Brocks till his graduation, or getting up earlier. His graduation - he thinks of the day with apprehension. It is something almost too momentous to contemplate - as unreachable as his final day at school once seemed. Then he will have to find a way of earning his living. The childhood dreams of being a concert pianist were shattered within days of beginning his studies - strange that Holly should be the only one to know. Teaching is more suited to his modest talent, though not in a school: the idea of confronting a class of boys like those in his own school fills him with dread. 
'Martin,' Miranda says sharply. He looks up. Everybody is watching. 
'Miranda's talking to you,' Samantha reproaches. 
'I was thinking about something.' 
'I hear Holly came up to see you,' Miranda prompts. 
'He's going red again,' Samantha says wonderingly. 
'What happened?' Miranda probes.
'Nothing,' he lies. 
'Then what are you blushing for?' 
'I'm not.' 
‘You are. We can see you.' 
'Okay, so I am.' 
'So what happened?' 
'She dared Holly to go in your room and get you to kiss her,' Samantha explains. 
'Why didn't you?' Miranda sounds curious. 
'I did,' he mutters. 
'She had to kiss you. That's not the same.' 
'I didn't know what she'd come for.' 
'She made it pretty obvious.' 
When Martin makes no response, she asks, 'Who do you think is more attractive - Holly or me?' There is a half-smile on her lips. 
'He's going redder and redder,' Samantha says in awe. 
'She was really annoyed she couldn't turn you on,' Miranda reveals. 
'She said you’re retarded,' Samantha adds. 
The cornflakes lose their flavour. 
'At you're age, copulation should be the normal response,' Ashley informs him. 
'You don't have to get uptight about it,' Miranda calls as Martin hurries from the room. 'We're interested.' 
* 
Martin walks briskly downhill from the main road, both hands in his pockets in the way that his mother deprecates. Wind tosses the branches of the bare trees. He crosses the junction diagonally, turning his face from the pub where Miranda took him. A shiver of embarrassment passes through him at the memory. Lawns fringe the road. Beyond them, past a belt of trees, the asphalt paths give way to tracks of gravel and mud across the untended grass. His pace slows as he climbs the heath, leaning into the wind. The very act of breathing demands concentration, dispelling his preoccupation with Miranda. Few other people walk there on such a day. He heads away from the road, savouring the openness and isolation. At first he thought of Hampstead Heath as a park. A few minutes walking its vastness convinced him that it was something more. Since then the heath has been his escape. Visiting it is like encountering an old friend. One of his dreams is to own a house overlooking it, so that he could walk there every day. Even the countryside with its fields and hedges seems constrained when compared with open heathland. In spring when the weather is better, he promises himself to explore every corner. Often he walks the same paths, content with the changes wrought by the weather and the opportunity for solitude. What intrigues him is how an area so vast and so close to central London has remained undeveloped. Some parts have the look of long-abandoned gravel workings; others are wooded. On the eastern fringes of the heath, he came upon a track which resembled a country lane with its hedges and the adjoining woodland. Usually he regards other people as an intrusion, though once he watched a girl exercising her dog, envying her ease with the animal. In spite of his fear he almost hoped that it would jump up at him, giving him an excuse to speak to her. 
On his second Sunday in London he walked across the heath to Kenwood House. If the shower had begun earlier, he should have turned back. Looking at the house from across the gardens bought to mind Debussy's jardins sous la pluie. He stood mesmerised by the conjunction of music and image, wishing that all music could be brought alive so magically and that there was somebody to share his revelation. That was before he had worked with Alison. 
At the top of the ascent he pauses, panting. It is on such occasions that he realises how out of condition he is. He has to concede that there was something to be said for school games even if he did not like them. As he stares across the heathland, memories of the previous evening steal into his mind. He knows they will stay with him - Miranda's complicity and Holly's attractiveness will keep them alive. And there are thoughts of what might have happened. What he fears most is meeting Holly again. She is sure to visit the house again if she is a friend of Miranda. As she lives nearby, the only certain way of avoiding her is to leave not only the house, but the neighbourhood. No more walking on the heath; no more playing the Blüthner. He hates her for putting him in such a position. Sometimes he glories in the act of walking, imagining that the heath has no end, but as if afraid of finding that his dreams have no substance, he always turns back before reaching the far trees. Sometimes he imagines walking there with Miranda; now Alison is his preferred companion. 
A deadness steals over him, making his limbs numb and stilling his emotions. Walking becomes mechanical. The path is rougher and pocked with pools of water. Mrs Brock is sure to return in time to cook lunch, so he does not want to go too far. He does not look forward to Sunday lunch. Ashley tries to make him feel uncomfortable by talking about subjects like how the digestive system works. This goes on until Mrs Brock protests. He is pleased when Miranda is there. He likes looking at her, but she always notices and makes him feel self-conscious. The worst moment was having to say that he enjoyed the meal when Mrs Brock asked on the first Sunday. Her meat is fatty like meat at school and she never cooks the vegetables enough, though nobody else seems to mind. Each week he tries without success to find a way of telling her that he will make his own arrangements for Sunday lunch. At such times, he wishes that he could move out.

chapter 8

'Have you got a piano where you are?' Deirdre asks. 
Martin admits that he has.
'You're lucky. Is it any good?'
'A Blüthner upright - it's great.' He wishes that his coffee were cooler, so he could drink it quickly and escape. They have been working on a Beethoven cello sonata. Though he enjoys playing with Deirdre, she expects him to go for a coffee afterwards. When he tries to tell her that he would rather practise, she insists that they can take a break for a few moments. For a musician she can be surprisingly insensitive.
'I haven't got a piano where I am,' she complains. ‘I suppose there isn't room for another tenant at your place?'
'No.'
'Whereabouts is it?'
'Hampstead - Belsize Park, really.'
'Very posh.'
That is everybody's response when he mentions where he lives. He knows that he ought to feel fortunate.
'What do you think of being here?' she asks. 'You never say much.'
'There's not much to say.'
'So what do you think of it?'
'How do you mean - London or the college?'
'The college.'
'It's what I wanted - coming here.'
'Sometimes I think you're regretting it.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘You don't look as if you're enjoying yourself.'
'Well I am.'
'You don't join in things.'
'We've been working together.'
'I mean socially.'
'I like to practise.'
'You can't work all the time.'
He stares across the other tables, envying the people who are on their own and wishing that Alison were there.
'Can you?' Deirdre persists.
'Not all the time.'
'You never let your hair down.'
Irrationally he hates Deirdre for telling him what he already knows. If he sits for long enough without speaking, will she give up and leave? He begins counting silently.
'Like last week when a crowd of us went to the Wigmore Hall,' she continues. 'Why didn't you come then?'
His resolve fails. He stops counting. He explains, 'I had an essay to write.'
'We've all got essays, haven’t we?'
'I like to get them done on time.'
'I know that, but people think it odd when you never join in anything.' 
'I like going to recitals by myself. I can concentrate better.' 
'What about if you're going to a film or something, where you don't have to concentrate?' 
'I don't go to films.' He has thought about it and one day he will go. Miranda often goes to the cinema with friends. From his room he hears them on the landing below as they talk about which film to see. At those times, he feels that his life has gone wrong. 
'A gang of us are going for a meal next Monday after the history lecture,' Deirdre is saying. 'How about coming?' 
'I'll have to see.' 
'Why can't you just say yes?' 
'I don't know what I'm doing next week. My father's coming to London.' 
'You could still come for a meal.'
'I'll have to go out with him.'
'Couldn't you put him off?'
'I'll certainly think about it.' That is how much he has grown up, he reflects. Instead of fending her off by saying 'I'll think about it,' now he says 'I'll certainly think about it,' as though the addition of a single word has significance. He watches Deirdre's ill-concealed vexation as though it has nothing to do with him. The trouble with music college is having to be with other students. Sometimes he dreams of taking private lessons, but he knows that his father will not see the need for them. Stories abound of students who pay for additional lessons by busking, but he could never bring himself to do that. Apart from Deirdre, the other students in his year no longer try to involve him in their plans. He is not unduly worried if they think him different - nothing can be worse than school. And he has no intention of revealing to Deirdre that finding somewhere else to live has preoccupied him since the party. Though he is loath to give up the Blüthner, he cannot get used to being a lodger in somebody else's home. The dilemma overshadows what has happened to his parents. He suspects that if he were younger or if he still lived at home, his response to their divorce might be different. 
Deirdre heaves herself off the chair. 'I'll be off if I can't tempt you.' 
'See you tomorrow,' he responds, ignoring her implied reproach. She does not say goodbye. 
* 
'Holly wants to see you,' Miranda announces as Martin comes down the attic staircase. He is wearing his outdoor clothes. He gazes at her, suspicion marring his pleasure. Normally he hates discovering one of the Brocks coming out of the bathroom, but Miranda is the exception. Any intimacy with her, however tenuous, is enjoyable. Her hair hangs in straggly, glistening strands against her shoulders. He savours the smell of bath salts and shampoo, letting it evoke other images of her. She is wearing a dressing gown. Her feet are bare. He has to stop himself from staring at her legs. She does not appear to mind his interest. 
'You must be really something to have a girl like Holly running after you,' she marvels. 
He avoids her gaze, imagining the two girls talking and giggling about him. 
'If only it could be the two of us,' she says wistfully, 'but I guess you're a one-girl guy.' She sighs. 'I'll just have to find somebody else.' She towels her hair vigorously, raising in Martin the hope that her dressing gown might fall open. When he does not move, she stops. A grin lights her face. 'You don't have to stand there watching me.' 
'I was going out.' 
'Off you go then.' She waits, watching, the towel hanging around her neck as he edges closer. 'Or is there something you want to tell me?' 
'No.' 
Her brow furrows. 
'One thing I'm curious about - do you ever have a bath?' 
'Of course I do.' Her face lights up. 
'Can I watch?' 
'No!' 
'I'm joking, right? It's just that you don't seem to use the bathroom much.' 
'As much as anybody else.' 
'Nobody sees you.' 
He can imagine them talking about him. He says, 'You're always out.' 
'You don't smell, so you must wash.' 
'Of course I do.' 
'Holly's very particular, so have a good bath before you meet her. When's it going to be?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Are you going to ring her up?' 
'I haven't got her number.' 
'I can give it to you. Can I listen when you talk to her?' 
'No.' 
'Don't leave it too long, or she'll think you're not interested. Or I could pass a message on if you want.' Miranda lifts one leg and scratches her foot. Her dressing gown does part then, revealing a length of thigh which he gazes at with fascination. She sounds amused as she prompts, 'I said do you want me to pass a message on?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Why don't you take her out on Friday?' 
He hesitates, alarmed by the prospect of taking a girl out - particularly one who shares none of his interests. 
'I wish you were taking me out,' Miranda says wistfully, lowering her leg so that her dressing gown falls over her thigh again. It is not clear from her tone whether she is being serious. Her face gives nothing away. 'Anyway, I'll tell Holly it's on for Friday, shall I? You could take her for a meal and go to nightclub. Holly likes clubs.' 
He stares, still unsure whether she is joking. 
'Supposing I say you'll meet her at seven-thirty outside the Swiss Centre? Do you know it? It's that new place in Leicester Square.' She stands close to him, the smell of her hair intoxicating him. 'I'm envious. What's Holly got that I haven't?' 
'It's not like that.' 
'You don't offer to take me out. Anyway, it's too late now - I don't want to get in Holly's way.' She leans close to his ear to whisper, 'You're gorgeous, do you know that?' 
Martin looks away to hide his confusion. 
'I'll see you later.' She pulls the dressing gown more tightly around her, which only serves to accentuate her curves. As she goes into her room, she blows him a kiss. There is no time to respond. He finds himself staring at the door panels, feeling that his life has changed. 
The landing is suddenly quiet. A board creaks in Miranda's room, reminding Martin of her closeness. He goes into the bathroom. It is warm, humid and heavy with the scent of Miranda. Rivulets of condensation run down the window. Miranda's perfume stands open by the taps. Martin screws on the top before he inspects the bath. Hairs cling to the enamel. He glances back guiltily at the door as he touches them, expecting to find Miranda watching him. His heart is thumping them. The decision is made. 
He closes the door quietly. With the plug in the bath, he runs the water. Then he begins to undress. Excitement makes him clumsy. A button comes off his shirt. By the time he is naked, there is barely three inches of water in the bath. He shivers. Discarded clothes lie at his feet. At the bottom of the pile is his overcoat. When the taps are turned off, he can hear the water tank gurgling. Normally he hears from his room. 
Miranda must have drawn off the hot water - what is left is tepid. A hair floats on the surface. He catches it between his fingers and places it on the ledge behind the taps like something precious. Goose pimples rise on his thighs and arms. His soap and towel are in his room, but Miranda's scented soap is within reach. It is still wet. He rubs it over his chest, making a lather with his hands -  
At the knock on the door, the soap splashes into the water. Martin scrabbles for it with one hand, his heart thudding. He crouches in the water, his knees drawn up to his chin. 
'Did I leave my perfume in there?' Miranda calls. 
'Yes.' 
'Can I come in and get it?' 
'No!' The panic invested in one word surprises even him. The goose pimples multiply; yet part of him which he hardly acknowledges wants her to open the door. 
Her tone is more playful when she asks, 'Are you in the bath?' 
'Yes.' 
'I shan't look.' 
'I won't be long.' 
After a pause she says, 'I need it now.' 
The door is opening. Martin tries to sink further into the water, but it offers less scope for modesty than the bubble baths in films. Miranda is still wearing her dressing gown. She has her hand in front of her eyes. 
'Do you always put your overcoat on when you're going to take a bath?' she asks, standing over his clothes. 
'No.' 
'Weird. Can you give me the perfume, please? I won't look.' She steps forward, one hand still before her eyes, the other arm outstretched. Martin has to lift himself partly out of the water to put the perfume bottle in her hand. Her fingers close around it. 'That's all I wanted. I'll leave you to it - unless you want me to wash your back.' 
He watches without answering. She is facing away from him, apparently engrossed in studying the wall. 'Pity. Might be fun. I could rub you dry.' When there is no response, she moves towards the door, dropping her hand. 'If I'd known you wanted a bath, we could have had one together. Still, too late now.' 
Martin listens after she has left, trying to detect telltale sounds which betray that she is waiting outside the door, but the carpets muffle everything. There is one noise - it takes a few moments for him to realise that it is his teeth chattering. 
When he climbs out the bath, he keeps one hand between his legs. The topmost towel on the rail is damp and smells of Miranda's bath salts. He dries himself with it, savouring its softness. One foot is wedged against the door so that nobody can enter, but there are no more interruptions. 
The landing is empty when he ventures out, clad once again in his outdoor clothes. He flees to the safety of the street. As he walks, he broods on what has happened. Miranda knows why he had a bath - that is almost as bad as her intrusion. Now they share a secret, he dreads the thought of meeting her again. And there is the meeting with Holly to consider. It crosses his mind that Miranda might have made up the story, but he dismisses the idea - she would not be that malicious. The thought of an evening with Holly fills him with dread which is not altogether unpleasant. The events of the party go through his mind again as he searches for some sign of her true feelings. He wishes that he could devote all his time to music. It is easier to understand. 
* 
Martin does not like going to the canteen with other students, but he remembers what Deirdre said. At least Richard's company is a way to avoid being alone with her. Richard has presence. His hair is styled; no other student wears a cravat or has shoes so highly polished. His main subject is singing. He behaves like a great artist. Martin envies such confidence, though to his ears Richard's voice has an unattractive bleating quality. 
The singer sips coffee and smiles benignly on his companion. 'We don't see much of you.' 
'I always go to lectures.' 
'I mean in here.' 
'I'm usually practising.' 
'I admire your dedication.' 
'I don't know if that's what it is.' 
'What else would you call it?' 
'I don't know.' 
'You work with Deirdre sometimes, don't you?' 
'Sometimes,' he agrees. 
'I hear you're a pretty good accompanist.' 
'I don't know about that.' 
'How about accompanying me?'
Martin weighs the opportunity to improve his skills with the disadvantage of having to see more of Richard. He knows which should have priority. 
'I'm working on some Fauré songs,' Richard continues. 'Do you know them?' 
Martin shakes his head. 
'Have you played his nocturnes?' 
'No.' 
'You ought to explore them. Fauré can spin these wonderful, long, melodic lines. Sometimes I think my vocation is to rescue him from obscurity.' 
'I've never tried accompanying a singer.' 
'You'll find it interesting. The main thing to remember is you've got to be flexible - you can't say this is the tempo, these are the note values.' 
'I know that from working with Deirdre.' 
'It applies far more with singing. I suppose the other thing is whether can you transpose.' 
'I haven't tried it much.' 
'You have to if you're working with a singer.' Richard sips his coffee. 'What do you want to specialise in?' 
'Piano.' 
'Accompanying, solo work or chamber?' 
'I don't know. It depends what I can get.' 
'Any favourite period?' 
'Early nineteenth century - Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann. Bit predictable, I'm afraid.' 
'Not at all. What's your approach? Do you believe in taking account of the composer's life when interpreting his music, or do you take the view that the notes say everything?' 
