“Do you want to borrow some cash?”
“Rule one: never ask a stranger if she needs to borrow cash. No one here has any money, especially the musicians. Save your cash for a rainy day.” She combs her hand through her curls. “We’re going that way, through the park. You been to London before?”
“A long time ago.” The ground beneath our feet is moving. A heavy wagon rolls along, right beside us. I can smell the horse’s body. Thea doesn’t seem to notice it. “Have you lived here long?”
“I was born here. My parents moved to Scotland when I was thirteen. I moved in with an aunt and uncle. I didn’t want to go with my parents.”
A motor vehicle, with an open-top deck, comes towards us—the soldiers inside it call out to Thea. She sees me staring.
“They’re the new buses. They use them as transport for our boys now. Perhaps your brother’s inside it. They certainly fancy you.”
“They’re calling to you!”
“To both of us. You’re still a bit green, aren’t you?” I look aside, and she laughs.
The bus leaves tracks in the mud, traces in the air. There’s a policeman at the crossroads, sternly gesturing at us to wait.
“Take it easy,” Thea tells him. “It’s her first day in London.”
The man smiles, suddenly ten years younger. “Welcome to London, miss.” He lets us cross.
Thea tells me that she can’t choose between Andrew and Johnny, because they’re both so handsome. Andrew is manly and Johnny plays beautifully. She thinks she perhaps likes Johnny best. I gaze around. The houses are so tall and the street is filthy, black with dirt, fumes, horse droppings. “Don’t they ever clean the streets here?”
“The sweepers come every morning!”
Our route becomes a path through a park. There’s a man sitting on a bench with his eyes closed, tattered trousers, no coat or shoes. Thea pulls me along. “Tramp,” she says, when we’re out of earshot. By the park exit there are two more of them. Thea acts as if she hasn’t seen them. They do exactly the same. Then we turn right—low houses with washing lines strung between them, pegged with cotton clothing: white shirts, dresses, long johns. When we get closer I can see how many times they’ve been mended. White on lighter white.
In the shopping street she tells me about the last orchestra she played in, and asks again if we can play together. She says work is scarce, that I’ve been lucky. “I hope it goes well for you. That Stockdale has a bit of a temper.” We look at the shop windows, untouched by the war: thousands of kinds of soap, silk dresses, jewellery. “Will you have a drink with me?” She indicates a door with wooden ornamentation, gold-leaf paint and green glass.
“Sorry. I have to rehearse pretty soon.”
She asks if I can find my way home and embraces me, as if we’re already very good friends. Then she enters the pub and I’m left alone in a city that bids me a reluctant welcome. Two Crows are chattering to each other, high in a poplar tree. I feel a pain grip my stomach. Charles will have no idea where I’ve gone, or why.
The rehearsal room is in a former school building. It has high windows and an even higher ceiling. Today only the strings are rehearsing. I shake hands, forget names, a smile on my face. The butterflies aren’t just in my stomach, but in my fingertips too. A bony woman with mousy hair, who had introduced herself as Joan, starts to tune up and soon everyone is softly playing, all higgledy-piggledy, a patchwork of tonalities and random themes. My music stand is stiff, won’t open. I tug and wrench at it, my face growing red. I can see a tall man in a brightly coloured shirt look enquiringly at me—and then, thank goodness, it springs open. The sheet music stays in place, the violin is only a little out of tune, and then I also start warming up, long low lines that climb softly higher—I let the sound disappear into everyone else’s.
“Are we all ready?” Stockdale casts his eye over the whole troupe. There’s a young woman beside me with light-blonde curly hair and sea-grey eyes. She’s wearing a frock that seems far too good for a rehearsal. She sits down on one of the wooden chairs. I take the seat beside her. “I’m Billie,” she whispers. “Welcome!”
“I think you’ve all met Gwendolen by now. She’s joining the violins.”
I give him a nod and nod to those around me. I gaze at the ground again and try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. Behind me someone gives a loud, prolonged cough.
“Right. Haydn. Father of the symphony. Roman Catholic. Nasal polyps. Pocky face. Didn’t even die young.”
He carries on talking about the piece we’ll play. I bite my lip and practise my fingering. My entry comes later. I don’t have to do anything special, just play with everyone else and count well. The first violin begins to play, four bars, eight, and then we come in, at the right point, and I have the feeling that I’m being lifted up, that we’re lifting something together, higher and higher.
“Yes. Stop. Priscilla, you’re playing much too fast. Gwen, I can’t hear you. Somewhat louder, please. Joan, a little quicker.” I wipe the palm of my hand against my skirt.
And again, and again. My heart begins to beat more calmly. I can hear the others better now. I start to sense when I have to come in, though I keep counting in my head, to be on the safe side.
When it’s over my fingers are tingling and my cheeks and ears are red. Voices ring through the room, cases are snapped shut. I smile at the woman with the curly hair and, carrying my violin, leave the room in my new shoes that are hurting my feet a little. From now on it will only get better.
“Are you coming for a drink with us?” Billie asks, picking up her violin case. I follow her to the hotel bar, past wicker baskets piled high in front of the laundry. On the other side of the street a girl is walking. She looks like Olive. She’s just as tall and blonde. If only Olive could see what it’s like here. Yesterday I sent her a long letter. I hope she’ll write back soon.
It’s dark in the bar-room. My colleagues are already sitting in the corner. Coloured light falls through the stained-glass windows onto the round wooden table. I sit beside Priscilla. The velvet of the upholstered bench is so plush it barely dents. Stockdale asks us what we’d like to drink. I’m the only one who asks for tea. “Don’t you drink?” Billie, who is on my other side, asks me.
“I want to get up early tomorrow morning to practise.” And I still have to get home, without getting lost or being bothered by unwanted attentions.
“Sensible. I was like that too, you know, at the start. You’ll soon adapt.”
The barmaid puts a tray on the table. Stockdale picks up his whisky. “Cheers. Health to the men, and may the women live for ever!”
“At least it’s still well stocked here,” Priscilla says, taking a large sip of sherry. “Most of the other places don’t have hardly any proper stuff now. Because of the bloody war.” Her cockney accent modifies the words, making them somehow plumper and sturdier: chubby, cheeky toddlers.
Billie leans across to her. “Have you any idea what happened to Marion? Did that young man really put her in the family way?”
I must be giving her a questioning look, since she starts to tell me that Marion was my predecessor, a good violin player, but a little too easy.
Stockdale grabs a chair and pushes it between Priscilla and me. “How have you found your first week?” I can smell his sweat, his breath.
“It’s been good. But I’m exhausted.” I shuffle a little towards the wall, but there’s not much space left.
“Don’t be scared. Fatherly concern, you know. I’ve promised Newman to keep an eye on you, and that’s what I’ll do. Like a dog with a bone.” They were at boarding school together and both of them were outsiders. They’ve been friends ever since. Father finds much to criticise in him, but says he’s a sterling fellow nevertheless.