'I'm not sure.' 
'I think Schumann's the case par excellence for getting your approach clear. Think of the Florestan and Eusebius contrasts and the ciphers hidden in the themes. Did you know he used them to pass messages to Clara?' 
Martin nods. 'I think you have to put the music first,' he ventures. 
'Sure, but you have to put it in context.' 
Martin looks helplessly into his cup. 
'That's the way I approach a song cycle as a singer. You start by looking at the words and trying to decide what the poet was trying to say. Then you have to work out why the composer set them - what was their significance for him. After that you bring together the words and music. That's when things get complicated. You have to consider whether the composer changed the emphasis when he made his setting.' 
Martin nods, wishing he had got on with his practice instead on concerning himself with what people thought about him. 
'Perhaps we could try some Schumann later,' Richard offers. 
'All right.' 
'Do you know Dichterliebe?' 
'I've heard it.' 
'That's what I'd like to work on, if you can manage it.' 
Martin wonders whether he should agree. Accompanying is a useful skill, but he does not want to work with Richard all the time. To stop being plied with questions, he counters by asking, 'What are your plans when you leave here?' 
'Difficult.' Richard stirs his coffee as he reflects on his answer. 'I think I'd have to say it depends on what the situation is at the time, but I don't anticipate any trouble getting into an opera company. If there aren't any suitable openings here, I'll go to Germany.' 
Martin raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise at such assurance. 
'If I stay in this country, I might do some work on the music club circuit,' Richard continues. 'The openings are there, but they don't pay well.' He preens his goatee, which Martin secretly dislikes. 'The trouble with opera is that it demands a different technique from lieder and I'm not sure that the two are compatible. To get through an orchestra, you have to develop an edge to the voice which is out of place in lieder. That's one of the reasons why singing is so difficult. It's like having to play two instruments. And the voice is a living thing - that’s what makes everything so complicated. It's not like walking into a room and playing the piano. You're dependent on temperature, humidity, whether you've got a cold, whether you get hay fever and all the rest.’ He looks out the window. ‘I wish we weren't so near the park here - I'll be living on antihistamines in the spring.' 
'Makes me glad I'm a pianist.' 
'And you have to watch your social life as a singer. Too much alcohol or an evening in a smoky pub and the cords suffer.' 
Martin casts around the canteen for any distraction. The idea of working with Richard is losing its attraction. Seeing a friendly face, he announces, 'Alison's over there.' 
Richard regards her as if judging a pupil in a competition. 'She's quite a good player.' 
Martin watches more surreptitiously as Alison sips her coffee, pretending not to notice their interest. She is a serious girl who wears make-up sparingly. Her main subject is violin. When she practises warming-up exercises first thing in the morning, her fluffy hair glows like gold when it catches the light, making it look like a halo. He wishes she was the one to suggest working together. To excuse himself, he says, 'I'd better get some practising done while I've got the chance.' 
'We'll go over and join her,' Richard decides, rising to his feet as though he has not heard. Martin trails after him, annoyed with himself for following so meekly yet knowing he would never approach Alison on his own. She looks bemused when they sit opposite her. 'Somebody deep in contemplation,' Richard greets her. 
She smiles. 'I was thinking about theory this afternoon.' She has a Scottish accent which Martin sometimes tries to emulate in the privacy of his room. 
'Not the high point of the week,' Richard agrees, 'especially the way it's taught here.' 
'I think it's the subject rather than her approach.' 
Richard waves his hand dismissively. 'It's pretty irrelevant anyway.' 
'How's Martin getting on?' she asks, turning to him. 
'All right.’ He is smiling, trying not to show that he is flustered by her interest. He keeps his eyes on his cup. 
'We don't often see you taking time off for a coffee.' 
'He spends all his time practising,' Richard explains. 'I wish I could.' 
Martin lifts his gaze. Alison is looking at him rather than at Richard. He finds the intensity of her blue eyes disconcerting. 
'You're looking more radiant than ever, my dear Alison,' Richard says. 
'Thank you.' This time she it the one to look flustered. Martin watches, sensing a kindred spirit. 
'You're the light of our year,' Richard assures her. 
'Sounds like flattery.' 
'Singers can't be modest.' 
'You're certainly not.' 
Martin drains his cup. He wants to leave; but he knows that if he does, Richard will talk about him. 
'That's part of the performance,' Richard is saying, 'putting over your personality to best advantage.' 
'Shouldn't you put the music over?' Alison enquires. 
Richard looks pleased by the question. 'Obviously the music comes first, but you've got to have the confidence to project it. Think of a performer who comes creeping onto the platform - the audience are going to carry on talking.' 
'I'll get on with some practice,' Martin excuses himself, drawing his chair back. Leaving seems a better option than staying, whatever Richard says about him afterwards. 
'Don't run off yet,' Alison pleads. 'Wait a few minutes.' 
Martin hesitates, torn between the pleasure of her company and the ordeal of being with Richard. 
'We're going to be working together,' Richard explains. 'I need an accompanist and Martin wants to sharpen his accompanying skills. The perfect match.' 
'Don't let Richard chain you to the keyboard,' Alison warns. 'I know what he's like.'
'Slander!' Richard exclaims. 'Don't listen to her.' 
'Just you remember,' she tells Martin, who smiles instead of replying. 'Where is it you live?' 
'Hampstead - Belsize Park, really.' 
'You're lucky.' She pulls a face. 'I share a house in Catford.' 
'Not quite Belsize Park,' Richard agrees. 
'I'm sure it's haunted.' She shivers. 'We hear funny noises at night.' 
'What sort of noises?' 
'Creaking and scraping.' 
'Sure it's not the central heating?' 
'We haven't got central heating.' 
'You still get boards moving as the temperature changes. Old houses always creak.' He turns to Martin. 'Isn't that right?' 
'I don't know.' 
'I think it's a ghost,' Alison declares. 'We've all heard things.' 
'I'd love to hear these noises,' Richard says. 
'If you want to spend the night on a sagging settee, you're welcome.' 
Martin wishes that he had not hesitated about leaving. 
'You ought to come out with us for a meal,' Alison invites him. 
'Good idea,' Richard agrees. 
'I've found a cheap curry house we could try. Do you like curries, Martin?' 
'They're all right,' he says, remembering his mother's curries. 
'That's three of us, then. I'll ask the others.' She pushes her cup away. 'I'm off to the library.'
'I'll come with you,' Richard says. Too late for Martin to claim that he is going there. 
* 
It is the first time that Martin’s father has visited him in London. It was all Martin could do to dissuade him from coming to the Brock's house. Instead they meet near the British Museum. Martin does not know the area. He does not like it. Tall, stuccoed buildings make the narrow streets gloomy and oppressive. The restaurant is Italian - a warm, shabby place, made humid by cooking. Martin orders spaghetti - and then wonders whether he has done the right thing because it is difficult to eat without making a mess. If his mother were there, he would have chosen something else. His father orders an omelette. 
'So how's it going?' his father asks as they wait. 
'All right.' 
'Keeping up with the work?' 
'Yes.' 
'That's the main thing.' 
'Mainly it's practising.' 
'You're pretty good about that.' 
Martin does not reply. He studies a yellowing picture of an Italian fishing village surrounded by hills. 
'What 's the place like where you're staying?' 
'Okay.' 
'Your mother says you've fallen on your feet there.' 
'I suppose so.' He can only guess at how much his parents talk about him. Sometimes he appals himself by wishing his parents and his enemies from school were dead so that nobody should know his past. 
'You hear about the places some students live in,' his father is saying. 'They're pretty terrible, apparently.' 
'It's got a Blüthner.' 
'What's that - a piano?' 
Martin nods. 'A really good one. That's why they always have a music student as a lodger.' 
'If you've got somewhere you like, make sure you give them a retainer so you can hang onto it through the holidays. I'll give you the money if you need it.' 
'I might be staying there for the holidays. I've got a lot of work to do.' 
'Your mother's going to be disappointed. She was looking forward to seeing you.' 
'I'll be back for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. And I'll have to come back for the moving.' 
'She's told you about it?' 
'You want to sell the house.' 
'It's a question of having to.' There is frustration in his father's voice. 'What your mother doesn't seem to realise is that I'm working all the hours God sends to keep up the mortgage payments.' 
Martin nods, hardly comprehending. 
'I didn't mind when you were at school, but she doesn't need a place that size when she's on her own. I don't suppose you'll want to go back there to live after you've finished college.' 
Martin feels uncomfortable talking about himself. His gaze drifts towards the door. 'I haven't thought about it,' he confesses. 
'If your mother offered to work herself, it might make things easier. At least she's agreed to get a flat.' 
He knows that the meeting is a mistake and that he should have kept to his routine. When he ventures another glance at his father, the anger has subsided. 
'Once everything's sorted out, I should be able to send you more money.' 
'I'm managing all right.' 
'It's expensive, living in London.' 
'I don't go out much.' 
'Have you made friends?' 
'A few.' 
'That's good.' 
A waitress brings the food. Martin looks down at the steaming spaghetti. He has lost his appetite. 
* 
Friday - when Martin is supposed to meet Holly. By the afternoon he is still not sure what to do. The very thought of having to see her again makes him squirm with embarrassment. All the reasons for avoiding the encounter are well rehearsed: they have nothing in common, his grant does not allow for extravagances and she will soon grow tired of his company. Equally important, his routine will be upset yet again. After college on Fridays he likes to buy chocolate from the sweet shop at the underground station. After practising, he unwraps the chocolate in his room while listening to Radio Three and eats it during the second half of the concert. Routine is something predictable and safe which should not be lightly abandoned. He tells himself that he should sample all experiences and that his first impression of Holly might have been unfortunate and that she really wants to see him; but the sentiments do not ring true. Yet he must still go to the meeting - his sense of responsibility is too well-developed for him to do anything else. Such blind adherence to principle frustrates him. He envies Miranda her freedom to do what she wants. The irony is that although he has never been close to his parents, they inculcated him with values which his contemporaries do not share. Now it is too late to change. However much he rails against what happened, his parents' legacy will always be with him. He wonders whether they realise what they have done. 
Alison steals frequently into his thoughts. He has made special efforts to seek her out, going for coffee several times a day when he would normally be practising, and hanging around outside the practice rooms at times when he expects her to be there. On this Friday, she does not appear until the afternoon, arriving late for the lecture and slipping into a seat by the door. He watches her covertly, other concerns pushed aside, finding beauty in her every expression and gesture. It is a heady experience. He does not care that the lecturer's words flow over him. Nothing matters except finding a way to be with Alison. One delicious dream is to invite her back to Belsize Park and watch Miranda's face. 
At the end of the lecture, there is no opportunity to talk to Alison. She is with Deirdre. He considers joining them, but he watches helplessly as they leave, still deep in conversation. The idea passes through his mind of asking Richard or Deirdre for Alison's telephone number and ringing her over the weekend, but he knows that if he did pluck up the courage to ask, he would never bring himself to make the call. He toys with the idea of following her home one evening. It would be easy to keep out of sight now that dusk comes early, but if he did succeed in discovering where she lived, he would never pluck up the courage to make use of the knowledge. 
The library is almost deserted late on Friday afternoon. No Alison. Every detail of their conversation in the canteen is vivid in his mind. Many times he has gone over it, finding new significance in her words. He wishes that he had the courage to go up to her on his own. The book he has chosen at random lies unread before him. Across the table is a girl whom he knows by sight. He watches her surreptitiously, imagining talking to her. He closes his eyes as the fantasies come. Images of girls real and imagined blur into one. With the guilty pleasure comes the realisation that the single-mindedness which normally characterises his approach to work has deserted him. Other people must have noticed.
The problems of the evening can no longer be put aside. He feels self-conscious about his clothes, though he did take particular care with his appearance that morning. Holly dresses stylishly. The smell of her scent comes back to him, bringing with it his emotions on the night of the party. Miranda has already told him that his clothes are those of a schoolboy - scruffy and shabby. Since then, he has looked in the mirror over the wash-basin each morning, trying to be objective about himself. In his view he looks indistinguishable from his colleagues. With the exception of more flamboyant characters like Richard, students do not wear fashionable clothes. Martins feels that If he were as scruffy as Miranda claimed, his mother would surely have said something.
Glancing at his watch - no time to go back to Belsize Park to change. The girl on the other side of the table puts away her books. Martin watches her leaving. Time for him to go. How he wishes that he could stay in the warmth and safety of the library. 
The streets are clearing after the rush hour. Being able to find his way to the West End without having to consult the A to Z pleases him. He is a Londoner now.  Pedestrians hurry past without noticing him, which gives him the comforting feeling of being invisible. People like Richard and Miranda assure him that life in London is exciting. Glimpses of what they mean are vouchsafed to him as he pauses before the brightly-lit windows of jewellers and couturiers to gaze at gifts far beyond his means. Easy to imagine Holly in that world; easy to fantasise being drawn into it himself and showering Alison with presents. Perhaps that is part of his hidden side which one day will be shown to the world. 
The walk takes longer than anticipated, so there is no problem of killing time. His stomach rumbles. Seven hours since he had anything to eat. Now the meeting is imminent, his apprehension increases. The thought that Holly might want a meal prompts him to study the menus in restaurant windows near Leicester Square. The prices alarm him. People jostle him. The streets areas crowded as though it is day. Suddenly he is no longer invisible, but a schoolboy adrift in a world of strip clubs and restaurants. He longs to be in his room, listening to the Friday concert on the radio. It is tempting to go to the tube station and take a train home without bothering to wait for Holly, but his conscience baulks at such a step. 
A deep canopy extends over the pavement in front of the Swiss Centre. It is a popular meeting place. Though the bright lights impart some warmth, they make him feel self-conscious - as though he is on display to the passers-by. Now he is no longer walking, he notices the cold more. With hands thrust deep in his pockets he huddles deep in the entrance, watching the other people who wait. A girl meets her boyfriend. She comes to life when he arrives - laughing, smiling and talking animatedly. Martin watches as they embrace. He imagines that happening with Holly. He knows little about her, except that she is attractive and confident. Idly he wonders whether she will want to see a film or go for a meal. He wishes that he had more money on him. 
The coldness bites deeper. The people who were waiting when he arrived have gone. Another girl stands nearby. She is not beautiful like Alison, but her large, soulful eyes command his attention. She wears a long coat like Alison; disappointingly he cannot see her legs. When she glances at him, he is inordinately pleased. 
A further ten minutes pass. Eight o'clock. The girl in the long coat is met by her boyfriend. Martin wonders if there is another entrance to the Swiss Centre, but he dare not go to look lest Holly should arrive in his absence. Thirst makes a nagging pain spread through his body, as though it is drying up. Many ideas pass through his mind - that she might have been taken ill, met with an accident or been delayed on the underground. It is only a week since a power failure stranded tube passengers for an hour. 
At eight-thirty, he gives up. The people who were waiting on his arrival have long since departed. He feels that their successors are looking at him and can guess what has happened. In a snack bar behind the Swiss Centre he has a sandwich and a Horlicks, clasping the mug with both hands to draw its warmth. There are no other customers. A radio blares pop music. The owner sweeps around Martin's feet in preparation for closing. Martin's eyes are downcast to avoid looking at himself in the mirrors lining the walls. He has to force himself not to look out the window for Holly, though on his way back to the tube station, he does take a detour pass the Swiss Centre entrance again. Several of the same people are waiting; they pay no attention to him.
Fifty minutes later he lets himself into the Brock's house. Miranda's door opens when he reaches the first floor landing, as though she has been waiting for him. It is unusual for her to be home on a Friday evening.
'You’re home early,’ she accuses him. ‘What’s happened?’ 
He shakes his head.
'What's that mean?'
'She never came.'
'How long did you wait?'
'Till half past eight.'
'That's not very long. You know she had to get ready?' 
'You said half past seven.' 
'That doesn't give her long, does it? Supposing she didn't get there till nine? She might still be waiting. Didn't you think of that?' 
'I waited an hour.' 
'You're so selfish, Martin. ‘What you should do is go back.' 
He stares at her helplessly, not sure whether she is being serious.
'Fortunately it doesn't matter,' she continues. 
'What do you mean?' 
'What I say. It doesn't matter because she couldn't come.' 
'Why?' 
'It's none of your business.' 
'I just wondered.' 
'All you need to know is she couldn't come.' 
'You're the one who said I was to meet her.' 
Miranda closes her eyes for a moment to summon patience, as though she is dealing with a recalcitrant child. 'And she couldn't make it. How many more times?' 
He watches, expecting Miranda to laugh and to say that she is joking. When she does not, he turns his back on her. As he climbs the stairs, he knows that she is watching him. His room is warm, familiar and safe. The concert of Radio Three is almost finished - that is what happens when he abandons his routine. He vows never to go out with a girl again.

Part 3      1970

chapter 9

His last year at college. Every night as Martin tries to sleep, his thoughts turn to the future. He thinks of the Brock's house as home now. He cannot imagine being without the Blüthner.
A more pressing worry is that Mrs Brock wants to see him after his practice. That preys on his mind, making him play unthinkingly. It is a bad way to work. As one of his teachers keeps insisting, music should always be recreated anew if it is not to become arid and stale. Eventually he abandons all pretence at practising.
Mrs Brock is in the breakfast room, marking essays. Books and essays are spread over the table. She looks up smiling as Martin makes his hesitant entrance. He remembers a visit to the headmaster generating the same sense of unease.
'Sit down, Martin,' she invites, putting down her pen. As he complies, perching on the edge of the nearest chair to face her across the table, she asks, 'How long is it you've been with us?'
'Three years.' He suspects that she is about to tell him to leave. He waits apprehensively, marvelling anew at how she manages to maintain her youthfulness now Miranda is almost out of her teens and Ashley is preparing for his O-levels. The long skirts and Indian fabrics which she favours are far different from anything his mother would consider wearing. Sometimes she even wears a coloured headband like the girls who shop in Hampstead High Street.
'Three years. After all this time, can't you think of yourself as one of the family and come in without knocking?' She speaks gently, as though reasoning with a child - a tone Miranda has copied. Martin stares at the essays, wondering what they are about as she continues, 'All I wanted to ask you about was Christmas - have you decided what you're going to do?'
'Can I stay here?'
'On Christmas Day?'
He nods.
'Won't your mother be expecting you?'
'I'd rather stay here,' he insists doggedly.
'Of course you can if you want. Is something the matter at home?'
'No.'
'Have you told your mother you won’t be coming?'
'Yes,' he lies, hoping that his face will not betray him.
'And she doesn't mind?'
'No.'
The Christmas visits home have become a tradition since his college life began. From his arrival at the flat on Christmas Eve, he counts the hours till his departure as he used to do at school. He feels an intruder there. Though his mother tries to make him welcome, he is certain that she breathes a sigh of relief when he leaves. The first year, he stayed till the day after New Year; the following Christmas, he returned to London on the day after Boxing Day. The words which his mother and he exchange are the cliches of people being polite. Even the exchange of presents only brings embarrassment. 
On Boxing Day he visits his father for the afternoon, accepting a drink for the sake of politeness, but making it last the duration of his visit. An abiding memory from the previous Christmas is of sitting in front of the shabby fireplace with its hissing gas fire, rock music leaking through the wall from the adjoining flatlet, while his father cradled a glass of whisky. He likes to leave his father by three-thirty, so that he can walk back through the park to his mother's flat before dusk. The thrill of Christmas which he experienced as a child has gone.
'Your parents are divorced, aren't they?' Mrs Brock probes.
Martin nods noncommittally, conscious that she is watching for his reaction.
'Has that upset you?'
'It's not much different - they've been separated so long.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'No.'
She takes off her glasses. That always makes her look so like Miranda that she could be an older sister. 'Why are you so afraid of showing your emotions, Martin?'
'I didn't know I was.'
'I don't know what sort of school you went to...' 
'Just an ordinary school.' 
'Do you mean a grammar school?' 
'A secondary modern.' 
'Surprising.' 
'Why?' 
'You behave as though you went to a school with a lot of tradition behind it. Was it like that?' 
Martin shakes his head, not sure what she means. 
'You don't have to show a stiff upper lip. It's not childish to show what you feel.' She smiles as Martin searches for how to respond. 'If you show people how you feel, you'll find they respond. It's the way we know how to behave towards each other - being aware of each other's feelings. If we don't get the right cues, we don't know what to do.' 
When he thinks of how Miranda once behaved towards him, he wonders what cues he should have given. 
'It's strange in a performer,' Mrs Brock muses. 'You have to show your feelings when you’re playing, don't you?' 
'I suppose so.' 
'How do manage when you've got to face an audience - are you nervous?'
'At first, but you get wrapped up in the music.' 
Mrs Brock leans forward, interested. 'You mean it legitimates your emotion? You can show your feelings in the way you decide is acceptable.'
'You try to recreate what the composer intended,' Martin responds, confused. 
'How can you communicate unless you're willing to reveal something of yourself?' 
'It's not something you think about when you're playing.' 
'I don't just mean in music - in everyday life.' 
'Music is my everyday life.' He has the satisfaction of seeing his interrogator look discomfited. 
'I didn't put it very well,' she says with a trace of annoyance. 'I was trying to explain that you get close to people by letting them share your feelings.' She assumes her sympathetic smile again. 'You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not, but you haven't got a girlfriend, have you?' 
He shakes his head, wishing that he had an excuse to get away. 
'If you keep hiding your feelings, you'll find you won't be able to show them when it's important that you do. Getting on with people is something you have to practise, like playing the piano.' 
He is not sure whether she is making a joke. He smiles uncertainly. 
'You don't mind me talking to you like this, do you?' 
'No,' he lies. 
'When you first came here, I thought you'd settle down and be yourself when you got to know us, but I don't think you've changed at all. I assume you like it here, or you wouldn't have stayed so long.' She will not let him evade her gaze. 'I thought you'd make friends with Ashley and Miranda.'
‘They don't like music.' 
'You don't always have to share other people's interests.' 
He stares in disbelief in the face of her words and her temerity. 
'I don't think you've ever been out with them, have you?' 
'I went out with Miranda once.' 
'I'm not criticising, but you spend all your time in your room alone, playing the piano, or going out by yourself. You ought to allow yourself some social life.' 
'I've got a lot of work to do for the exams.' 
'It's been the same all the time you've been here, so it's not just the exams, is it?' 
He feels aggrieved - being told off should have finished when he left school. 
'You've got friends at college, haven't you?' Mrs Brock perseveres. 
'Yes.' 
'Then why don't you go out with them socially?' 
'I do.' 
'I never see you go out in the evening.' She shakes her head sadly. 'I worry about you.' 
'I'm all right.' 
'I don't feel I know you any better than when you first arrived.' 
He meets her gaze rebelliously, not replying, anxious for the meeting to end. 
'I think you're lonely and you hide behind your music,' she deduces. 
'No.' He is shaking his head vigorously. He wants to explain that music is his way of expressing himself, but the words fly from his mind. Easier to explain by playing to her, if she would let him. He looks down at the essays, wondering whether she interferes in her students' private lives in the same way. 
'I think you've extremely sensitive, both as a musician and as a person - perhaps too sensitive. You avoid situations where you don't feel confident.' She holds up her hand to forestall disagreement and leans forward. 'I'm telling you this to help you, Martin, not as a criticism. You're going to handicap yourself socially and professionally if you can't get on with people.'
He has to look at her. The sympathy in her eyes makes him uneasy. It is not so different from the pitying way Jackson used to look at him. He wonders what happened to Jackson. 
'I think we're lucky,' she confides. 'We're a close, loving family even though Gavin - that's Mr Brock - is away so much. And we're an open family - we don't try to hide our feelings from each other. After all this time, I'd like you to think of yourself as one of us. That means sharing your problems with us and letting us see your feelings. Will you try to do that?' She smiles encouragingly, the way teachers used to smile. 'No keeping things to yourself.' 
He tries to imagine confiding in her, but the picture remains unconvincing.
'Of course you can stay here over Christmas if that's what you want,' she continues, 'but I'm going to make one condition - no staying in your room or practising for hours. You're going to be one of the family and join in all the silly things we do.' 
He can only guess at the silly things he will be expected to do. Party games have never appealed to him. He can imagine Ashley having a crushing reply ready if anybody suggests that he joins in. Miranda might be more amenable if she is not going to a party and if she does not think games too childish. Her beauty still compels his attention. Seeing her always makes him yearn to know her better, though he knows that the opportunity has long since passed. Whenever she speaks to him, her tone is offhand. 
'Do you still want to spend Christmas with us?' Mrs Brock asks. 
'Yes.' 
She looks pleased. 'I'm glad. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time.' 
Martin is less sure. 
'Do you know - we've never had a student with us for so long before.' 
He raises his eyebrows in polite surprise. 
‘That’s all.’
He gets up. When she leaves her seat to come around the table to him, his surprise is replaced by panic which intensifies as she hugs him. He tries to free himself as the hardness of her hip presses against his left arm, pinioning him. 
'What's the matter?' she asks, drawing back. 'Don't you like anybody touching you?' 
'Not much.' 
As she releases him, she says gently, 'You're silly, Martin - do you know that?' 
He wriggles free and flees to his room. 
* 
It is rare for all the Brocks to be out at the same time. Mrs Brock and Samantha are shopping. Miranda is staying with friends. Ashley is on the heath, either birdwatching or looking for dead animals to dissect. Mr Brock is not due back in the country until Christmas Eve. Martin stands on the landing, savouring the stillness of an empty house in the way he used to do in his schooldays. He can feel at peace when he is alone. Like his old home, the house has its own sounds. Faint gurgles come from the central heating. Floorboards creak as though the ghost of some past resident stalks the bedrooms. He reassures himself by recalling what Richard once said about woodwork expanding and contracting as the temperature changes. From the depths of the house comes the whirring of the washing machine. 
Martin has glimpsed the main bedroom when the door is open, but this is the first time he has ventured inside. The floral fabrics and stripped pine furniture are in keeping with the rest of the house. The bed looks large enough for the whole family. He gazes in fascination, wanting to fling himself on it so that it engulfs him. The room is pervaded with Mrs Brock's perfume. Jars and bottles crowd the dressing table. He reads the labels, thinking he might buy her perfume for Christmas if it is not too expensive. Buying presents is always difficult. 
He hesitates before going into Miranda's room, knowing that she is away, but unable to rid himself of the fear that she might have come back early. No sound reaches him when he puts his ear to the door. His knock produces no answer. He turns the brass knob noiselessly. 
A double bed dominates the room. The bedding and curtains are pastel blue; the darker carpet is almost hidden under discarded clothes. Make-up litters the dressing table, imbuing the room with a musky aroma. Martin almost feels disappointed not to find Miranda seated before the mirror, turning to greet him with that feline smile which makes his heart leap. 
The wardrobe takes up most of one wall. It is large enough for him to stand inside. The door is open, offering a glimpse of her clothes. He goes forward wonderingly, as though approaching a shrine. So many clothes. Euphoria such as he has never known comes with touching them, breathing in their scents and recalling occasions when she wore them. Around the house, she likes to wear jeans. Two pairs lie folded on a shelf. He strokes them, remembering how tightly they fit her body, longing to try them on, but afraid. To free himself from temptation he steps back from the wardrobe. What can he tell from the room about its owner? There are no books. Apart from the clothes, it is the posters which might give a clue to the owner's personality - prints of what he recognises as impressionist paintings, though he knows little about art. It is the room of somebody who follows fashion and has few ideas of her own, or is that his prejudice? Propriety vies with pleasure as he tries to decide what to explore next. So many treasures to choose from. 
He opens a drawer of the dressing table: it is crammed with underclothes. The sight thrills him in a way that music has never done. Touching them is not enough. As he buries his face in them, excitement erupts as though a firework explodes in his mind, yet afterwards he cannot escape a sense of anticlimax at not being able to sustain his excitement. Miranda will never be so close. 
The bed is unmade. He slips off his slippers and climbs onto it reverently, curling into the place where she sleeps, gazing at the ceiling as she does. Fabric rustles against his ear as he nuzzles the pillow, intoxicated by the faint aromas of shampoo and make-up. As he thinks of Miranda snuggling into a comfortable position, he wants to take off his clothes to bring himself closer to the sensations she must experience. His body stills as he considers the implications if Miranda came back. The compromising nature of his action makes him apprehensive - if he were discovered, excuses would be useless. The thought stops him from going further with his fantasy. He looks for hairs as a tangible sign of her presence, but a crumpled tissue under the pillow is his only find. 
When he leaves Miranda's room, it is with a sense of relief that the risks are behind him. The stairs creak as he descends. In the hall he pauses, looking towards the front door, imagining scenes of seventy years ago. The house must have been occupied by a large family with servants. Two maids probably slept in his attic room. Sometimes he lies on his bed in the darkness and imagines that he can hear them talking. It takes little effort of the imagination to see a maid in black dress and starched white apron dusting the hall. Victorian children rush to the front door to greet their father. Their cries are excited and high-pitched. The maid watches. She is a child herself. Then she retreats below stairs to the kitchen, leaving the family alone. One of the girls turns. As she turns, he finds himself looking into Miranda's face. 
In those days, the lounge would have been called the parlour. Martin does not often go in there - Samantha monopolises it in the early evening, staring in rapt attention at the television. On this occasion he takes advantage of her absence to look at the decorations. Mrs Brock made him help the others to put them up, though he did little more than say when the loops of tinsel draped from the light pendant were equal. The effect is magical in the dusk, rekindling memories of childhood. The twisting foil strands form a canopy, hanging low over the room and rising upwards to the centre. The draught from the air stirs them, making the threads of colour curl and shimmer. The tree in the bay reaches almost to the ceiling. Its coloured lights catch the facets of the silvered glass decorations, making them glitter like frost. Crowning the tree is a fairy which Samantha insisted on putting in place while Mrs Brock held her. Around the base are parcels wrapped in expensive Christmas paper and tied with coloured ribbon, each one finished in a bow. The secrecy which surrounds the buying of presents intrigues rather than excites him now that he is an outsider. The gifts will reveal how much each member of the family thinks of the others - and of him, for some of the parcels bear his name. He has bought a book for Ashley and a tape for Samantha. Whatever he considers buying for Mrs Brock and Miranda seems on reflection to be mundane and unsuitable. He knows that Miranda has bought him something, though whether out of a sense of duty or from genuine affection, he does not know. 
His last Christmas with the Brocks - perhaps his last experience of a family Christmas. He kneels, looking up at the room as a child might - in wonderment, as though a storybook has come to life. Then the sorrows and the anxieties lift. Magic does happen. For once he can think of his parents with love and compassion. They are good people who tried to give him a happy childhood. He dreams of drawing them together again. In the magic room, anything is possible. 
* 
The last week of term. Martin looks forward to a few weeks without the constant worry of how to evade his fellow students. And he will see more of Miranda. He stares at the music on the piano, noticing a staccato which he missed while he was sight-reading. Richard has broken off to practise alone and stands by the window, producing a G with what in Martin's estimation is a pinched, nasal tone. 
'What do you think?' 
'Sounds okay.' One thing Martin has learned is always to give singers encouragement. 
'Do you think it's focused?' 
'Yes.' 
Richard tries again. 'Is that any better?' 
'It's fine.' 
'Tone's a bit rough today.' 
As Richard practises the note again and again, Martin's thoughts go back to the phone conversation with his mother. 
'So you won't be coming home at all?' Her voice was sharp. He knew she would not be pleased, which was why he had put off ringing her. 
'I shan't have time - I've got so much to do.' 
'I wish you'd told me before - I've already ordered a chicken.' 
'I didn't know.' 
'Have you got yourself a holiday job?' 
'No. It's stuff I've got to get ready for next term. I've got exams this year.'
'Surely you won't be working on Christmas Day?' 
'I'll have to.' 
'I suppose if you've got to, that's all there is to it.' Her tone was curt. 'I'd better send your present on if I'm not going to see you.' 
He appeased her by saying, 'I might come up for the day later on, if work goes okay.' 
'It'll be nice to see you. I expect your father's got something for you.' Contempt enters her voice whenever she mentions his father. She always refers to him as her former husband. Martin knows that they no longer meet. She misses no opportunity to hint that he is drinking too much. 
'I'll have to let you know when I've sorted out the trains.' 
'So I'll wait till I hear from you.' 
He felt that he ought to apologise for not spending Christmas with her, yet part of him was annoyed at being made to feel guilty. 
'So what do you think of Winterreise?' Richard asks, coming back to the piano. 
'Interesting.' 
'Interesting! Is that all you can say?' 
'One thing that struck me - there's a lot of birdsong in the piano part.'
Richard shakes his head. 'Not something I've noticed.' 
'You could almost take the piano part of every song as a different bird.' Seeing that Richard looks unconvinced, Martin explains, 'It's obvious in the one about the crow. But if you listen to the next one, you can hear a bird scratching about.' He illustrates his point on the piano, while Richard follows the music over his shoulder. 
'You could take it that way,' the singer concedes. 
'If you listen to "A Dream of Spring", it's full of bird song.' 
'"Frühlingstraum". It's obvious from the words that's about birds.' Richard leans across him to turn the pages. 'Here we are - he mentions cocks and owls.' 
'I think you'll find there's more birdsong than that.' 
'Shall we try it?' 
As Martin plays, the problems of Christmas can be forgotten. At the slow section, Richard gestures him to hold back the tempo. They continue to the end without interruption. 
'A strange piece,' Richard muses. 'You've got these images of spring, yet they're all in a dream. Somehow you've got to make that clear.' 
'Emotion recollected in tranquillity,' Martin sums up, remembering how Mr Kelly described Solomon's playing. He still sees his old teacher whenever he goes home. The thought brings a pang of conscience: Mr Kelly will be looking forward to his visit at Christmas. 
'Certainly not tranquillity - not when the poet's talking about the frost on the windows mocking the dreamer with his thoughts of May. Then he's describing his love and the happiness she brings him, but that's a dream as well. He wakes in the cold and dark and he can't get back to sleep for thinking about her. Where's the tranquillity in that?' 
Martin has to concede that his colleague has a point. 
'Shall we try the next one?' Richard suggests. "Einsamkeit". Alone. That's really the emotional pits. A glorious bright morning and the wanderer feels worse than he did at the height of the storm.' 
Martin plays. At the end, he tries to achieve the diminuendo from pianissimo which Schubert calls for, but the instrument will not respond. 
'Crap piano,' Richard declares. 'Schubert had a fortepiano in mind, of course. It makes a pianissimo easier, but I'm not sure you'd get that operatic feel to the accompaniment.' 
'Be interesting to try.' 
'Something to think about, certainly.' 
The door opens, making them both glance up. Alison is weighed down with violin, coat and music case. She glares at Richard as she accuses, 'You're monopolising Martin.' 
'We're consenting adults! We're allowed to work together.' 
'Except that I was due to do some work with him at three and it's twenty past.' She turns to Martin. 'I've been looking all over for you.' 
Richard picks up his music with a flourish, and holds the closed book between his flattened palms in gesture of supplication. 'A thousand apologies, my dear Alison. We got carried away.' 
'You keep doing this.’ She stoops to put down her load. 
'Martin is much in demand, that's the trouble. I shall leave you to avail yourself of his undoubted talents.' Richard bows. 'Farewell, folks. Have fun.' 
As the door closes behind him, Alison shakes her head in despair. 'He's mad.' 
'I like working with him.' 
'I hope you like working with me.' 
'Of course.' Martin feels his face going red. 'I didn't mean I'd rather work with him.' 
She smiles. 'I know what you mean, I think.' 
'I'm sorry I let things run on.' 
'I think that was more Richard's fault. He can be a bit overbearing.' 
'What are we working on?' 
'What do you want?' 
'Supposing we try the Brahms?' 
'Okay. I should have it with me.' 
He watches her kneeling by the case, sorting through the music, unconscious of her beauty. When his thoughts turn to how she might look naked, he turns away. 
'Voilà' She stands. When she leans across him to put the piano part on the stand, he breathes deeply, enjoying her scent, fascinated by how she smells different to Miranda. 
The first Brahms sonata. The rich textures of the accompaniment demand all his attention. At the end of the first movement, Alison lowers her violin. 'You're on good form today.' 
'Am I?' 
'You really enjoyed it. I could tell.' 
'I suppose I did.' 
'Do you want to go on?' 
'Okay.' 
'I don't know whether we'll have time for the allegro. Penalty for starting late.' 
'In a hurry?' 
She pulls a face. 'My mother's coming to stay, so I've got to dash home to cook a meal. The trouble is she's a really good cook and I'm hopeless.' 
'Not worse than me.' 
'Do you have to cook for yourself?' 
'Not usually, unless my landlady's away at a conference for the weekend. Then I usually get something out rather than cooking.' 
'It you ever get desperate, you can come over to our place. I'm sure we could rustle up something.' 
'Thanks.' He hesitates, confused by whether it is something she ought to say, or whether she means it. 'We'd better get on.' 
'Ever the realist.' Alison takes up her violin. Martin detects a hint of regret in her voice, which confuses him more. The first movement goes well. It is while they play the second movement that he finds his concentration wavering. Alison is accepting when he has problems keeping to the beat and when he plays semiquavers as quavers. 'You're getting tired,' she tells him when the last note has died away. 
'Sorry.' 
'You ought to say if you think we're taking advantage of you.' 
'I like accompanying.' 
'Is that the field you want to get into?' 
'I don't know. I might.' 
She hesitates as though wanting to talk more about it. Instead she announces, 'I've got to go.' She brushes against him as she takes the music from the piano and once again he experiences the excitement of her closeness. As she kneels to put her violin in its case, he plays a Chopin nocturne to stop himself from staring at her. When he does glance in her direction, she is watching him. 'Don't stop,' she urges. 
He resumes playing, conscious of her concentration on him however much he tries to dismiss it from his mind. Only when he has finished does she stand. 
'You like Chopin, don't you?' 
'Does it show?' 
'I'm not criticising.' She hesitates again before struggling into her coat. 'I'll see you tomorrow.' 
'Perhaps we can try the third movement.' 
'Is that a promise?' 
'Let's make it at three.' 
'I'll hold you to that.' She picks up her violin and music case. 'Take care.' 
It is only after she has gone that it occurs to him he should have invited her to a recital at the Wigmore Hall. 
* 
'Martin - telephone.' 
Martin starts as Mrs Brock calls. His first thought is that his mother is ill. He slips off his bed and hurries downstairs without bothering to put on his slippers. The receiver lies on the table. His heart is thumping as he grasps it. His voice sounds strained as he says hello. 
'Martin?' His father's voice. Slurred. 
'Yes.' 
'Your mum says you're not coming back for Christmas.' 
'I didn't think you saw her now.' 
'She rang to tell me. Surely you could take a couple of days off?' 
'I shan't have time.' 
'You always come back.' 
'Not this year.' 
'What's different about this year?' 
'I've got too much to do.' 
There is no immediate response. Martin hears the laboured breathing. 
'It's all work with you,' his father says at last. 
Martin does not know how to reply. 'You - you ought to learn to enjoy yourself.' 
'I do.' 
'No you don't.' 
There is little point in arguing. Martin wants to put the phone down. 
'So you're not coming for Christmas?' his father repeats. 
'No.' 
'I was looking forward to seeing you.' 
The disappointment in his father's voice makes Martin feel guilty. Remembering what he told his mother, he promises, 'I'll come up for the day in the new year.'  Then he is annoyed with himself for his weakness. 
'That's more like it. You come for the New Year.' 
'No - a day in the new year.' 
'That's right - a day in the new year.' 
'Have a good Christmas.' 
'How do you think I'm going to do that?' The sharpness in the tone makes Martin take the receiver from his ear. 'It's like any other day,' comes the faint voice of his father. 
'I've got to go.' Martin puts the phone down before his father can reply. His throat is tight. He wants to be away from that place where other people can disturb him.  When he is back in his room, he stares out the window. There can be no more studying that evening.

chapter 10

Mr Brock reminds Martin of a bloodhound - he has a heavy-jowled, weary look, accentuated on this occasion by jet lag. Now that he is home, Mrs Brock goes around with a permanent smile and giggles at the slightest thing. Ashley tells her to act her age, but Miranda watches tolerantly.
Martin can feel at ease as he sits before a cracking fire in the lounge on Christmas morning, sipping a glass of sherry and watching Samantha engrossed in putting together a jigsaw on the rug. This is family life as it should be. He tries to imagine the course his life might have taken if his parents had died and Mrs Brock had adopted him as a baby. He would have gone to the same school as Ashley and Miranda. His knowledge of it is scanty, though he knows from a remark by Ashley that it has over eight hundred pupils, which makes it the same size as his own secondary school. Neither Ashley nor Miranda has ever mentioned bullying, though he cannot imagine either of them being a victim. If they are representative examples, music is not the school's strong point. He can only guess whether his own interest would be as strong without the influence of Mr Morrison and Mr Kelly. Supposing there was a choice between the life he has known and a happier life with the Brocks, but without music? He does not know which he would choose.
The door opens, startling him. Ashley swaggers in with all the insouciance of a future master of the house. Confidence like that makes Martin feel guilty, even though it was Mrs Brock who pressed the drink on him. He starts to get up, but the master manqué gestures him to remain seated.
'Enjoying your Christmas?'
'Yes, thanks.'
'Help yourself to whatever you want.' Ashley waves towards the bottles on the table by the window.
'Thanks.'
'Do you fancy a walk? Build up an appetite.'
The prospect of walking on the heath with Ashley and having to talk to him while they look for dead animals holds no attraction. Martin shakes his head and settles deeper into the chair to emphasise the point.
Ashley shrugs. 'Up to you, of course. I thought you might want to get away from the women.'
'He's keeping me company,' Samantha announces. 
'In that case, I'll leave you two together. Enjoy yourselves.' 
When the door closes, Samantha turns to Martin with the look of one conspirator to another. 'Are you going to help me with my jigsaw?' 
'No.' 
'You're a bugger, you are.' 
He raises his eyebrows. So much for a family Christmas. 
* 
The next time Martin is disturbed by a door being opened is after lunch, when he is in the music room. He turns. 
'You don't have to stop,' Miranda says. She is wearing a brown velvet trouser suit which seems to shimmer as she moves. She grins. 'I remember saying that to you years ago when you'd just come. Nothing much changes with you, does it?'
'I like to know who my audience is.' 
'I thought you promised mummy you weren't going to practise over Christmas?'
'You've got to do it regularly to keep your fingers flexible.' 
'You could afford to miss one day. What about if you were ill or on holiday?' 
'I'm not.' 
'You'd have to miss your practice if you were.' 
'I wouldn't go on holiday.' 
She looks sceptical. 'Are you saying no pianist ever goes on holiday?' 
'I don't know about every pianist.' 
'Do you ever have to give concerts?' 
'Why?' 
'I can't imagine you on a platform.' 
'Would you come?' 
She grins. 'I might.' 
Old dreams of taking Miranda to a concert are resurrected, but this time he is the soloist in the second Rachmaninov concerto while she is in the front row of a rapt audience. Once implanted, the fantasy will not easily fade. He watches her, trying to decide whether she is being serious. 
'Mummy wants to know whether you're going to play carols for us.' 
'Did she say that?' 
'That's why I'm asking you.' Miranda waits, her eyebrows raised. 'So are you?' 
'Tell her I'm not.' 
'All right then. I hope you're going to join in the games and not be a misery.' 
'What games?' 
'The usual sort - Scrabble, Monopoly.' 
'I'd rather not.' 
'Go on - leave your piano for once, or I'll tell mummy you're going to play carols.' 
'I'm not good at games.' 
'What's it matter? Just enjoy yourself. Come on - everybody's waiting for you.' 
He would rather continue practising, but he does not want to upset Mrs Brock. Reluctantly he abandons the piano to follow Miranda to the lounge where the rest of the family are gathered. Mrs Brock looks pleased when he appears. He decides that for once he has done something right. Fortunately she does not ask about carols and Miranda makes no mention of them. 
Games occupy the rest of the afternoon. Ashley explains the rules to Martin, but he finds them difficult to follow - Samantha turns her scorn on him for making elementary mistakes. He is glad when at teatime the family decide to watch television; then he can slip back to his room. There is a piano recital on the radio - to his annoyance, he has already missed the first part. His thoughts turn to Alison, imagining that she too is listening. That makes him feel close to her. 
* 
When Martin rises at seven thirty on Boxing Day, he feels that he has discharged his obligations to the Brock family. The house is silent, which pleases him. He likes eating alone. Unfortunately, Samantha joins him when he is halfway through breakfast, which prompts him to forgo an extra round of toast. Back in his room, he switches on the radio and curls on his bed to read Dorothy Sayers. That way, he is less likely to disturb anybody or to be disturbed than if he plays the piano. The other members of the household rise over the course of the next two hours. He follows their progress by the sounds from downstairs and the gurgles from the water tank. At eleven o'clock he goes downstairs in his outdoor clothes, hoping that he will bump into Miranda and she will want to come with him; but she is nowhere to be seen. 
The air is crisp. The holly pinned to front doors already looks tired. Children show off new bicycles - there is little traffic away from the main road. Martin goes to the heath, avoiding popular areas like Parliament Hill Fields where families are exercising dogs. Another Christmas over. By the next one, his life will have changed irrevocably. No more supercilious comments from Ashley, or well-meaning attempts by Mrs Brock to change him. More regrettably, no more playing the Blüthner, or contriving to glimpse Miranda in her dressing gown. He wonders whether he will keep in touch with any of his fellow students. Alison's name comes first to his thoughts, though if he works with anybody after he leaves, he suspects that with his luck, it is more likely to be Deirdre or Richard. 
At twelve thirty, he lets himself into the house. The breakfast room door opens before he can reach the safety of the stairs. Mrs Brock smiles her social worker's smile. 'We were looking for you. Nobody heard you go out.' 
'I went for a walk.' 
'You should have said something - Miranda was thinking about going out.' 
Though the idea of Miranda wanting to join him seems improbable, he cannot stop the Images of what might have been from flooding his mind. He tries to keep his face impassive. 
'I wondered if you'd like to play for us after lunch.' 
He stares, suspecting that he is being made the victim of a trick. 
'As we never got you to play any carols yesterday.' 
'What do you want me to play?' 
'Whatever you want - just give us a little recital.' 
'You've heard me playing.' 
'We've heard you practising, but it would be nice to have a proper performance while we're all here.' 
'I haven't got anything prepared.' 
'I'm sure you know something by heart. It always amazes me how pianists manage to memorise so much.' 
'It'll be too crowded in the music room.' 
'Not with five of us listening.' She looks less encouraging. 'Does that mean you won't play for us?' 
He wants to tell her that none of them is really interested in music. The scene is so vivid - Miranda sniggering, Ashley and Samantha looking bored and Mr and Mrs Brock making of show of being attentive. He shakes his head. 
'I take it that means you won't. It's up to you, of course.' 
'I'd rather not.' 
'You'd better get ready for lunch.' Her voice has changed. He knows that she is trying to conceal her annoyance; the words which might make things right elude him. Once she turns away, they can never be said. At moments like that, staying with the Brocks for Christmas does not seem a good idea. 
* 
On New Year's Eve, Miranda wanders into the kitchen while Martin is having breakfast. That raises his spirits, though the awkwardness of finding something to talk about is still there. At least she greets him. He watches as she makes coffee. 
'So what are you doing tonight?' she wants to know as she settles opposite him at the table, putting both hands around the coffee mug. 
'How do you mean?' 
'What I said. All you've got to tell me is whether you're going to a party. Why can't you give a straight answer?' She watches him scooping the last of the muesli from his dish. 'Don't forget I'm having a party here if you've got nothing on, metaphorically speaking.' 
Since the incident with Holly in his first year, he has made a point of avoiding Miranda's parties. This might be his last opportunity to experience one, but the thought does not generate any enthusiasm. He shakes his head. 
'You were a bore last year - you stayed in your room.' 
'So?' 
'Don't be so serious all the time. Why don't you enjoy yourself?' 
'I do.' She smiles enticingly. 'Let your hair down for once.' 
'I don't want to.' 
'It'll be fun.' 
'No.' Her smile disappears. 
'So you don't want to come?' 
'No.' 
'How can you expect to be an artist when you won't experience anything?' It is a question which has often preoccupied him. Always he justifies his behaviour with the argument that acquiring a technique takes a lifetime and that denying himself other things to that end is itself a form of experience. Whatever the pleasures of travelling and socialising, they are no substitute for practice. 
'Martin - I'm asking you a question. Sometimes I think you're deaf.' 
'I thought it was a rhetorical question.' 
'Showing off big words in the hope I won't understand them? Well it wasn't rhetorical, as a matter of fact.' 
'In that case I don't know the answer.' 
'I've never seen you let yourself go the whole of the time you've been here.' 
'Is it compulsory for staying here?' 
'Very funny.' 
Usually he welcomes any opportunity to be with Miranda, however contrived. Now his greatest desire is to get away from her. 
She watches him appraisingly as she draws her hair through her fingers. 'You've never had a girlfriend, have you?' 
'You don't know everything I do.' She lets go her hair and shakes her head in despair. 'Getting you to talk is like pulling a tooth.' 
'You assume things.' 
'If you won't talk about yourself, what do you expect?' She glares at him. 'You're touchy today.' 
'Can't I be?' 
'At least it's good to know you're not a machine.' When her words prompt no response, she adds, 'If you want to lock yourself in your room tonight, that's your loss.' She turns away, staring fixedly out the window as she sips coffee. 
'Anyway, I've already arranged something for tonight,' he vouchsafes, surprising himself by his elaboration. He has the satisfaction of seeing the flicker of interest on Miranda's face. 
'What sort of something?' 
'Just seeing a few other students.' 
'Is it a party?' 
'Sort of.' 
'You mean you sit around and discuss Bach, or something?' 
'No.' She studies him critically. 'I can't imagine you getting pissed.' 
'I have a drink sometimes.' 
'Like over Christmas. You really pushed the boat out then, didn't you? Two sherries.' 
'I didn't feel like having much.' 
'Are you going to be out all night?' She looks sly. 
'I might.' 
'We'll need to know so we can lock up.' 
He watches her face, trying to decide whether she is telling the truth or merely using locking up as a pretext to be nosey. 
'I don't know what's happening exactly,' he improvises. 
Her expression becomes mischievous. 'If you get back fairly early, you could have two parties - one wherever you're going and one here.' 
'It might be a bit of a rush.' 
'You said you don't know when you're going on till. You could see all your music friends and then get a cab back here in time for midnight.' 
He remembers the other parties given by Miranda which went on until the early hours. In the darkness of his room he lay fully dressed in case somebody strayed in, the bedclothes pressed against his ears to muffle the noise. 
'I'll see,' he placates her. 
'What are you going to wear?' Her eyes grow bright. 'Let's see your party gear.' 
'I haven't decided yet.' 
'I shouldn't have thought you'd got that many clothes to choose from. You always wear the same old things.' 
'It depends on the weather.' 
'It's hardly going to change much over the next few hours.' She leans forward, her dressing gown parting enough to expose the tops of her breasts. 'Come on, Martin. Tell me what you're going to put on.' 
He tries to disarm her with a smile. 'Nothing special.' 
'You can't go to New Year's Eve party in baggy cords and an old pullover.' 
'Why not?' 
Her face lights up. 'Why don't you go in fancy dress? We could find you something.' 
'No.' 
'You could go in drag - wear my clothes and I'll make you up!' She touches his arm. 'Go on.' 
'No!' He draws back. 
'What's the matter?' 
'I don't want to.' 
'You're behaving like a kid.' Her tone has changed to one of contempt. She rises, pulling her dressing gown around her. The bench scrapes across the floor. 'Do what you like.' 
When she has flounced out, Martin is aware of the hardness in his stomach. The thought of food makes him feel sick. Later, when he is taking his daily walk and the immediate shock of the encounter has subsided, he is oppressed by the problem of what to do for the evening. To stay in would be to admit that he had lied. He toys with the idea of announcing that his student get-together has been cancelled, but then Miranda would expect him to come to her party. Going to the cinema would occupy the evening, but with the show finishing by eleven, he does not relish the prospect of walking the streets for several hours to give verisimilitude to his story. He passes the red brick police station and turns into Downshire Hill. At the fork in the road before him is a white-painted church which always intrigues him. It could have been transplanted from the film set of a New England town. He can never believe that it is real. On either side, the slightly down-at-heel villas and terraces from the early nineteenth century are set back in untidy gardens. Those beyond the church have high garden walls overhung with creepers; combined with the absence of pavements, they give the road an enclosed, rustic feel. With the slope behind him, Martin's steps lose momentum. There is little point in returning to the house in his present mood - he will not be able to practise. It annoys him that something so trivial as an exchange of words with Miranda should disturb his peace of mind. He has tried to cultivate the habit of ignoring what goes on around him, but his discipline lets him down. His conclusion is that only by shunning people can he concentrate on work. 
Sometimes he dreams of finding a flat when he leaves college. It will have its own entrance and a grand piano. It will be soundproof, allowing him to practise all day without disturbing anybody. In the evening he will be free to read, go to concerts or listen to the radio. All his emotions will be transmuted through music. 
It is the thought of being isolated from the world which gives him the idea of what to do for the evening. He will remain above events in a literal sense, pretending to be out while all the time he is in his room. The simplicity of the notion pleases him. A new impetus comes to his flagging steps as he elaborates his plan. Miranda will be too busy getting ready to notice whether he leaves and by the end of the party she will have forgotten him, He will have his own celebration - his favourite chocolate to eat as he listens to music. There is no reason why he should not have his radio on. If he keeps the sound down, it will not be heard above the noise of the party. 
The scheme diverts him from his usual routine. He cuts short his walk - the heath no longer holds its usual attraction. Something as inconsequential as buying chocolate from the shop by Belsize Park station assumes the quality of a ritual. After much thought he selects a bar of Peters’ chocolate as a luxury and a bar of Aero for its unusual texture, though it is not as creamy as other brands. On the walk back, his thoughts are filled with what he would like to listen to on the radio. To make the evening perfect, it needs to be a piano recital. The will-o'-the-wisp world of Schumann would suit his present mood - Papillons or Carnaval - or perhaps the strange sound world of Debussy which belies how much attention to detail is required in its performance. To his mind, Michelangeli is the ideal Debussy interpreter. Martin is determined to learn the preludes. 
Nobody notices as Martin lets himself into the house, which bears out his reasoning. Excitement buoys him up, reviving the urge to practise. He plays Schubert's sonata in A opus 120, glorying in the dance rhythms of the final movement. If Mrs Brock wants to hear him playing, this is her opportunity. It amazes him that somebody so clever can be so ignorant about music. Once she complemented him on his Beethoven when he was playing Schubert. 
Practising and reading occupy the afternoon. One recently acquired pleasure is reading detective stories. Dorothy Sayers' books are his favourites. On his visit to Swiss Cottage Library after Christmas, he found two which he had not read. At six o’clock he has an omelette and chips with the rest of the family, though he would rather have gone out for fish and chips which he could eat on his own. Miranda ignores him. One piece of information comes to light - Mrs Brock and her husband are to celebrate New Year with friends. Mrs Brock's view is that Miranda's friends will enjoy themselves more on their own. He guesses that she expects him to be at Miranda's party. After the meal it is time to put his plan into action. He goes to his room. A chair wedged under the door handle precludes any interruption. The only light comes from outside. Nobody is interested in the activities of the lodger. Mr and Mrs Brock are getting ready to go out, Miranda is having a bath, Ashley has gone to stay with one of his school friends after announcing that Miranda's parties are beyond endurance and Samantha is watching television in the lounge until she is banished by her sister. At first, Martin follows the family's preparations - the voices, the banging doors and the footsteps on the lower landing. By seven, he grows bored with what is happening downstairs and switches on the radio, keeping it pressed to his ear so that nobody else might hear. When he hears Miranda talking, he turns it off. He longs to go to the door to hear better, but Mr and Mrs Brock are in the room directly underneath - he does not want to risk creaking boards giving him away. 
Disappointingly, Radio Three is given over to a play. Twelfth Night does not engage his attention completely - it reminds him of school. His consolation is the chocolate. Because Peters' chocolate is more expensive than Cadbury’s, he only buys it on special occasions. There is pleasure in sliding off the shiny brown wrapper and folding back the gold foil so that the whole slab is revealed. In the semi-darkness, he can enjoy the slight stickiness of the chocolate against his fingers and the clean vanilla smell as it warms. What he particularly likes is pressing his tongue against the indentations in the surface till the taste is released. 
Mr and Mrs Brock go out, which means that he can move about the room with relative freedom. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rings, heralding the arrival of the first guest. Martin cannot dispel memories of listening to Miranda's other parties. He wonders whether Holly will come. He has encountered her twice since she came to his room: on both occasions she ignored him, much to his relief. 
The play occupies most of the evening; he considers switching to Radio Four after the first act, but he is determined to persevere, telling himself that a play must have greatness to survive for four hundred years. Several times towards the end, his eyelids grow heavy. As it finishes, he cannot disguise from himself the feeling of relief. If he went to Shakespeare plays in the theatre, he wonders whether he would come to appreciate them more. Deirdre has pestered him to go to the theatre with her; so far he has managed to resist her. The early music recital which follows holds no interest for him. He turns the radio off. The party is in full swing judging by the screams which cut through the thudding rhythm. At midnight everybody sings Auld Lang Syne. He hears revellers shouting outside. All he can do is to wait for the party to end. 
By one o'clock, the music subsides. The water tank gurgles continuously as guests queue up to use the toilet before leaving. From outside, voices waft upwards - people Martin has never seen and will never see. 
No sooner does the house grow quiet than Mr and Mrs Brock return, prompting another noisy outburst from the tank. Before they go to bed and silence descends on the house again, Martin takes the opportunity to relieve himself in the washbasin. In spite of his tiredness, it is a long while before he falls asleep. 
* 
The Brock household awakens late the following morning, except for Martin who has breakfast at seven-thirty. It is not until lunchtime that he encounters Miranda. She emerges from her bedroom when he is on the stairs from the attic. He wonders whether she has been waiting for him. 
'When did you get back?' she greets him. 
'Not long after you'd finished - I got a lift.' 
'I never heard you come in.' 
'I didn't make much noise.' 
She looks puzzled. 'How do you know we'd just finished?' 
He feels the familiar heat rising to his cheeks. He explains, 'I heard your parents moving around.' 
'What was the party like?' She sounds wary, as though she already suspects that he is lying. 
'Good.' 
'Where was it?' 
'The other side of Hampstead,' he improvises, hoping she will not press for more details. 
A gleam comes to her eyes. 'Did you get pissed?' 
'I had a few drinks.' 
'I'd love to see you drunk.' 
'You'll have a long wait.' 
'I think you're right.' 
He knows Miranda when she is drunk. There was the occasion when she made a phone call at one in the morning. From his attic room, he could hear her clearly in the otherwise silent house. Her intonation was exaggerated. She spoke loudly enough to make Mrs Brock come out on the landing to see what was happening. Miranda became irritated when her mother tried to quieten her. It was one of the few times when he has witnessed mother and daughter squabbling. On another occasion, Miranda came back with friends late at night. The banging of the taxi door woke him. Her laughter was instantly recognisable. From his window, he watched the group of girls standing on the pavement as the taxi drew away. Miranda was clinging to one of her friends. They spent a long time talking. The voices carried easily in the still night. The conversation was about boys. His fear was that Miranda might talk about him, but she did not - at least not within his hearing. She might have said something after they went into the basement kitchen. How long they stayed there he does not know, for he fell asleep before her friends left. Miranda came down late the next morning and refused to talk to anybody. He felt some satisfaction at seeing her with a hangover. Hard to imagine her so subdued when he looks at her now. 
'You're so straight, it's incredible,' she says. 'Look at you.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'Sports jacket and polished shoes. You look about forty.' 
'So?' 
'Is that what you went in last night?' 
'Yes.' 
'Didn’t people laugh at you? When are you going to get yourself some flares?' 
'Why should I follow fashion?' 
'Because it's fun.' 
'And next year you have to buy something else because there’s a new craze.' 
'You're so square.' She shakes her head in amazement. 'I bet you don't even know who the Stones are.' 
'I do.' 
'Can you name them?' 
'I've heard of them. I don't follow them.' 
'You follow everything your parents tell you.' 
'No I don't.' 
'Let's prove it. Come round the shops and I'll find you something decent to wear in the sales.' She watches him, amused by the alarm on his face. 'Come on, Martin.' 
'I don't want to.' 
She shrugs. 'Okay. If you want to have people laughing at you, that's your business.' 
When she turns away, it occurs to him that he has turned down an opportunity to go out with her. 
* 
It is Miranda's censure which gives Martin the impetus to improve his wardrobe. He takes the tube to Oxford Street the next day. He has always let his mother buy his clothes. After looking in several shops and stores, he buys a fawn fabric jacket with a zip. When he sees Miranda later in the day, he cannot resist announcing what he has done. 
'Bring it down,' she insists. 'I must see this.' 
His heart thumps as he returns to her with the jacket. 
'Put it on,' she urges. When he does so, she looks him up and down. He holds his breath, waiting for her approval; instead, she laughs. 'What did you get that for?' 
'You wanted me to get something.' 
'Something modern. You look as if you're going to play golf.' 
That makes the jacket seem a waste of money.

chapter 11

Martin wears his sports jacket under his raincoat when he visits his parents. He does not want to go home, but he feels obligated. At least a day return ticket is cheap. He stares out the train window, recalling his foreboding on previous journeys. A day wasted. Time has become important to him. There is so much music to explore. What amazes him is how much music Mozart and Schubert produced in their short lives. If he dies in his thirties, he wants to have achieved something. What annoys him about Miranda is the way she is willing to waste time.
Familiar buildings outside the window. The train slows. Already Martin is thinking of how soon he can get back to London without upsetting his parents.
His mother's flat is on a bus route, but he walks to delay the moment of meeting. That gives him the opportunity to revisit once-familiar streets. The houses seem smug and cramped after Belsize Park. Hard-standings are replacing the front gardens. The green and silver lamp standards of his childhood are painted dull green. Gone are the ornate fittings with their bare bulbs, replaced by galvanised arms terminating in sodium tubes encased in plastic. He misses the curved cast iron reflectors lined with squares of mirrored glass which glittered at night.
It is inconceivable that his parents do not meet accidentally when they live in the same town. He wonders whether they acknowledge each other. Chance encounters always make him feel uncomfortable. One advantage of London is its anonymity - even his neighbours in Belsize Park have remained strangers. Sometimes after college he walks to the next station in preference to joining his fellow students.
His mother's home is the ground floor flat of a converted terraced house from the 1930s. The front garden is paved over. Two miniature fir trees flank the porch. The red tiles of the window sills look newly painted for his visit. Two front doors occupy the place where one used to be. When he rings the bell, he can hear sounds from outside.
Difficult to know whether his mother is really pleased to see him. She hesitates as though not knowing whether to kiss him. To his relief, she does not. As she shows him into the living room, she is asking all the obvious questions - is he all right, did he have a good Christmas, how was his journey. The obvious topics of conversation are soon exhausted. Before a silence can develop, she excuses herself to prepare tea. Left alone, Martin stares at the familiar furniture, remembering it as he used to see it. Only the mini piano does not look out of scale, as though all those years ago his father had a premonition of what would happen. It fits snugly into the recess beside the chimney. The lid is closed. Ornaments are arranged on top. Martin hopes that after the examinations, he will not have to live with his mother.
'Can you move the ashtray, please.' She sets the tray on the occasional table. Mince pies are arranged on a plate. Martin watches her pouring tea. As he takes his cup, he cannot escape a feeling of unreality, as though he is acting in a charade. The Brocks played charades at Christmas - he refused to join in.
His mother puts a plate with a folded serviette beside him. 'Thank you for the head scarf. It was lovely.'
'I didn't know whether it would get here on time.' 
'It came two days before Christmas.' 
'That was quick.' 
'I didn't know whether to send your present on, or wait until you came.' She goes behind him, so that he has to turn to see her taking a parcel wrapped in Christmas paper from the sideboard. He tries to show surprise and delight when she puts it into his hands. Its softness betrays that she has bought him something to wear. She is saying, 'I thought it was best to get you something useful.' 
His thanks sound forced as he tears the paper to reveal the jumper. 
'Do you like the colour? I can change it if you don't.' 
'I don't mind what colour it is so long as it keeps me warm.' 
'Stand up. Let's see whether it's the right size.' 
He stands, holding the jumper against him. His mother insists on measuring the sleeves against his arm. 
'Just right,' she pronounces with satisfaction, taking the jumper from him to lay it across the other chair. 'Don't forget I've still got a lot of your winter clothes packed away.' 
'I don't suppose they all fit now.' 
'You could sort them out next time you come to stay.' 
He does not answer. As they sip tea, he tries to think of something they still have in common. 
'How's college?' his mother asks. 
'All right.' 
'Your last year.' 
'Unfortunately.' 
'Are you enjoying it now? I know you weren't too happy at first.' 
He gives a brief nod, annoyed that she should know so much about his life. As it was not something he mentioned, he suspects that she must have talked to Mrs Brock behind his back. 
'Do you know what you're going to do when you leave?' 
'Not yet.' 
'You won't be staying on?' 
'No. You have to apply for another grant for that.' 
'Couldn't you do that?' 
He says irritably, 'There's no point.'
‘If you like it...’
‘I won’t get one.’ 
'I suppose you could always get teaching work.' 
'Private teaching.' 
'Don't you want to?' 
'Not really.' 
'Couldn't you get work in an orchestra?' 
'Playing the piano?' 
'You've kept up the clarinet, haven't you?' 
'That's only my second subject. I wouldn't get as far as an audition.' 
'It seems silly having to learn an instrument if it's not any good to you.' 
'That's the way it is.' 
'Still, you've got a couple of terms to go yet. Anything could happen.' A radio sounds faintly from the flat above. Light music he has heard before. He tries to identify the composer. He thinks it is Eric Coates. 
'Aren't you going to ask what I've been doing?' his mother prompts. 
'What?' 
'I'm thinking of going into business with Jenny. You remember Jenny, don't you?' 
Nodding. 
'She wants to open a craft shop and she's asked me to help her. She's taking the lease on one of those lockup shops by the railway bridge.' 
Hard to imagine his mother working in a shop. 
'Don't say anything to your father. It isn't any of his business. We want to open for Easter if we can - if he doesn't make difficulties.' 
'Why should he?' 
'If I go to work, he might start objecting to paying maintenance.' 
Martin wants to say that his father has a point. 
'It's not as though it's a proper job,' his mother explains, as though the weakness of her argument has already occurred to her. 'It's more like helping out a friend.' 
Martin nods without understanding. He cannot arouse much interest in his mother's activities. 
'He was happy enough to agree to the payments in the first place,' she continues.
'He's not so keen on paying them.' 
'Perhaps he can't.' 
The wrong thing to say. She sniffs. 'It's a question of what he wants to spend his money on, isn't it?' Her tone is harsher. 
'I suppose so.' 
'All he seems to spend it on at the moment is drink.' 
Martin does not answer. One tactless remark has dissipated his mother's Christmas goodwill. He watches her from the corner of his eye. She is little older than Mrs Brock, but she looks from a different generation. Bitterness has etched hard lines on her face.
'Is he still sending you money regularly?' she wants to know. 
'It's a bit late sometimes, but it always comes.' 
'Twice I've had to get my solicitor to write to him.' 
Martin blows silently across his tea, cooling it so that he can drink more quickly. 
'I'm certainly not going begging to him, if that's what he wants.' 
'Are you going to stay here?' 
'In this flat, you mean?' 
He nods. 
'Why shouldn't I?' 
'I just wondered.' 
'Unless your father's going to give me the money for something better - and I can't see that happening. Not if he can spend it on drink.' 
Martin stares at the mince pies, wondering whether his mother has bought them specially or whether they were left over. Now she has settled on her favourite topic, any hunger which he felt from missing his lunch has gone. 
She sighs. 'How he gets on at work I don't know, the way he spends every lunch hour in the pub.' 
'I didn't see the car outside,' Martin says to change the subject. 
'That's in the garage because he won't pay the repair bills, so if I want to go anywhere, I've got to take a cab.' 
'What about the bus?' 
'It's hardly worth calling a service. I tried it once when it was raining. The bus was ten minutes late. By the time it came, I was soaked. Then I had to stand all the way. Not that I'd give him the satisfaction of knowing.' 
Martin puts down his cup. 'I've got to be going.' 
'You've only just come.' 
'I want to get back before the rush hour.' 
'Don't you want a mince pie?' 
'No thanks.' 
'I suppose you're going to see your father?' 
'I'll pop in.' 
'If he's not there, he'll be in the pub.' As Martin fumbles with the zip on his anorak, she adds, 'At least finish your tea. You can't be in that much of a hurry.' 
'I'd better get on.' 
'Don't be silly, Martin.' 
He gulps the tea. His mouth burns. 
'If you want to go already, I'd better find you a bag for that jumper.' 
While his mother is out of the room, he pants. There is no sensation in his mouth when he probes it with his tongue. He closes it guiltily as she comes back. To placate her, he picks up the jumper. 
'I'd better do it,' she says, taking it from him. 'You'll get it looking like a rag before you've worn it.' 
He cannot help protesting, 'I can fold it.' 
'Why I should bother when you're the one who's going to wear it, I don't know.'
When she gives him the jumper in its bag, he stands, clutching it with both hands, his eyes on the untouched plate of mince pies. Suddenly he is filled with remorse at spoiling when might have been the highlight of his mother's Christmas. 
'Do you want to ring your father - see whether he's there?' 
'It's difficult to get him on the phone.' 
'Are you sure you don't want to take any of your winter clothes? It's going to get colder.' 
'I'll be okay.' He moves closer to the door, seeking words which will take away the bitterness. 
'Well, it's nice to see you again,' his mother says. 'Even if you can't stay.' 
'I don't know when I'll be coming next.' 
'If you can ring me sometimes - let me know you're all right.' 
He nods. There is no necessity to face his mother as he goes to the front door and lets himself out. Only when he is on the path does he look back. His mother is uncertain whether to wave. He calls goodbye and turns away quickly. 
* 
Beyond the shops on the main road and closer to the town are older, two-storeyed terraces, the ranks of sash-windowed bays separated from the street by vestigial gardens. As a child, this was where he would walk quickly on his way to the high street, never completely quelling the irrational fear that somebody was lying in wait to drag him into a doorway. Now the area seems run down rather than sinister and the houses depressing in their monotony. He reflects that if he can notice that, at least something about him has changed. 
The town centre is changing. A relief road is taking shape along the swathe of demolished houses. A multi-storey car park occupies the site of the arcade where he used to gaze through the windows of the pet shop and toy shop on Saturday afternoons. A shopping precinct looms like a scaffold-clad castle above the older stores. Martin skirts the temporary car park, following the streets of his childhood to where Victorian, three-storeyed houses prop each other up on the hill leading from the high street. He cannot remember them as being used for anything except bedsitters and private hotels. They used to have a reputation; perhaps they still have. Prostitutes and criminals lived there. It was rumoured that a murder took place there. He believed the story enough to avoid going there on his own until he was fourteen. That was when its reputation made him curious. He walked there one morning in the school holidays, but all he noticed was its shabbiness. 
At least little has changed. The third-storey gables with their rotting half-timbering sit like an afterthought above the broad bays. Just visible between them, roof windows scar the slipping slates, denoting where lofts have been turned into bedsitters. Broken downpipes leave green stains down the walls. Portable television aerials protrude from the tops of sash windows. One pane is broken; cardboard is taped across the remaining glass. 
His father has moved several times since the separation, each time to a room cheaper than the last. Martin visited the present one in the summer. He does not look forward to going again. The smells of damp and cooking which pervaded the hall made him feel sick. The ringing of the bell produces no immediate response. Remembering how long it takes to come from the top floor, he tries to quell the rising hope that his father has forgotten the visit and gone out. But as he is about to ring again, steps sound in the hall. His sense of dread intensifies. 
In spite of his mother's reservations, his father is shaven and neatly dressed. Only the bleary eyes betray that something might be wrong. The smile almost conceals them. 
'Martin. Well, well. Come on in, son.' 
Being called 'son' makes Martin feel uncomfortable. He follows his father into the hall, garish with yellow walls and woodwork. The damp is still there, but this time the smell of wine on his father's breath is more noticeable. Their steps clatter on the bare stairs. Martin trails behind his father who climbs with the heavy steps of an old man, clinging to the banister rail. As they pause on the first landing, the skylight at the top of the stairwell gives enough light to reveal gouges in the yellow emulsion. The toilet door is open - Martin glimpses newspapers strewn on the floor. 
'I think I'm getting out of condition,' his father apologises. 
Martin does not answer. When they set off again, he tries to ignore the laboured breathing. On the upper landing he watches his father fumbling with the lock. 
'I have to lock it every time I come out, you see. Gets a bit stiff. I keep telling the landlord.' 
'Do you want me to do it?' 
'I can manage. I do it every day.' 
Martin waits helplessly as his father wrestles to turn the key in the lock. At last the door is opened and they can go inside. The room is hot, stuffy and smelly. Little has changed since the summer. Martin remembers his first visit. He might have been more shocked if he had not seen similar bedsits when he first moved to London. 
Smaller than his own attic room. The ceiling slopes more sharply to the eaves. The strip of carpet before the gas fire is curling and frayed at the ends. The cream enamel sink unit is stained beyond cleaning. A shirt on a plastic hanger and a tea cloth hang from string looped between the water heater and a nail on the skylight frame. Along the lower edge of the glass, condensation drips on the floor. 
His father drags the single chair from beside the table closer to the fire. Yellow plastic tape covers a gash in the seat. 'Sit yourself down.' 
As Martin complies, the chair sways under his weight, making him get up quickly. 
‘It’s all right so long as you don’t wriggle.’
Martin sits again, more cautiously. His father sits on the bed. It creaks. Beside him, a newspaper is open at the sports pages. Horses are underlined. 
'Thanks for the money,' Martin begins. 
His father looks embarrassed. 'It wasn't much. I didn't know what to get you, so I thought I'd let you choose for yourself.' 
'I got some clothes.' 
'Thanks for the gift voucher.' 
'I didn't know what to get you either.' 
'First Christmas you haven't been home.' 
'They wanted me to stay.' 
'Who? 
‘The people I’m staying with.' 
'Your mum said you had a lot of work to do.' 
'That as well.' 
'Did you enjoy yourself?' 
'Yes.' 
'Enjoy yourself while you can.' 
Martin does not reply. 
'Do you want a mince pie? They're fresh.' 
Martin looks at the open packet on the table. Beside it is a half-empty bottle of wine and a glass. He explains, 'I've just been to see mum.' 
'How is she?' 
'All right.' 
'We don't see each other now. No reason to.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'She rang to tell me you wouldn't be back for Christmas. First time I've heard from her for months. Wonder she bothered.' 
'I suppose she thought you'd want to know.' 
'How are you getting on?' 
'All right.' 
'Course going well?' 
'Yes.' 
'That's good.' 
'My last year.' He knows the topics by heart, not understanding how other people spin a whole conversation out of them. 
'What are you going to do when you finish?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Are you going to stay in London?' 
'I hope so. I don't know whether I'll be able to stay in Belsize Park.' 
His father nods. 'Expensive area.' 
'That's the trouble.' 
His father stares at the worn lino by the door. 'I don't begrudge sending you money,  don't think that. You need a bit of extra when you're a student in London.' He shifts uneasily, making the bed creak again before he turns back to Martin. 'The trouble is it's a struggle sometimes, now I'm not earning much. I don't know whether I'll be able to keep it up after you've finished college. I thought I'd better tell you now.' 
When Martin thinks of how his father used to be, he does not know whether to feel pity or despair. 
'So what will you do when you finish?' his father repeats. 
'It depends what I can get.' 
'At least there's always plenty of office work in London.' 
Martin feels stung by his father's continuing acceptance that music is no more than a pastime. He cannot stop himself from pointing out, 'I'm a musician!' 
'I suppose so.' There is no conviction in his father's tone. 'It's a matter of what you can get, isn't it?' 
'I know that.' 
'So how you've been getting on?' 
'I've told you.' 
'Ah yes. That's right.' His father nods slowly, searching for the threads of the conversation, while Martin nudges back his sleeve against the edge of the table in an effort to look at his watch without being noticed. 'I'm a bit tired this afternoon. Sorry.' 
'Too much celebrating,' Martin jokes. He knows immediately that it is the wrong thing to say. 
'What have I got to celebrate these days?' His father's tone is harsh. Bitterness hardens his face. Martin can only listen helplessly now the recriminations are unleashed. 'When you were young, I thought I had everything going for me - the practice building up, a good marriage, nice home, a decent car. Then she decides that's not enough. She wants holidays abroad, a car of her own and meals in expensive restaurants twice a week. I have to work longer hours to pay for them and she doesn't like that either. What about her friends? I bet they see more of their husbands than she does.’
Martin cannot follow his father’s argument. He wants to run from the room as the familiar litany begins. Instead he stares at the Belling on a stand beside the sink unit, wondering how often his father bothers to cook. On a shelf above it are a tin of beans, two tins of soup, half a loaf of bread and a jar of jam. The smell emanates from the waste bin beneath the sink which overflows with tins and packets. 
'Whatever I did, she wanted something different. If I wasn't there to go to dinner parties with her because I had to see a client. That was wrong. If I did make a point of coming home early, I was getting under her feet.' 
The roof leaks - Martin sees the discoloured plaster where the ceiling meets the wall. 
'When we separated, I thought I'd make her a generous settlement - let her keep the house as long as you were there. That wasn't enough.' His father hits the bed in frustration. 'You know she worked before she was married? She was a trained secretary, but she couldn't lower herself to do anything like that again. I had to give her an allowance. And when you went to London, she still expected to live in the same house. Didn't matter what sort of place I lived in, so long as she was all right - that's what got me.' 
Martin is alarmed by the way his father's face has turned crimson. Blood vessels throb on either side of his temple as though the pressure is almost too much for them to contain. 
'That was when I put my foot down.' The tone betrays satisfaction. 'I couldn't afford to keep on paying for the house, apart from anything else. I told her - find something smaller, or we'll take it to court and see how much you get then.  Not that she'd risk it. I knew what a judge would tell her.' 
To resolve something which has intrigued him, Martin asks, 'Didn't you get a lot of money from selling the house?' 
'I wish I had,' his father snorts. 'There was your mother's flat - that took most of what was left after paying off the mortgage. I thought she'd be satisfied then, but no - she expects me to keep her for the rest of her life, while I'm stuck here.' He gestures around. Martin cannot see any more bottles, though he suspects there are some in the cupboard which serves as a wardrobe. His father's tone is pleading when he says, 'She's bleeding me dry.' 
Martin makes to get up. He sees his father's surprise. 
'You're not going yet?' 
'I want to be back before it gets dark.' 
'I don't get much of a chance to see you.' He hesitates. 'Please.' 
Martin settles back in the chair. It sways beneath him again. He waits. 
'What I could never understand was how you were so musical when neither of us were.' 
Martin shakes his head. 'I don't know.' 
'Your mum was the one who pushed for you to go to music college.' 
Martin dutifully raises his eyebrows. 
'I was worried it might be too specialised.' 
'Perhaps.' 
'I saw your careers master at school before I agreed. He talked me round.' 
'I didn't know.' 
'I'd have said go to university if you’re clever - get a qualification you can use anywhere. Still, you've made your choice. I'd like to see you do well.' 
'I am.' 
'I mean when you get a job.' 
'That.' 
'I know I ought to get up to London to see you more.' 
'I'm okay.' 
'Perhaps one weekend I could come up and we'll go out for the day.' 
Martin nods, knowing from past promises that the outing will never take place. 
'You know I'm working for an oil company now,' his father tells him. 
'Mum never said.' 
'Started there two months ago. I was an accountant with my own practice and now I'm a clerk for an oil company!' The bitterness is back in his tone. 'She was pleased - regular money for her to get her hands on. You know I'd still have the practice if it wasn't for her?' 
Martin tries to look interested. 
'When we were married and she was asking for more and more, I spent all my time worrying about how I was going to pay the bills,' his father confesses. 'I'd wake up at three in the morning with my hands clenched and I wouldn't get to sleep again. In the morning there'd be a groove across my palms where my nails dug into them. How can you work when you're in that state?' 
'I don't know.' 
'That's when I started losing clients. Not that she cared, so long as she could carry on doing what she liked and I paid the bills.' 
'I'll have to be going.' 
'What does she say about me?' 
Martin gets up, not answering. 
'I know she says things behind my back.' 
'I don't see her much.' 
'What did she say when you went there today?' 
'Not much.' 
'That I drink too much, I suppose.' 
'I don't know.' Martin heads blindly to the door, anxious to leave before his father can stop him. 
'That's her usual line. Well you can tell her whatever state I'm in, it's her fault.' The words are shouted as Martin struggles with the door. It opens suddenly. As he clatters down the stairs, he dare not look back to see whether his father is following. This time he does not notice the state of the hall. 
Dusk already. Hurrying though the streets of his childhood, wishing that he will never have to see them again, glad that the station is close. On the journey back to London, his father's words ring in his mind, however much he tries to banish them. He hardly notices that there are other passengers. Only when the train enters the reassuring townscape of North London with its clutter of grimy house-backs and soaring tower blocks do his thoughts calm. In the evening, lying on his bed, he turns up the radio to blot out the thoughts and wishes that he could break free of his family.

Part 4      1972

chapter 12

The windowless warehouse is stifling, even with the doors open. The asbestos roof creaks in the heat. Fluorescent tubes drain the shadows. The forklift trucks are temporarily stilled. A radio blares distortedly. Martin is coming to dread the lunch break.
'Come over here, Martin. Come on.' Ray is gesturing to him. 'You don't want to sit over there by yourself.'
Martin tries to smile as he complies. It was Ray who befriended him and showed him what to do on his first day in the warehouse. Though they have nothing in common, Martin does not mind his good-natured companion. The only other person he gets on with in the warehouse is the foreman. Frank is sunk in an armchair which was dumped in the yard and which he salvaged. He is due to retire soon. His khaki coat hangs like a shroud on his shrivelled body. Unlike his charges, he never ventures outside the warehouse in his lunch break. He keeps his sandwiches in a metal tin with the pattern worn away. His false teeth click as he chews. It might be because of his teeth that he has little to say - or else he is afraid of Joe and Andy.
Joe is sprawled across two cardboard cartons which have crumpled under his weight. He lights a cigarette, though smoking is forbidden in the warehouse. Martin waits for Frank to tell him off.
'Give us one,' Andy pleads.
'Fucking knackered today.' Joe flicks the spent match at Frank's feet before throwing a cigarette to his companion.
'You know why that is,' Andy says.
'Why?'
'Too much of the other.'
'Bollocks. Home stripping down me bike last night, weren' I? Didn't get done till eleven.'
'What for?’ 
'I wanted to get it tuned up for tonight, didn' I?'
'What's happening tonight?'
'I told yer. Why don't you fucking listen? I'm taking out this bird I met in the Nelson.'
'On the bike?'
'Course on me fucking bike.'
'You'll be knackered in the morning.'
'I won't come in.'
Martin thinks of his own evening. Since working in the warehouse, he has been too tired to do anything except watch television. The serials and comedies have become so much part of his life that he no longer wants to miss them by going out. The portable black and white television was bought after his first week at work with money saved from his grant. One good thing about having no social life as a student was that he always had money left over at the end of term when everybody else had an overdraft. Taking the television from its wrappings and smelling its newness excited him, helping him to push to the back of his mind the loathing at the course his life is taking. Watching television is the only thing to do in his bedsit.
He pours tea from his flask. It tastes stewed, as usual.
Sometimes he toys with the idea of bringing lemonade instead, but Joe would want some and drink the whole bottle.
Martin's thoughts often return to his student life. With hindsight it seems a golden period when he could devote himself to music. He can remember how on first going to college he looked forward to becoming a real musician. In those days he imagined that passing examinations guaranteed his future. The naivety of the idea seems breathtaking now.
'Want one?'
He looks up to find Ray holding out a packet of biscuits. He shakes his head.
Joe sits up. 'What about us then?'
Obediently Ray offers the packet to Joe, who snatches it from his hand. Martin watches him tearing the packet open and stuffing three biscuits in his mouth.
'They're good.' Joe blows a shower of crumbs in Martin's direction as he speaks. 'You should have had some.'
Martin looks away without replying, hoping that Joe will lose interest.
'Hey - I'm talking to you.'
Martin pretends not to hear. Joe gives a handful of biscuits to Andy and settles back on the cartons.
'You can always tell students. Always think they're fucking better than anybody else.'
Martin holds his breath. When nobody pays attention to Joe's comments, he relaxes.
'Do you like football?' Ray asks.
'You ask him that every fucking day,' Joe complains. 
'Not much,' Martin responds. It is his usual answer. 
'Did you watch that programme on Spurs last night?' 
'I was looking at the other channel.' At the Brocks home, he rarely watched television, secretly scorning people who allowed it to dominate their lives. When he first bought his own set, he felt guilty about watching, though there was nobody to see. Initially it was the superficial excitement of programmes like The Avengers which captured his imagination. Now the ideas they generate resound in his mind long after he has gone to bed. He wants to explain how his views have changed, but there is nobody to tell. 
'It was great,' Ray is saying. 'They had these clips of matches right back before the war. Really classic.' 
'Really classic,' Joe mimics. 
'That's it,' Ray agrees, oblivious to sarcasm. 
'You're bleedin' round the twist, do you know that? All you ever talk about is football.' 
Every day Martin wishes that other work had been available. The only thing he has had to look forward to since starting the job is the meeting with Alison. Their last day at college was so charged with significance, so out of the ordinary, that the memory remains vivid. His safe, settled life was at an end. At first he tried to pretend nothing was changing. He spent the morning accompanying her in Beethoven violin sonatas, glad of the excuse to avoid Richard and Deirdre. As the morning progressed, Alison kept glancing at the clock. At twenty past eleven, she announced, 'We'll have to finish now - I've got a lesson in ten minutes.' 
'Today?' 
'It's my last chance. I had to plead to get it.' 
'So this is the end.' He closed the piano lid with a theatrical gesture and stood up - only to worry that Alison might think he was being petulant. He knew the scene was symbolic as she lay her violin in its case with the gentleness she might show towards a baby. There could be no evading the finality of what was happening. 
'Last time in this room,' she said, sensing his mood. 
'Unfortunately.' 
'I've enjoyed our sessions.' 
'So have I.' She raised her eyebrows. 'There might be more chances to work together if you're staying in London.' 
'I expect I will.' 
'Perhaps we can arrange something. You're coming for a drink lunchtime, aren't you?' 
'I wasn't thinking of it.' 
'Everybody else is.' 
'It's going to be a bit difficult.' 
'Come on, Martin - this is the last time we'll all be together.' 
'I'll try to pop in.' 
'You know where it is?' 
He nodded. 
'Twelve-thirty, don't forget. I'll be cross with you if you don't come.' As they faced each other, it crossed his mind that she expected him to kiss her. He wanted to tell her how much he enjoyed working with her, but the words flew from his mind. 
Alison grew tired of waiting. She smiled. 'I've got to go. See you later.' 
When she had gone, he sat on the piano stool again. Unlike his last day at school, he was conscious of foreboding rather than exhilaration. The certainties of college life were behind him. The party in the pub would be more an ordeal than a celebration - only the prospect of seeing Alison tempted him to go. He opened the piano and played a Chopin nocturne, conscious of the paucity of his repertoire - a few Beethoven sonatas, a Schubert sonata, several Scarlatti sonatas and shorter pieces by Chopin and Schumann. Hardly a concert pianist's repertoire; hardly a concert pianist's technique, however much he tried to disguise the fact. At least he was able to immerse himself in music for that final hour. 
Caution made him wait till the party was in full swing before putting in an appearance - if he were not overlooked altogether, at least there would be less time to spend in the pub. His first and only visit. Nobody seemed to notice his entrance. He bought fruit juice and stayed at the bar, far enough from the others not to be drawn into talking with them, yet close enough to grasp the tenor of their conversation. The atmosphere was more subdued than he expected - a bittersweet mix of emotions as his compatriots looked back looked back on their time together and forward to their new lives. Their uncertainty about the future made him feel closer to them. Some he had barely spoken to in three years, though their aspirations were voiced enough to be well known. Despite his qualms about leaving college, the prospect of being free from people he barely knew filled him with relief. Most had attended auditions and though a few had been offered work in pit bands for West End shows, many were resigned to teaching for a living. Those he envied most were remaining at college for an extra year. Deirdre was in that group. In his estimation, Alison should have stayed - she had more potential than other violinists of her year. He watched her surreptitiously from his vantage point at the bar, admiring her vivacity and her ease with people. With nobody to talk to, he drank quickly. Being the first to leave the pub might have attracted attention, obliging him to buy a second drink. This time he chose shandy because it lasted longer. It was already half drunk when Alison beckoned him. His instinct was to pretend that he had not noticed, so that he would not have to sit with the others,  but that might have upset her. Instead he threaded his way towards her, taking care not to knock anybody's glass. Her smile of encouragement gave him some confidence. 
'What are you standing over there for?' 
'There aren't any seats.' 
'You don't have to stand all by yourself at the bar.' 
'I was getting a drink.' 
'Can we move up for Martin?' she appealed to the others. He fancied that they were reluctant to make room for him, but as they did, he could hardly refuse to join them. He perched on the end of the seat, pressed against a dauntingly confident girl he barely knew named Jan who played bassoon and piano. 
'Where have you been?' Alison asked, leaning forward to speak to him. 'We thought you'd decided not to come.' 
'I was practising.' 
'You put us all to shame, you're so conscientious.' 
'You had a lesson.' 
'That was different - it was my last chance for a free lesson.' 
'I was saying goodbye to the piano.' 
'Really talking to it as though it's a person?' Alison looked surprised. Some of the others were grinning. 
'Not talking - playing it for the last time.' 
'I didn't know you were sentimental.' 
'I'm not really.' 
'I think you are deep down.' 
He shook his head, not replying. 
'We're going on for a meal afterwards. Are you coming?' 
'I don't think I will.' 
'Go on - let your hair down for once.' 
'I'm meeting somebody,' he lied, anxious to escape the ordeal.
'Couldn't you come along just for a while?' 
'Not really. There won't be time.' 
'Spoilsport. There won't be another chance.' 
'I didn't realise everybody was going out.' He glanced at his watch. 'I can't stay  all that long.' 
'We've been swapping addresses, if you want to take mine. We could meet up if you're staying in London,' 
How he must have stared at her, unable to hide his confusion. The surprising thing was that she did not seem to mind. He gave the Brocks' address, though he knew he would only be there for a short while. His hope that Mrs Brock might let him stay had proved fruitless. Her refusal shocked him. He had always imagined that she felt sympathy for him. She told him that it was good for him to shelter from the world. 
Alison wrote her address and telephone number on a page torn from a diary. 'Don't ring for a month,' she warned. 'I'm going to France.' 
'To study?' 
'If only. It's just for a holiday.' 
He sat back, clutching his drink and not pursuing the topic. 
'Are you going on holiday?' she asked. 
'No.' When he did not elaborate, she went back to talking to the others. Martin sipped his shandy and wished that he had followed his instinct and stayed away. It hardly mattered if people thought him odd when he would not see them again.
'You're not staying for another year?' Jan asked. 
'No, unfortunately.' 
'So what are you doing?' 
'Finding a job of some sort.' 
'Teaching?' 
'I don't know.' 
She lost interest and turned away, drawn by the conversation on the other side. Martin leaned back so that she partially concealed him, contenting himself with watching his fellow students at the adjoining tables. Clutched in his hand was the page from Alison's diary. That was when Deirdre lumbered towards him. 
'Hi, Martin. I wondered where you'd got to.' 
'I got a bit delayed.' 
'I was waiting for you to come over and see me.' 
'There weren't any seats.' 
'So I thought, if Martin won't come to me, I'll have to go to Martin.' 
He looked down at his glass and muttered, 'I've got to leave in a minute.' 
'You've only just arrived.' 
'I'm meeting somebody.' 
'You can come over and say goodbye properly.' 
At least it was an excuse to get away from Jan. He left his seat and followed Deirdre back to her table where Richard was sitting. The singer nodded to him. 
'We still haven't been to a concert,' Deirdre reminded him. 
'I know.' 
'You've been putting it off for years.'
'I want things to settle down.'
'I don't know how much more settled they've got to be.' 
'When I've sorted out what I'm going to do.' 
'Can you give me your address?' 
'I don't know where I'm going to be. I'm having to move.' He stuffed the page from Alison's diary in his pocket. 
'I know you.' Deirdre looked put out.  'If I give you my address, you'll only leave it.' When he did not disagree, she added more plaintively, 'It would be a pity to lose touch after all this time.' 
'It's going to be safer if you give me your address.' She unearthed a sheet of paper from her bag and rested it on her knee. He watched her writing laboriously in big, rounded letters. 
Richard cleared his throat. 'I'm joining D'Oyly Carte, so it's drinks on me. What are you having?' 
'I'm all right for the moment,' Martin said. Afterwards, he realised that he should have offered congratulations. 
'Interested in doing some work in the near future?' 
'I'll have to see. I don't know whether I'll have a piano when I move.' 
'We can hire a studio.' 
'How much is that going to cost?' 
'I'll pay if it's a problem. Anyway, they're pretty reasonable.' 
'I'll have to see.' Richard produced a card from his wallet. 'Give me a ring. Don't leave it too long, or I'll be on tour.' 
The card showed Richard's qualifications, though it must have been printed before the examination results were announced. Before Martin could get over the audacity, Deirdre thrust in his hand the sheet of paper with her address. 
'Don't forget to ring me. Come for a meal one day if you like and we can work on something.' 
'Thanks.' Martin stuffed the second piece of paper in his pocket, knowing that Alison's was the only offer he might take up - 
'Martin.' 
He looks up, trying to shake himself free from his reverie. Ray is saying, 'Do you want some coffee?' 
'No thanks.' 
'I've got plenty left.' 
'I'm okay.' 
Ray looks so let down that Martin wishes he had accepted. 
'We'll have some,' Joe says, sitting up. 
Ray's face clouds. 'You've got some of your own.' 
Joe nods towards Martin. 'So's that git.' 
'He's my mate.' 
Andy says, 'We'll be your mates if you give us some coffee.' 
Ray obeys reluctantly. He looks uneasy as Joe swills coffee from the flask and holds it upside down. Coffee drips on the floor. 
'What about me?' Andy protests. 
'Weren't enough, was there?' Joe stretches, bucking the cartons even further. 'Let's get a bit of sun.' 
'Gimme my flask,' Ray wails. 
'You'll get it, don't worry.' Joe lets himself down to the floor. Followed by Andy, he swaggers outside clutching the flask and radio. A disconsolate Ray trails after them. The sound of the radio fades. 
The lunch break is not long enough for anybody without a car to reach the cafes beyond the industrial estate. Martin is thankful for the sun which lures his fellow workers outside. For a short while he is free. While nobody watches, he picks up the carrier bag containing his belongings and makes his way between the tiers of racks. Concealed from view at the far end is a typist's chair without a back. It was there when he first arrived, making him wonder who else had used the place as a hideaway. It is reassuring to imagine somebody like himself wanting to get away from Joe. Life in the warehouse becomes bearable when Joe is not around. 
From the carrier bag, Martin takes his remaining sandwiches and the latest issue of Music and Musicians. As he turns the pages, the world of music seems remote. Hard to imagine himself as part of it. That makes him clench his hands with frustration. The thought of spending his working life in the warehouse frightens him.
'You all right?' comes Frank's voice. 
Martin swings round to see the foreman watching him. 'Just thinking.' 
'Thought you'd hurt yourself or something.' 
'No.' 
'Easy to do round here - pick up a box awkward and strain yourself.' 
'I suppose everybody does it at sometime.' 
'It only takes one time and you can do yourself a lot of damage. You get some blokes - they damaged their backs so much, they had to leave.' 
Martin looks at the worn, pinched face, sensing the closeness being offered. It makes him uneasy. 
'Young bloke who was here before you had to leave because of his back.' 
'I'll be careful,' Martin assures him, wondering if the young bloke was the person who made the hideaway. 
Frank scrutinises his face. 'You don't want to stay here.' 
Martin's stomach lurches at the prospect of being made to go outside with the others. 
'You can do better for yourself than this.' 
Martin's panic subsides as he realises his misunderstanding. He smiles. 'I haven't managed it yet.' 
'Don't worry son - you will.' 
Martin looks down, embarrassed. A violinist smiles back from page of the magazine. 
'You don't want to take no notice of Joe. He won't last long here. I've seen people like him before. I know the signs.' 
Martin prays that the foreman will go away. 
'He's the sort who picks on people. You want to keep out of his way.' 
'I do.' 
'One day somebody's going to pick on him - see how he likes it.' 
'One day.' 
'Andy's not so bad when you get him on his own. Ray's all right. Bit simple, but you've found that out for yourself. Works hard, I'll say that for him - once he knows what he's got to do.' 
'How long have you been here?' 
'Twenty years now. Came here after National Service. Never thought I'd stick it.' 
Martin smiles politely. 
'I wasn't going to put up with humping crates and boxes around for long - that's what I told the wife.' 
'How long's Joe been here?' 
'Couple of months. He won't be here much longer, I'll tell you that. The manager's got his eye on him.' 
The image of the manager keeping an eye on anybody seems incongruous given that he only comes into the warehouse once a week. Martin confesses, 'I'm not sure how long I'll be here.' 
'I'd keep looking for something better if I were you, otherwise you'll leave it and leave it. End up like me.' 
'I'll remember.' 
'You've been to university, haven't you?' 
'Music college.' 
The old man scratches his nose. 'We get a lot of students here for the summer, but I can't remember one from music college before.' 
'I've finished now, so I'm not really a student any more.' 
'What is it you play - classical stuff?' 
'That's it.' 
'We've got some classical records. The wife bought them in a jumble sale. They play all right.' 
Martin nods politely. 
'I suppose you have to practise a lot?' 
'I should do.' 
'You want to keep at it.' 
Martin's eyes stray towards his magazine. 
'Wish I could do something like that.' The longing is palpable in Frank's voice. 'I've watched some of them pianists on the tele. Marvellous, they are.' He explores one ear with his little finger. 'You thought about going on a talent show?' 
'Not really.' 
'It gets you known.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'At least it would get you out of here.' Frank examines the results of his probing captured under his finger nail as Martin stares at the magazine. 'I'll let you get on with your sandwiches. We'll have the others coming back in a minute.' 
When Martin is alone, his thoughts often turn to his departure from the attic room which had become his home. Were the Brocks pleased or sorry to see him leave? Mrs Brock seemed preoccupied on those final days. She was probably worried about her husband whose return from another overseas project had been delayed - or else she was guilty about not letting Martin stay. 
'I think we're getting a girl this time,' Ashley revealed at Martin's last breakfast in the basement kitchen. Ashley was getting interested in girls, even if he did still keep rats in his bedroom. Beside him, Samantha was sampling a new brand of cereal with some suspicion. A stranger had visited the attic room. Martin felt his privacy being stripped inexorably away. He wanted to complain, but it was difficult to articulate how Mrs Brock had betrayed him. 
'You aren't one of mummy's successes,' Ashley confided. 
'What do you mean?' 
'You've never become one of the family.' 
'I like doing different things from you.' 
'It's not just that. Mummy thinks you've got a serious personality problem.' 
'All I want is to get on with my practice!' 
Samantha abandoned her cereal. 'I'm sorry you're going. I like you.' 
Martin was flattered. He found her less irritating than in her younger days. Her moments of childishness made him feel a man of the world. 
'I think you've grown up a bit,' Ashley decided. 'You don't get tongue-tied whenever Miranda appears.' 
'You hang about on the landing so you can watch her coming out the bathroom,' Samantha contributed. 
Martin did not think he had been so obvious. His burgeoning man-of-the-world image crumpled. 
'Have you got a job yet?' she wanted to know. 
'No.' 
'I thought you were going to be a pianist. You're always practising.' 
'That doesn't make you a pianist, unfortunately.' 
'Then what do you do it for?' 
'I trained as a pianist. You don't always succeed in being one.' 
'How do you succeed?' 
'I wish I knew.' 
'You should have sorted that out by this time,' the ever-rational Ashley pointed out. 'There's not much point studying music for years if you're going to work in a factory.' 
'It's not always a question of what you want to do...' Martin let his words fade away, not knowing how to explain or whether he should bother. 
'Where are you going to live when you leave here?' Samantha demanded. 
He was grateful to her for changing the subject, even if not intentionally, but the new topic was not one he wanted to dwell on. He tried not to let his feelings betray him as he announced, 'I've found a bedsit in Walthamstow.' Going back to flat-hunting brought the memories of first arriving in London. In those days he would never have looked twice at the back bedroom with its battered furniture, torn floral wallpaper and lino so worn that the boards showed through. The other places he looked at were either more expensive or dirtier. In one, the 'kitchen' was a cooker and sink on a landing, shared with two West Indian families. One shared flat had the bath in the kitchen; what he thought was a pantry turned out to be the toilet. 
'I wish you could stay here,' Samantha said. 
'Makes two of us.' Her sentiments touched him, though he noted that no words of agreement came from Ashley. He wondered whether his views would get back to Mrs Brock. Miranda learned of his imminent departure from the others. He could not bring himself to tell her himself. 
'You spend all your time avoiding us and now you can't wait to get away from us,' she teased when they met in the hall. 
'It's not like that,' he protested. His feelings for Miranda were still as confused as in his early days of living with the Brocks. He thought her selfish and calculating, yet when she was close, he no longer cared. Then his emotions were almost overwhelming. She knew the effect she had on him and she was amused by it. Her offhand, disdainful approach to people was something which he wished he could emulate. It excited him to watch her curled in an armchair, skirt riding high on her thighs, or stretching at breakfast, head flung back as she yawned, breasts pressing against her dressing gown. Having feelings which threatened to get out of control alarmed him. Perhaps his departure was for the best. 
'So what is it like?' she persisted. 'You haven't told me yet.' 
'There's nothing to tell, except that I'm leaving.' 
She grinned. 'Are you going to live with a girlfriend?' 
He shook his head. 
'I'm surprised you've stayed so long.' 
'I'm surprised.' 
'Nobody else has stayed more than a year.' Her grin broadened. 'It's amazing - we've lived in the same house all this time and you've never even made a pass at me.' 
He looked away, glad that nobody else was listening, shocked yet fascinated by the vision she put before him. He knew that she was enjoying his reaction. At least she had the grace to assume a different expression when he looked back at her. 
'Be a case of me seducing you, wouldn't it?' she said ruefully. 'If it ever happened.' 
All he could do was to smile. 
'One thing I've never worked out about you, Martin - are you queer?' 
'No.' The vehemence was greater than he intended. He did not want to provide more ammunition for her to taunt him. 
'I don't know so much.' 
He wanted to kiss her as a way of proving that he was not. That may have been her intention. 
'Did you ever want to seduce me?' she asked. 
'Not really,' he lied. 
'That's not very flattering.' She sounded put out, but when she saw his surprise, the mischief came back to her eyes. 'I'm not going to bite you.' 
'I know.' She giggled. 'You still go red when you get embarrassed.' 
He tried to remain impassive. 
'You're doing it now.' 
He turned away abruptly. 'I've got to get on with my packing.' 
'Don't you think there's something strange about you?' 
'No.' 
She shook her head in bafflement. 'I think I'd understand you better if you were queer. I don't know much more about you than when you came. I don't even know what makes you tick, apart from music.' 
'What makes you think there is anything else?' 
'Which shows there something odd about you. The only thing that turns you on is music written two hundred years ago.' 
'It's not all that old.' As soon as he uttered the words, he knew that it was a silly thing to say. He added lamely, 'I don't know much about you.' 
Her eyes widened. 'There's still time to find out.' 
That was when he fled upstairs without replying. Though the encounter was unsatisfying and humiliating, he would not have missed it for anything. He clutched at any excuse to talk to Miranda. Contact with her excited him, though it would unsettle him for the rest of the day, making concentration on music impossible. He wanted to look back so that he could see her, but he was afraid that she would laugh at his weakness. It annoyed him that she should exert such an influence over him. The worst thing about leaving was that he would have no excuse to see her again. 
* 
He manages to avoid Joe until the afternoon tea break. 
'You never say much,' Andy complains. 
'I haven't got much to say.' 
'Why's that then?' 
Martin shrugs. 
'What's that mean?' Joe joins in, mimicking the shrug. 
'Nothing.' 
'You fucking stupid or something?' 
Martin casts around helplessly. Frank is nowhere to be seen. 
Joe looks him up and down. 'I thought you was at college?' 
'I was.' 
'All that studying and you're still fucking stupid!' 
Martin turns away. 
'Fucking stupid and stuck up.' 
'Not really,' he mutters. 
'What's that?' 
'Not really,' he repeats more loudly, turning to face his adversary. His stomach knots. 
'He's getting bolshie,' Andy says. 
A look of satisfaction comes to Joe's face. 'I think he needs doing over.' 
Martin tries to look resolute. 
'Come here, stupid.' Joe grips Martin’s shirt and pulls him closer. 'You got a bird?' 
'No.' Martin draws back from the odour of stale tobacco. 
'What's the matter? Can't you talk to anyone who ain't got a degree?' 
'Do you go for the birds?' Andy joins in. 
Joe prods Martin. 'We're talking to you.' 
Martin looks down. 'Not particularly.' 
'Not particularly. What's that mean?' 
'Don't you know?' 
'You tell me.' 
'What Andy said.' 
'You mean you don't go for the birds?' 
'It depends what you mean.' 
'Don't give us that shit.' 
This time it is Andy who prods Martin. 'He's queer.' 
'Are you queer?' Joe wants to know. 
'No,' Martin insists. 
'So you do go for the birds?' 
'Yes.' 
That makes Joe leer. One of his teeth is chipped. 'Randy sod on the quiet, aren't you? What you wanna do is come down the pub with us one night and enjoy yourself.' 
'Show us how you do your chatting up,' Andy adds. 
'Wanna come?' Joe asks. 
'I'll think about it.' 
Joe turns to Andy. 'He'll think about it. He's always fucking thinking, this one. He's thinking what a lot of cunts we are. Ain' that right?' Joe thrusts his face close to Martin. 'So what's the name of your bird, then?' 
'Alison.' Martin tries to avoid focusing on the chipped, discoloured tooth. 
'She's all right, is she?' 
Martin nods. 
'She goes.' 
Martin stares blankly at his adversary. 
'She goes.' Joe rubs his fist into Martin's stomach. 'She lets you get stuck in.' 
'Why are you interested?' 
'I like to know these things. Might wanna take her on meself.' 
'What are her tits like?' Andy wants to know. 'Got big tits, has she?' 
'Not especially.' 
'Not especially,' Joe mimics. 
'You're an arse man, are you?' 
'Did you see her last night?' Andy asks before Martin can answer. 
'Yes.' 
Joe's face lights up. 'That's why you were all shagged out this morning, is it? You were giving it to her. We know.' He glances at Andy. 'He's a dark horse, our Martin.' 
Andy grins. 'How long's it been going on?' 
'A while.' 
'Where did you pick her up?' 
'We knew each other at college.' 
'College, eh?' Joe looks impressed. 'So she's a real posh bird, is she?' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Not that it makes much difference when they've got their knickers down. Ain' that right?' 
'I'd better get back to work.' 
'Seeing her tonight?' Joe persists as though he has not heard. 
'I don't know yet.' 
'When are we gonna see her?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Perhaps we all could meet up one evening.' 
Martin nods, knowing that the meeting will never happen.

chapter 13

Since the initial obstacle of plucking up the courage to telephone Alison was overcome, Martin has looked forward to their meeting. Although she had given him her number, he could not easily persuade himself that she really wanted to hear from him again. While she was in France, he could turn the problem over in his mind without coming to any conclusion. When her month's holiday was over, a decision had to be made. For several nights he lay staring into the darkness before going to sleep, deciding what to do and trying not to be distracted by the voices and the competing music from adjoining rooms. What he could not envisage was how she would react if he telephoned her. The temptation was to do nothing, though he knew that this course would mean never seeing her again.
It was the first time he had used the payphone in the hall. He hated the thought of people in other rooms overhearing his conversation, but the alternative of going out to find a working telephone box was no more appealing.
'Martin!' The pleasure in her tone surprised and elated him, sweeping away his doubts. 'I'm glad you rang. I wasn't sure whether you would.'
'I said I would.' His tone was almost truculent. 
'You say a lot of things you don't mean when you've had a few drinks.' 
'I wasn't drinking.' 
'Not you in particular. I meant you get carried away. Like the idea of all getting together for a reunion. It won't happen.' 
There was a hardness in his stomach again as he suggested, 'We could have a reunion of our own.' 
'How do you mean?' 
The caution in her tone made him think that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to turn back. He ventured, 'We could meet up - if you want to.' 
'Love to.' 
Her ready acceptance surprised him. He had to continue talking, asking mundane things like how long she had been back, but he was glad when his money ran out and he could put down the phone. 
He saw the meeting as a treat - a more exciting one than the chocolate which he still bought at the end of every Friday. Nearer to the day, apprehension blighted his pleasure. He could not shake off the suspicion that he was making a fool of himself. The important thing was not to let his feelings show at the warehouse. Joe likes weakness. 
Five to eight. Martin stands outside Wyndham's Theatre. It was a rush to get back to his room in Walthamstow from the warehouse in Tottenham, have a bath, change into his best clothes and get to the West End. Previously, he has been content with washing in his room as he did at the Brocks' house, but he felt that he ought to have a proper bath before seeing Alison. The money ran out before the bath was properly filled. By then he was undressed, so he could not go out to the landing to put another coin in the meter. Instead he made do with the few inches of water, crouching in the bath to avoid contact with the stained and greasy enamel and wishing that he had made do with a wash. That was when he discovered it is impossible to take a bath in the early evening without having other tenants rattling the door, wanting to use the toilet. 
Gone eight o'clock, the time of the meeting.  Memories of waiting for Holly haunt him. Though embarrassment at the episode has passed, fear of its repetition remains. It is the first time since then that he has put himself in the same situation. Even as he tells himself that Alison will not let him down, he is thinking about how to spend the evening on his own. There is a delicious sense of indulgence in having nobody else's views to consider. What to do? Too late for a concert. Pubs and restaurants are not to his taste. More promising are the cinemas around Leicester Square - their anonymity attracts him, though admission prices are high. As a student, he promised himself that he would go to the cinema regularly once he was working, but he has not got around to it. This is his first evening out since starting work. Not that he has lost interest in films. Apart from new releases, there is the whole field of foreign films to explore. In March, he discovered a tiny cinema in Kensington called the Paris Pullman. The auditorium was almost empty on a weekday afternoon. That was his first experience of a subtitled film. He can remember the director's name - André Delvaux. The film was called Un Soir...Un Train. It drew him into its world in spite of his imperfect knowledge of French. He never mentioned his interest to anybody. If he had told Alison, she might have thought he was asking her out - 
'Hello.' 
He turns, startled by Alison's voice.  She is smiling. He blurts, 'You've changed your hair.' 
Her eyebrows go up. She looks disappointed. 'That's not much of a welcome.' 
'I like it.' 
'Thank you.' 
They survey each other. He hopes he has mollified her, but he is not sure. She is tanned. The beige velvet trouser suit is one she wore sometimes at college. 
'The play's already started,' he tells her. 
She looks puzzled. 'What play?' 
He gestures to the theatre entrance. 'Here.' 
'Did you want to see it?' 
'Didn't you?' 
'Not really.' 
'I thought you did.' 
'I only suggested meeting here because it's next to the station. I thought we could go for a meal or a drink or something. Are you hungry?' 
'It's up to you.' 
She smiles. 'I don't know whether you're hungry.' 
'I meant it's up to you if we go for something to eat.' 
'Have you eaten yet?' 
He shakes his head. 'I haven't had time.' 
'Shall we do that then?' 
'All right.' 
'All we've got to do is find a restaurant.' 
Obediently he gazes around, seeing only pubs. 
'What do you fancy?' Alison is asking. 'Chinese, Indian, Italian...?' 
'I don't mind.' 
'There's one place I went to before that's quite near, if you want to give it a try. It's Chinese.' 
'Okay.' 
They leave Leicester Square. Anxiety makes Martin lose all sense of direction. He knows that he should be walking on the outside, which prompts him to dodge behind her. 
'What are you doing?' She twists her head from side to side, trying to follow his movements. 
'It doesn't matter.' 
She shakes her head, amused and confused. 
'How was your holiday?' he asks. 
'Perfect. I'd have sent you a card if I'd known your new address.' 
'I didn't know myself when you went away. I was still looking for somewhere.'
'Six of us rented a villa, which sounds grand if you don't end up falling over each other. Fortunately we were friends anyway and we weren't there long enough to get on each other's nerves.' She smiles, remembering. 'We had these grand plans for hiring a car and exploring the coast, but we ended up sunbathing or going for walks. We did some sightseeing, of course - Montpellier, Nimes, Avignon, Marseilles. Anyway, how about you - what have you been up to?' 
'Working in a warehouse.' 
She pulls a face. 'Sounds grim.' 
'It is. I don't know how long I'll stay there - for as long as I can stick it, I suppose.' 
'What did you take it for?' 
'I didn't have much choice. I needed the money.' 
'Is it well paid?' 
'Not particularly.' 
'Didn't you sign on?' 
'I never thought about it,' he lies. Several times he went to the unemployment benefit office, only to walk past because he could not summon the courage to go inside. 
'I know it's a bit grim, but it gives you breathing space to look around.' 
'Too late now.' 
Their steps slow. 
'This is the place I was talking about,' Alison says. 
At first sight it intimidates him, as restaurants always do. 
'Shall we go in?' she prompts as he hesitates by the entrance, wondering how to hold open the door while letting her enter first. His dilemma is resolved when she pushes it open herself, so that he has to follow her inside. The restaurant is not crowded. Chinese scenes adorn the walls. Coloured lanterns cast a subdued light. 'What do you think?' she murmurs. 
'Do you want to eat here or try somewhere else?' 
'Let's stay here.' 
'We don't have to if you don't want to.' 
'We might as well stay.' 
'You sound doubtful.' 
'No. It's fine.' 
'It doesn't get too crowded here during the week, that's what I was thinking.' 
A waiter leads them to a table in a recess. When they have settled, facing each other, Alison raises her eyebrows. 'So how's Martin?' 
'All right, I suppose.' 
Her brow furrows. 'The job's getting you down, isn't it?' 
He nods. 'I can't see you working in a warehouse.' 
'Neither can I.' 
'What do you have to do exactly?' 
'There are all these racks of bins going up to the roof, full of electrical components. We have to keep them filled and make up orders.' 
'How long do you think you'll stick it?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Not long, by the way you're talking.' 
The waiter gives them each a menu. Martin's eyes go to the prices. 
'I think it's best to go for lots of single dishes,' Alison is saying. 'It's up to you though.' 
'I don't know much about it.' 
'You have the whole table covered with dishes, then you sample them all. I think it's more fun than having set meals.' 
'Let's do that then.' 
'Anything you particularly want?' 
'I'll leave it to you.' 
'We must have lots of bean shoots and crispy noodles - I love those. What do you like - fish, chicken or pork?' 
'How about chicken?' 
'The trouble with coming to a place like is that I eat too much.' 
Martin wants to say something complimentary, but the words elude him. 
'What shall we have to drink?' Alison asks. 'How about China tea to be authentic?' 
'If you like.' 
When she has ordered, they look at each other. Alison smiles. 'It seems a long while since college.' 
'Only a month.' 
'It's strange how you can live out of each other's pockets for years and then lose touch completely. That's why I was glad when you rang.' 
'I said I would.' 
'Lots of others said they would, but I haven't heard from them.' 
'Perhaps they rang when you were away,' he suggests, feeling pleased at doing the right thing for once. 
'I still haven't come down to earth after France.' A faraway look comes into her eyes. 'It was so quiet - that's what I couldn't get over. There was this river where we could bathe and never see anybody else. If you were still, you could imagine you were in a painting.' 
'Sounds as if you didn't want to leave.' 
'We'd have got on each other's nerves if we'd stayed much longer. As it is, I can think of it as an idyll.' She brightens. 'Didn't you get away at all?' 
'No.' 
'I think after years of college, you need a break so you can recharge your batteries and decide what you're going to do with your life.' 
The waiter brings tea which Alison pours into tiny cups. There is no milk. 
'Do you like it?' she asks, watching Martin's reaction as he takes a sip. 
'Yes,' he lies. 
'You're a loner, aren't you?' Her eyes have not left him. 
'I suppose so.' 
'You always stood apart from the rest of our year. It got obvious sometimes.' 
He raises his eyebrows, not knowing how to reply. 
'Lots of people thought Richard was taking advantage of you, using you as an accompanist all the time.' 
'I didn't mind.' 
'We did. We all wanted to do more work with you.' 
'I didn't know.' 
'You were the best accompanist in our year. You must have realised.' 
He smiles. 'We haven't got a year any more.' 
'When we did.' 
'Got to face the real world now.' 
They sip tea. Martin wishes there were milk in it. He tries to think of something they can talk about, but there is nothing interesting in his present life. 
'You're an only child, aren't you?' Alison guesses. 
'How do you know?' 
'It shows.' 
'Are you?' 
She shakes her head. 'I've got a younger brother.' 
'I can't imagine having brothers and sisters.' 
She pulls a face. 'You learn to stick up for yourself. The down side is you have more arguments.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Do you see your parents much?' 
'Only when I have to.' 
'That says it all.' 
Martin stares at the painted scene behind her, remembering the days of childhood when he could never imagine his parents living apart. He can still think of everything which has happened since as an aberration. 
'How often do you visit them?' Alison is asking. 
'My mother comes to London sometimes. We meet up then.' 
'How about your father?' 
'I go to see him two or three times a year.' 
'Is he ill?' 
'No.' 
'It was the way you said you go to see him, as though he was in hospital, or something.' 
'It's just that he doesn't get to London much.' 
'And he's the one you don't get on with?' 
'I probably get on better with him.' 
'So why don't you see him more often?' 
'It's a lot of travelling.' 
'Martin!' 
'We've never got anything to say.' 
'That doesn't matter. At least you can show him you care by going.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Do you ring him?' 
'He's difficult to contact.' 
'You might regret it later if you can't stay close.' 
'It's difficult now I'm working.' Martin wishes they could talk about something which does not make feel defensive. 
'I'd get home more if I could, but it's expensive getting to Edinburgh, especially now I haven't got a student railcard. I went up on the coach for a few days when I came back from France. It took for ever.' 
He thinks again of the days before he went to school, when there were no enemies to threaten him and no uncertainties. That was the best time of his life. He wishes he could explain his feelings to Alison. 
'You didn’t mind coming here?' she asks. 
'No.' 
'I thought perhaps you weren't you keen on eating out.' 
'Why?' 
'You never came with the rest of us when we went out for meals.' 
'I always seemed to have so much to do.' 
'Everybody had a lot to do, but we still managed to go out.' 
'I suppose so.' He can visualise the evening degenerating as Alison criticises him while he becomes more defensive. The prospect alarms and saddens him. Things should have been different. He tries to think of an excuse to leave. 
The arrival of the food provides a diversion. Martin looks helplessly at the array of metal dishes. 
'Take a bit from each,' Alison urges. 
Martin spoons rice onto his plate. 
'Looks good,' she says, helping herself to bean shoots. 
'Definitely.' 
'I still think of doing this as a special treat, probably because I never went to restaurants much as a child.' 
Martin does not reply. He is glad when they are eating, for then there is no need to talk. He glances covertly at Alison, wondering whether she is regretting their outing, but she notices and smiles. 
'Do you like it?' 
'Yes.' 
A babble of voices comes from the kitchen. She leans forward to whisper, 'They always sound as if they're having a row.' 
'Perhaps they are.' 
'I think it's their way of speaking.' 
Sampling all the dishes takes a long time. Some of them Martin does not like. He wishes the waiter had left the menu, so that he could work out the cost. To avoid wasting food, he empties the remains of two dishes on his plate. The liquid has congealed. When Alison asks whether he wants the rest of the rice, he murmurs that he is all right. 
'I always feel hungry to start with,' she says. 'Now I'm full.' 
The food tastes less attractive now it has cooled. Martin pushes his plate away. 
'How about some more tea?' Alison suggests. 
'If you like.' 
'Give us a chance to catch up with the gossip.' 
'I haven't got any.' 
'Shame on you.' She watches him so unblinkingly that he feels uncomfortable. 'Did you ring any of the others?' 
'No.' 
'Aren't you going to keep in touch with them?' 
'No.' 
'I'm flattered.' 
He does not respond. 
'I thought you were close to Deirdre.' 
'What made you think that?' He cannot conceal his surprise.
'Just the impression I got. Weren't you?' 
'No.' 
'How about Richard? You were always working with him.' 
'Only because he wanted me to.' 
'I know he could be pushy. Still, he was a good singer.' 
'Did you know he was joining D'Oyly Carte?' 
'Everybody did. He went on about it enough.' 
'That's Richard.' To break the silence which grows between them, Martin asks, 'What about your plans?' 
She pulls a face. 'I wish I had one. I'm toying with the idea of setting up a chamber ensemble, if you're interested.' 
'Yes.' 
For a moment the old enthusiasm returns. He dreams of being on a concert platform with Alison. 
'Nothing very high-powered. It's as much a way of keeping in touch with people and keeping in practice as anything. I'm looking for other string players. I suppose you don't know if Deirdre would be interested?' 
He shakes his head, reflecting that fate seems intent on not letting him escape from Deirdre. 
'I haven't done much about it as yet.  It's just something I was thinking about in France. Apart from that, I'm doing some private teaching to pay the bills. I must get down to some serious auditioning.' 
'Auditioning for what?' 
'Anything that's going. You've always got new shows opening in the West End - I'll try for those. And all the orchestras, of course - I haven't got much chance in London, but I'll try the regional ones. The auditioning's good experience.'
'Supposing you don't get in?' 
'You're cheerful, aren't you? I can always get a temp. job in a shop or something, the same as you've done. The trouble is making sure you're free for auditions.' 
'I don't have that problem. No auditions.' 
'So what are your plans?' 
'I haven't got any.' 
'What do you want to do?' 
'I wish I could have stayed at college for another year.' 
'Why didn't you?' 
'Because I'm not that good.' He is surprised by the exasperation in his voice. 
'Don't be silly.' 
'I didn't collect any prizes.' 
'That doesn't mean anything.' 
'It shows what teachers thought about me.'
 'It shows how well you do in exams. That's got nothing to do with how you develop as a musician. You should know that.' 
'Anyway, my parents wouldn't pay my fees for another year.' 
'You could get a grant.' 
'I'm not good enough.' 
'Did you apply?' 
'No.' 
'So you don't know. You are silly, Martin.' 
'Too late now,' he says almost gleefully. 
'You need taking in hand.' 
'Probably.' 
'Definitely.' She shifts on her seat. 'Do you want any sweet?' 
'No thanks.' 
'I love lychees. I know they're naughty because they're soaked in syrup - I daren't think about the calories.' 
'What are they?' 
'They're a fruit. You're not into Chinese food at all, are you?' 
'I'll try them if you're having them.' 
'That's it - live dangerously.' She signals the waiter and orders. Afterwards, she turns back to Martin. 'What are you going to do with your future?' 
He worries whether he has brought enough money. What he wants is a way of looking in his wallet without Alison seeing. 
'Martin,' she prompts, leaning forward, her eyes wide. 'I'm talking to you.' 
'Sorry.' 
'What are you going to do?' 
'Do you mean in the near future, or longer term?' 
'How about both?' 
'In the near future, I'll be working in the warehouse for as long as I can stick it -  and living in Walthamstow.' 
'You moved from Belsize Park?' 
'I didn't have much choice. The place I've got is cheap - that's all you can say for it.' 
'It's always a problem - finding somewhere to live in London.' 
'The trouble is I haven't got a piano now.' 
'How do you manage about practising?' 
'I don't.' 
'You mean you're not doing any?' 
He shakes his head. 'Not since I moved.' 
'That's terrible!' 
He looks down at his cup, not knowing what to say as Alison stares at him. 
'Couldn't you hire a studio?' she prompts. 
'I can't afford to.' 
'What about your clarinet - do you practise that?' 
'The other people in the house don't like it.' 
'You've tried?' 
'The tenant in the next room banged on the wall.' 
'I bet he has his radio on full blast.' 
'People don't think of it like that.' 
'A clarinet's not all that loud.' 
He shrugs, remembering occasions when arguing and shouting have woken him at two in the morning. 
'I'd just go ahead and play,' Alison advises. 
'I feel too tired by the time I get home in the evening.' 
'So what do you do when you get home?' 
'Eat and then watch television. I know all the quiz shows and soap operas.' He smiles, hoping to make the remark seem flippant. 
Alison shakes her head in wonderment. 'You can't go on like that, Martin. It's such a waste.' 
He holds the smile, not sure whether she is being serious. 
'What are you going to do about it?' she asks without giving any sign that she joking. 
He lets the smile die. 'I don't know.' 
'Don't sound so pleased about it.' 
'I wasn't. Anyway, what can I do?' 
'You could move for a start. You could go on the dole to buy time for practising. It's better than wasting your life in a warehouse.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'You suppose so. That's what I mean. It's not very positive, is it?' 
He struggles to find the right words. His lips move, but no words come. Alison is waiting. He marvels anew at the expressiveness of her eyes. 
'Why don't you come to my place one weekend?' she offers. 'That gives us both a chance to practise.' 
'It's a bit awkward getting to Catford from Walthamstow.' 
'Martin! It's not that far.' 
'It seems like it when you've got to change buses about five times.' 
'You need somebody to nag you.' 
'Probably.' 
'What are you going to do with your life?' 
'I don't know.' 
'You've got to think about it. You can't drift on the way you are.' 
The waiter brings dessert. Martin is glad of the distraction. He begins eating. 
'What do you think of lychees?' Alison asks, watching for his reaction. 
'All right.' 
'All right, but not brilliant?' 
He grins. 'Like tinned pears.' 
'You're got very conservative tastes,' she accuses him good-humouredly. 'A musician ought to have an inquisitive mind.' 
'Perhaps I'm not a real musician.' 
She does not sound so good-humoured when she tells him, 'Don't think like that.' 
'Perhaps fate meant me to be a warehouse porter.' 
'You're a musician. That's what you trained for, whatever you happen to be doing at the moment.' 
'If you say so.' 
'Never think any different.' 
'It was all right when we were at college - I could feel I was training for something. I was with musicians all the time. Since we finished...' He toys with the fruit, not daring to look at his companion. 
'Since we finished,' she prompts. 
'I don't feel like a musician any more.' 
'What do you really want to do with your life?' 
'Make music.' 
'Then you've got to think of yourself as a musician before anything else.' 
'You said I wasn't inquisitive enough to be a musician.' 
'I said you're conservative. I didn't say you weren't a musician.' 
'Even if it's true.' 
'You won't be much good if you don't start practising again. You know that, don't you?' 
He nods. 
'You need to do some performing - even if it's only at music clubs.' 
'I know.' 
She leans forward. 'So do it then!' 
He turns away, repelled by the intimacy of golden down over her lip and the pores around her nose, yet aware how easily the excitement of her closeness could become like a drug. 
'Martin.' Her eyes hypnotise him. 'Will you come over and do some practice regularly?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Don't say you'll leave it, or I'll keep on nagging you.' 
'I'd better not say it in that case.' 
'And will you start looking for some work in music?' 
'If you say so.' 
Her expression softens. 'Don't look so put-upon.' 
He grins despite himself. 'Am I?' 
'Yes.' 
'You're good for me.' 
That amuses her. 'It's nice to know I've got my uses. It's easier to order other people around than to take my own advice.' 
'I like being with you,' he confesses, not daring to watch her response. 
'Then why didn't you show it before? Why didn't you ever ask me out?' 
'I don't know.' 
'What sort of social life have you got?' 
'There isn't any.' 
'You can't stay in watching television every evening.' 
'I do.' 
'What about weekends?' 
'What about them?' 
'What do you do?' 
'I work Saturday mornings, so by the time I get back I don't want to do much. On Sundays I read, or watch television or go for walks. I've started going to Epping Forest.' 
'That's terrible.' 
'Going in Epping Forest?' 
'Don't be silly. I've told you - you're wasting your life and wasting your talent.' 
'If I've got any talent.' 
'Of course you have. How do you think you got into college? Why do you think Richard always wanted to work with you?' 
'I've got some facility, but that's not enough.' 
'Don't run yourself down.' 
'That's what I learned in college - there were people with ten times the talent I've got.' 
'You say they're better - they might have thought the same about you. You shouldn't underestimate yourself, Martin. You worked harder than anybody else - '
'Which might have meant I wasn't so good, so I had to work that much harder to keep up.'
 'Which meant you were more conscientious and had more discipline than the rest of us. A lot of people thought you were standoffish, but they still admired you as a musician. You could have accompanied any of the instrumentalists or singers. They all wanted to work with you, but they thought you were only interested in working with your own little clique.' 
The thought of what his fellow students must have said about him during the years at college makes him colour with embarrassment. He hopes the light is too dim for Alison to notice. He explains, 'There's an old man at the warehouse - Frank. He went there years ago, not thinking he'd stay. I can see myself like that in ten years time - still living in the same bedsit.' 
'Then do something about it!' Alison shakes her head. 'I don't understand you, Martin.' 
'I think I'll have jobs in places like the warehouse for the rest of my life. I can't see myself doing anything musical except as a hobby.' 
'Why not?' 
'There's not much you can do as a pianist. You can't play in an orchestra and I wouldn't be much good as a teacher.' 
'What about as a clarinetist?' 
'That was only my second subject.' 
'You were good.' 
'Average.' 
'Don't be so negative. You could get freelance work as an accompanist. Opera and ballet companies are always on the lookout for good sight-readers. You haven't bothered to try them, have you?'
He shakes his head. 
'Why not?' 
'I don't think I've got what it takes.' 
'Let other people decide that.' 
'What I worry about is what's going to happen when I try to play again.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Whether my fingers are going to do what I want.' 
'I think you've got depression and you ought to see a doctor. I'm serious, Martin,' she adds, seeing his smile. His dish is empty. He draws his cup closer, but this too is empty. To occupy himself he toys with his spoon, suddenly shy of his companion. 
'Will you see a doctor?' she persists. 
'I haven't got one - not in London.' 
'Register with one and see him.' 
The voices in the kitchen are raised again. Martin glances towards the door. 
'Martin, will you promise - for me?' 
He has to look at her. The closeness has gone, replaced by something akin to pity. 'All right,' he mutters. 'I suppose we ought to be going.' 
'There's some more tea left. Or we could have a drink if you like.' 
He shakes his head. 'I've got to get up early. I start work at eight.' 
She glances at her watch. 'It's only just gone nine.' 
'It takes me an hour to get home.' 
'We should have made it Friday.' 
He looks around for the waiter to avoid answering. 
Alison's hand closes on his. 'Don't look so worried.' 
He faces her, startled. The compassion in her eyes melts him. He longs to hold her hand, but he makes no move. When she lets go, he does not have the courage to hold her gaze. 
'What are you thinking about?' she asks. 
'Nothing much.' 
'We'd better catch the waiter's eye if you want to go.' 
*
It is dark when they leave. Alison opens her bag. 'I'll give you my share of the bill.' 
'No. I'm working and you're not.' 
'I suggested going there.' 
'I invited you.' 
She pauses. 'Are you sure?' 
'Yes.' 
She hesitates before fastening the bag again. 'All right, but I'll buy the next one.' 
They walk to the Strand. The elation brought by the prospect of seeing her again is soon dissipated, replaced by worry about how to say goodbye. He is glad of the darkness which stops her seeing his face. As they dodge the evening traffic flowing towards Trafalgar Square, he asks, 'Which way are you going?' 
'Charing Cross - the main line station.' 
'I'll go that way to the tube.' 
They walk on in silence as he searches for something else to say. He wants to reassure himself that he has not upset her with his negativism, but he cannot look at her. She confesses, 'I'm glad you rang. I was feeling a bit low.' 
'You never said.' 
'It didn't crop up. I couldn't say, “By the way, I'm so depressed,” could I? It doesn't exactly make the evening go with a bang, does it?' 
'I'm not the best person to cheer you up.' 
'I don't know about that.' Then she does glance at him. 'We've been out and I'm still not sure whether you fancy me.' 
They cross the station forecourt in silence, dodging between the night taxis. On the pavement, they stop. Martin watches passengers hurrying into the station. 
'Look at me then,' Alison urges. And as he obeys, she adds, 'Don't forget you're coming to see me.' 
'One weekend.' 
'Let's fix it up now. I don't want you leaving it. I know you.' 
'I rang you, didn't I?' 
'True.' 
'Supposing we make it the weekend after next?' 
'Come on the Saturday morning. That gives us the whole day - or the weekend, if you want to stay over.' 
'I work on Saturday morning. I said.' 
'You really should give that job up, Martin.' 
'I know.' 
'Saturday afternoon then. If you come straight from work, I can cook lunch for us.' 
'I won't have time to change.' 
'Who's worrying? If you can make it about one.' 
'Better say two to be on the safe side. I don't finish till twelve-thirty.' 
'Make it as soon as you can. I'm not fussy.' She smiles. 'My way of saying thank you for today.' 
'I'm glad I asked you,' he says truthfully, staring past her, aware of the chasm of emotions which is opening before him. And he is falling, falling. 
'We'd better say goodbye.' Her voice is quiet.
'Suppose so.' He knows what should happen. His gaze takes in the other passengers as he clings to normality by speculating what they have been doing. Too early for concerts to have finished. Perhaps they too have been for meals. 
'See you in two weeks time,' Alison says. 'If you come out of Catford station, turn left and cross the road, it's about a five minute walk.' 
'I'll bring the A to Z.' 
'Perhaps you'd better.' She leans forward, kissing him briefly on the lips. 'See you.' 
He watches as she turns away. His lips tingle with the taste of her. He calls goodbye, conscious that other people can hear and that his voice sounds strained. She looks back briefly to smile and wave before disappearing into the station.  He does not move until she is out of sight. He wants to go after her, but he does not know what to say or do. As he walks to the underground station, tears blur his vision. His mind is numb. He knows that sleep will be impossible.

chapter 14

Rain drums on the warehouse roof. The men look out from the doorway at the sheeting rain which overflows gutters and creates a lake in the road. 
Joe spits on the path. 'Can' even get out of this poxy place for dinner. Look at it.'
'Turn the trannie up,' Andy urges. 'Can' hear nothing with all that row.'
Joe turns away from the doorway. 'They oughtta get a fucking P.A. system in here. You listening, Frank?'
Frank inspects the filling in his sandwiches. 'There won't be no radio in here. They don't like you bringing your own in.'
'Who says?'
'It got said.'
'Why? What's it matter?'
'They don't like it, that's all I know.'
'Poxy fucking place this is.' Joe kicks the metal sheet at the end of the nearest rack. The sound reverberates around the warehouse. 'If anybody says anything to me about it, I'm off.'
Martin moves away so nobody will talk to him and he can avoid the sound of Frank's teeth clicking. When he is satisfied that nobody is paying attention, he goes to his hideaway. He breathes deeply.
'Where did you go with Alison?' comes Ray's voice from behind him.
Martin groans. Pride and excitement made him mention the meeting when he should have remained silent.
'Martin.'
'We had a meal in the West End.'
'The West End! That's something else.'
'It's not all that special.'
'I'd like to do it.'
'Then why don't you?'
'I haven't got anybody like Alison to go with.' 
Martin unwraps his sandwiches, hoping Ray will take the hint and leave him alone. 
'I'd like to see her.' 
'It's a bit difficult - she lives quite a way away.' 
'Just a photograph. If you could bring her photograph.' 
'I'll see what I can do,' Martin agrees, more preoccupied with whether he should visit her as he promised. 
'You're a pal.' 
Martin nods absently, unable face his companion. 
'I've been out with girls,' Ray confides, 'but I haven't got a girlfriend - not a regular one.' 
Martin suspects that Alison shares his embarrassment at the evening. She made the offer to go out because she felt sorry for him. He vows never again to tell anybody of his feelings. 
'I suppose you spend every weekend with her,' Ray is saying. 
'I don't know about that.' 
'Football's great, but sometimes you want to be with a girl so you can talk about your feelings and that.' 
Martin closes his eyes, wishing Ray's voice could be blotted out as easily. 
'Do you know whether she's got any friends who might like to come out?' Ray asks. 'I thought - you know - perhaps whether we could make it a foursome.' 
'It might be difficult.' 
'You didn't mind me asking?' 
Shaking his head. 
'At least we've got the football back now. That's the only thing I don't like about summer - no football.' 
Wanting to be on his own, to think of Alison and their evening together - and the things which he did wrong. 
'The away games are good. The supporters' club hire this coach, see, and they take all these crates of lager. We got all round the country last season. I have to use up my leave taking Saturday mornings off.' 
His embarrassment would be lessened if he knew that Alison was unconcerned, but paradoxically he does not want to believe that she has forgotten him. 
'You could come along to a home match with me,' Ray is saying. 'Then you wouldn't have to take Saturday morning off. What do you think?' 
'I don't know if I'll have the time.' 
'I could introduce you to some of me mates.' 
'I'll have to see.' 
'There's some good matches coming up.' 
'I'm busy at weekends.' 
'Just the once. See what it's like.' 
'I'll think about it.' 
'It'll be great if you could.' 
'I'll certainly think about it.' Martin watches his companion moving away. His sigh of relief is qualified by the thought that with the cooler days coming, there will be less chance of avoiding the others during the lunch break. Each day he follows the same ritual, chewing his sandwiches slowly and dreaming of how he might find another job. At the end of each day he buys an evening paper in order to scan the situations vacant column on the bus back to Walthamstow, but the jobs advertised seem no better than the one which he already has. The newspapers accumulate in his room as a reproach to his lack of success. It is a treat to read a magazine over his lunch. He does not earn enough to buy more than one a month. When he is immersed in a magazine, the others are less likely to disturb him. One of the joys of piano playing was that he did not have to share his pleasure. It was not something to be admitted at college where everybody else enjoyed the communal aspects of music-making. Accompanying made him feel tense. Even working with Alison did, though he enjoyed it. 
The sandwiches are finished. Martin stares at the asbestos roof. The drumming rain has not slackened in its intensity. Around him, the racks rise to the level of the girders, accentuating his insignificance. The tiers of shelving remind him of a library. For a long time he remains motionless, dreaming of working in a music library. He glances at his watch. Five minutes before he is due to start work again. 
The concrete block walls and concrete floor make the toilet an austere place. The only brightness is the gleaming chromium of the taps. Martin washes his hands, splashing cold water over his face to revive himself for the afternoon. 
There is a bang as the door is kicked open. He knows who is behind him. 
'If it ain't me old mate Martin.' Joe slaps him on the back, propelling him against the mirror. 'How's Martin then?' 
'All right.' 
'Hear that?' Joe appeals to Andy who has followed him. 'He says he's all right, so we can stop worrying.' 
'We was really concerned about you,' Andy agrees. Martin keeps his eyes downcast to avoid confronting his fear in the mirror. There is grease around the washbasin which he never noticed before. 
'You're odd, you know that?' Joe's voice comes from close behind him. 'You hide away all the time and you don't say nothing.' 
'I've got nothing to say.' 
'And you avoid us. Ain't we good enough for yer?' 
Martin wonders who cleans the basins. 
'Or are you too stuck up to talk to us?' Andy joins in. 
It is hardly a foreman's job to clean the basins, though Martin cannot imagine anybody except Frank bothering. 
'Say something then,' Joe urges. 
A picture comes into Martin's mind of Frank busy with mop and bucket before the others arrive in the morning. 
'I told you to say something!' 
Coming to work at the warehouse was the biggest mistake of his life. 
'You're gonna fucking say something.' 
Martin is gripped by the nape of his neck and pushed down till his head is in the basin. 
'Say something!' 
He splutters and struggles as the tap is turned on, but he is held firm. Fear gives him the strength to pull free enough to cry out. 
'At least you're not dumb then,' Joe says with satisfaction. He lets go, watching almost tenderly as Martin gasps for breath. 'Why don't you ever say nothing?' 
'Because I don't want to.' 
'He doesn't want to,' Joe mimics. 
'What about this Alison?' Andy asks. 'Tell us about her.' 
'I told you.' 
'You didn't tell us nothing. It's Ray you're always talking to.' 
'She's just a girl I knew at college.' 
'Your bird.' 
'No.' 
'What do you mean - no?' Joe asks. 
'Just that.' 
'Course she's your fucking bird. What I can't understand is why she goes out with a wanker like you.' 
'We don't go out.' 
'You said you did,' Andy puts in. 
Joe looks excited. 'So you were telling us things that weren't true?' 
Martin is silent. 
'I think you were let out a loony bin - you know that? Most of the time you don't say nothing and when you do it's a load of shit.' 
He sees the faces of his interrogators. He knows that he must not show fear. 
'He's gone quiet again,' Andy says. 'Try sticking his head under the tap again.' 
Martin cries out involuntarily, but Joe is wrenching his arm behind his back, forcing him to lower his head. Water swirls around the basin. It runs inside his shirt as he bangs his head on the tap. His nose is pressed against the grubby earthenware. 
'Did you come out a loony bin?' Joe repeats. 
'No.' 
'You're lying.' 
'No.' 
'Lying, ain't yer?' 
'Yes, yes.' Martin can taste the grease. 
'What did you say? Can' hear you.' 
'Yes.' 
'Yes what?' 
'Yes I'm lying.' His arm is released. The pressure is taken from his neck. As he raises his head, he catches it against the tap. 
'Is she a loony as well, this Alison?' Andy asks. He hangs his head forward, monkey-like. His tongue lolls over his lips as he drools. His hands flap the air. Joe is laughing. Martin finds the sound more monkey-like than Andy's grunting. 
'So what's she going out with you for?' Joe asks when he recovers. 
'We don't go out.' 
Joe grips his arm again. 'You never learn, do yer? You keep making things up and we don't like it. We don't like loonies round here. Got it?' He wrenches Martin's arm, making him wince. 'Got it?' 
'Yes.' Martin's voice rises in pitch as his arm is pulled higher up his back. 
'Why is it you never talk to us?' 
'Because I haven't got anything to say.' 
'His voice has gone all squeaky.' Andy's tone is excited. 'Perhaps he keeps his balls in his armpit.' 
'Is that it, eh?' Joe tugs at Martin's arm. 
'No.' 
'You're scared, ain't yer?' 
'Yes.' 
'At least you're talking now. We've found out how to make you do that, haven't we?'
'Yes.' 
'Just 'cos you're a student, you think you're fucking better than the rest of us, don't yer? Too stuck up to talk to the likes of us. Well do you know what we think of you? We think you're shit. Got it? Stuck-up shit.' 
'Yes.' 
'What are you?' Joe twist's Martin's arm higher. 
'Stuck-up.' 
'Stuck-up what?' 
Martin moans as his weight is taken by his arm. 
'Stuck-up what? What did I say?' 
Pain makes him cry out. 
'What did I say?' Joe persists. 
'Stuck-up shit.' 
'What are you?' Andy echoes. 
'A stuck-up shit.' 
Joe pushes Martin against the basin again and releases him. 'At least you know something - you know what you are.' 
Martin leans against the washbasin, breathing deeply. 
'You ought to be nice to us, stuck-up shit,' Andy joins in. 
'Yer, you ought to be nice and friendly,' Joe agrees. 'How about if you got us some fags? We don' always have time in the morning, see, and you're always early.' 
Martin tries to smile. He is not sure whether Joe is being serious. 
'And make sure it's Rothmans - none of that shit. Got it?' 
'And if you don't, we'll have to remind you,' Andy adds. 
'Come here,' Joe tells him. 
Martin hesitates, knowing that something terrible is going to happen. 
'It's all right,' Joe assures him. 'I'm not gonna do nothing, not this time.' 
Reluctantly Martin goes forward. Joe holds him by the back of the neck and propels him into the metal-walled cubicle, thrusting his head down till he is staring into the toilet bowl. 'If we have to remind you, you'll be eating yer own shit. Right?' 
Martin mutters that he understands. The pressure on his neck increases. 
'I can't hear yer.' 
'All right.' 
The pressure is taken away. Martin stands. 
'We'll see you tomorrow then,' Joe says. 
'With the fags,' Andy adds. 
Martin leaves the toilet thankfully. 
'You all right?' Frank asks. 
Martin's mouth quivers uncontrollably. He turns away. Frank is watching, but Martin pays no attention.  When he makes his way to the cartons he has spent the morning unpacking. Frank does not follow. For the rest of the afternoon, Martin speaks to no one; nor does he go into the toilet. 
* 
The evening is strange. Martin feels distanced not only from everything which has happened, but from his own body. Mechanically he eats creamed rice from a tin, hardly noticing the taste as he stares at the regional news programme. The smell of frying bacon comes from an adjoining room. His mind is calm now. He likes the sensation of being apart from everything. Idly he wonders how it might affect his playing, but he cannot be bothered to get out his clarinet to find out. Anyway, it is the effect on his piano playing which matters - or used to matter. He is king; in his own kingdom, his power is absolute. No insults, no abuse, no humiliation can threaten his invulnerability. Alison was his temptation - he sees that now. If she appeared before him, her presence would no longer affect him. That weakness has been remedied. Pain is something other people feel. His fingers stray over his other hand, coming together to pinch the flesh. He smiles. Another insight comes to him as he releases his hand - the taunts of Goddard, Miranda, Joe and the others have been a test for him, preparing him for this moment. He will not let them down. Nothing will be the same again. 
Crossroads gives way to The Smith Family. Martin stares indifferently at the screen, seeing other images - all the people he has known. Over and over they come, having no order, as if fragments of a silent film are being endlessly replayed - Smith grinning,  his mother and father arguing, his mother storming out of the house, his father slumped in the armchair in his attic room, bottle in hand, Miranda talking to another man in the pub, Alison's concern so apparent in a dimly-lit restaurant as she leaned across the table and Joe sneering at Frank. Those were signs which Martin should have heeded. Now the conclusion is clear - nothing good comes from knowing people. He tries to remember moments of happiness. They are rare and fleeting. All are associated with music or with girls - playing a Schubert impromptu one freezing evening in the Christmas holidays when his parents were out, the house was warm and there was an talk on Schubert to look forward to on the radio; being with Miranda as they walked to the pub; accompanying Alison on that final morning at college. He does not expect any more occasions like those. 
At seven-thirty, he watches Coronation Street, trying to involve himself in the drama in a way which was not possible with the game show. At least there is no laughter to irritate him in the way that advertisement jingles do. With tiredness comes depression, settling on him like a fog, obliterating past joys and humiliations. He is indifferent to The Saint, which is normally one of the highlights of his week. After turning to BBC1 for the news, he switches off the television. The sound of the programme continues faintly from another room. It is the first time that he has gone to bed without brushing his teeth. 
* 
Morning. The thin, patterned curtains drawn across the window glow with held-back sunlight. Through a hole in the fabric, a beam of sunlight plays over the bed-clothes. Martin can watch without lifting his head from the pillow. The sagging divan creaks as he shifts. His first sight of the torn, stained mattress horrified him. He worried who had slept on it before and whether there were fleas in it; now he has grown used to it. Outside is the noise of the city - the crackle of a motor cycle exhaust, children shouting, the chatter of birds under the eaves and the incessant roar of traffic. For the first time, London frightens him. All the things which he cannot control are there. He closes his eyes to keep the images at bay. The picture of the room stays with him like a photograph. Beside the fireplace is the cupboard stuffed with his clothes, including the jacket which Miranda so scorned and which he has hardly worn. His television stands on the mirrorless dressing table, its newness in stark contrast to the tawdriness of everything else. His radio is on the floor beside the bed; if he puts out his hand, he can switch it on. On the floor beside the dressing table is his record player and a stack of records - the remaining link with his schooldays. He can remember when every record was bought or given to him. He listens less than he used to - it is easier to turn on the television. All his music is on the shelf in the cupboard, along with the clarinet. He is afraid to practise now - afraid that his fingers will betray him. 
Pop music sounds from somewhere in the house. A door bangs. His fellow residents are getting ready for work. He knows them by sight - the African student, the labourer who comes home drunk every night and the student teacher - but he has never spoken to them. Their morning routines have become familiar, so that he tries to slip out of the house after the labourer has gone and before the student and the student teacher get up. At first, nobody at the warehouse will bother too much about his absence. Later in the day somebody may try to contact him by telephone; but the telephone in the hall will ring unanswered. There will certainly be a letter within a few days; if nothing else, the office will have to forward his National Insurance card. His overriding fear is that somebody will come to his room. There can be no justification for what he has done. 
Too late to go to work. Now the decision is irrevocable, his body relaxes as it has not done all night. In the safety of his room he will construct his own world. Nobody will be able to intrude. What is happening outside will not affect him. The tiredness of a sleepless night dulls his senses, but the light prevents him from sleeping. He stares at the ceiling. The stains and cracks are becoming as familiar as the ceiling of his room in Belsize Park. He still thinks of the Brocks' house as home. His present state is transient, though he cannot look forward to the future. The only thing he is certain about is that he should not involve himself with people. There will be no more mistakes like his evening with Alison, no more embarrassment. 
However much he tries to keep his mind clear, images come unbidden. Events from his school life which he has not remembered for years suddenly return vividly - reading a John Buchan book aloud in class and making a wooden teapot stand which his mother never used. Once he stared out the window during a French lesson, marvelling at the grace of the senior year athletes. That was one of the few occasions when he envied the prowess of sportsmen. The bad memories from his schooldays do not come so frequently now. Sometimes he feels thankful for what Jackson and his friends did. They showed him his true self, shorn of pretension. Distance makes what happened seem inevitable, even exciting. 
Turning on the radio. A Vivaldi concerto. Listening provides a distraction, though music does not fully command his attention. By shifting his head, he can see the clock. Eight forty-five - gone the time when he should be at the warehouse. Who will be the first to notice his absence - Frank, Ray or Joe? He feels guilty about letting down Ray. 
The telephone rings. Martin's heart pounds as he waits, not knowing whether anybody else is left in the house. The noise prompts no opening of doors or hurried steps on the stairs. He relaxes when it ceases. Another link with his past is severed. Perhaps the opportunity has come to abandon the past altogether and assume a new identity. The new Martin will lead a hedonistic existence of going to parties, dating girls and not worrying about what people think. His clothes are fashionable and expensive. The new Martin has a mine of stories and jokes with which to entertain his acquaintances. 
Holst. Mysterious music tinged with sadness, tugging at the old Martin. The enormity of what he has done comes to him. For the first time in his life he has been disobedient. Tension spreads through him again. Tightness in his chest threatens his breathing, so that he has to prop himself up on one elbow, gasping. His vision is blurred. He fears that he is having a heart attack. The tones of flute, oboe and viola weave around each other unheeded. The panic passes, leaving his palms clammy. The breathlessness reminds him of how he felt after cross-country runs at school. Everything is still blurred. Cautiously he tries to move his limbs. There is no paralysis, but an illness has undoubtably taken control of him. He has never contemplated such a thing before - health is something he has taken for granted. He remembers Frank telling him how other people had to leave the warehouse. One terrible image will not go away - of the police breaking into his room and finding his body. Though death frightens him, it might be preferable to a life of illness and dependence. He shrinks back in his bed, contemplating a future with his sight getting worse and eventually disappearing altogether. He will need help with everything which he takes for granted. The rest of his life will be spent in an institution. He will have to learn braille. 
He lies motionless, corpse-like. The boy who never fulfilled his potential - that is what people will say. If the inevitable is about to happen, at least he would like to know what is wrong with him. He wishes that he had taken Alison's advice and gone to a doctor. He drifts towards sleep, images spinning in his mind. 
When he opens his eyes, his vision is normal again. An hour has passed. Schubert comes from the radio - an impromptu which he used to play frequently, identifying with its haunted sadness. Yet even as the shadow of illness is lifted, despair settles on him. The rebirth which he wanted to experience has not happened. The music taunts him, reminding him of better times. He can believe that death is a friend. 
* 
Evening. Time to stock up with food for the next few days. He ventures onto the landing cautiously, not relaxing until he sees that the other doors are closed. The sound of a television comes from the student teacher's room. Everybody except the Irishman is back. Martin creeps downstairs. Outside, the panic returns, forcing him to lean against a garden wall and breathe deeply before continuing on his way to the main road, walking with old man's steps. There is more activity than he expected. Neon lights glow. Girls in high-heeled shoes teeter towards the bus stop. West Indians swagger to the basement club spilling its music on the pavement. A stray dog snuffles in the gutter. Martin hesitates again, resisting the urge to scuttle back to the safety of his room before his task is done. The shops are small and shabby, with grilles over the windows. The food shop is open. Asians talk by the till. Martin takes bread, a carton of milk and tins of creamed rice, sardines and baked beans, selecting the items with barely a glance in his haste to be away from the fluorescent lights and the voices. Once outside, he stops, entranced as if for the first time by the immensity of the sky with its countless stars. If that is how artists see the world, he regrets never visiting an art gallery. 
He walks home dazed. The insistent throbbing rhythm of Afro-Caribbean music from the club fills the air. At the end of the road he pauses to look back at the ranks of identical houses, trying to see them with new eyes, but the insight has gone. 
Nobody sees him entering the house. Back in his room the radio keeps silence at bay. Lying on his bed he writes to Alison. 
	
	Dear Friend, 
	
	It was good to see you again. I am sorry that the evening didn't work out as planned. That was my fault. I'm sorry. 

The sentiments are right, but the letter is too short. He tries again. 

Dear Friend, 
	
	It was good to see you again, even if you weren't so sure about it. I shouldn't say that, should I? It makes me sound as if I'm prejudging your behaviour. The trouble is finding something better to say. I'm not good at small talk, as you may have noticed. I once thought I could bring something fresh to music. People would think they'd missed the essence of Beethoven and Brahms until they heard my interpretations. That was arrogant, because I'm a pretty average pianist. I wouldn't even make a good teacher. 

Sensing that the tone is wrong, he takes another sheet. 

Dear Alison, 
	
	I rang because I love you. I sure you knew that. I always wanted to be with you, but I could never tell you. The amazing thing was that you came. I wanted to kiss you - 

He breaks off. Words like that reveal too much. 

Dear Alison, 
	
	We shan't be meeting again. I don't want to be hurt and knowing somebody or wanting somebody means being hurt. The trouble is I'm different. Everybody knew that at school and at college - 

His pen hovers over the paper for some minutes before he screws up the letter and throws it on the floor. Too self-pitying. 

Dear Alison, 
	
	It was good to see you again. I could have been better company, but you know me. I was pleased you came, though I'm not sure where we go from here. All I can say is that you bucked me up and I wish you well. I'm sure you'll get the ensemble going and that you'll get into a band before long. I've got things to work out before I can do anything, I can't explain better. 
	
		Love

Tiredness overwhelms him, so that he cannot read what he has written. With his eyes closed, he lies down. The pen slips from his fingers. Instinct tells him that writing to Alison is a mistake. Some things are best left unexplained. Playing to her would make things clearer.
     Rachmaninov's second piano concerto breaks the silence. Appropriate. Once it was his favourite work. There followed a period when he scorned its obvious emotionalism. Now the drama between piano and orchestra comes freshly-minted. It is something he can understand. Rather than the architecture or the virtuosity, it is the melody to which he responds. Sometimes the great span seems more Arabic than Slav. The entry of the piano in the second movement is like a sob. Its simplicity and sadness affects him. He needs to know that Alison feels the same, but he never will.
     He wonders idly who is playing. There was a time when he could recognise the characteristics of pianists like Richter, Serkin, Arrau and Michelangeli. Memories of student life steal into his mind. Often they are inconsequential: walking one of the long, polished corridors on the way to a lecture, practising a Schubert sonata, watching Alison in the library - 
     Alison. How often every encounter with her has been turned over in his mind so that nothing of significance should be overlooked. It is still not too late to see her again.
     In music he knows other people's emotions. Only in music are his feelings set free. The reassurance of knowing that it can still move him is tinged with regret and frustration. Its melodies and harmonies carry him into places where he is afraid to go, exposing his vulnerability. Tears well between his screwed-up eyelids. He wants to scream against his fate, but instead he presses his fists against his eyes, trying to keep out the images. As the music enters his mind, he clings to the piano's skein of melody, hoping for solace, not wanting it to end. There he must find happiness, with no one to help him. 
     With the acknowledgement of what he must do, he grows calmer and more resigned. He takes his fists from his eyes. His arms are limp at his sides as he stares at the ceiling. The music must never end.