Timmy is the first one to get it right. Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? The other children clap in time for him, and he has to play it again, for the group now. His eyes shine; he licks his lips and plays it one more time, almost perfectly. The other children stand up to clap and he moves his shoulders up and down, full of bottled-up pride. Thea praises him, and I do too, and then we carry on with the lesson, going back to basics, for the other children. Timmy plays along, very seriously now; he’s no longer fooling around with Bert.
On the other side of the window grey shifts into grey: stone, street, smoke. I must keep on watching the children.
When the lesson is over, I put on my coat.
“Aren’t you going to stay for tea?” Thea is in the little kitchen. “Don will be home soon.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
She takes hold of me and presses me to her for a moment. “Look after yourself, won’t you? I’ll see you later.”
Timmy runs towards me when I’m at the door and flings his arms round me. “Can I come with you?” I kiss his head and say we’ll see each other soon.
I walk through the garden to the back street, then into the next alley. Stone on stone. My feet sound louder than is pleasant. I know that the back street is always the same width and isn’t narrower today than on other days, but it feels so. Before I reach the shopping street I can hear already how busy it is—people, carts, buses, carriages, everyone moving through each other—I quicken my pace, simply looking ahead, that is quite enough, more than enough. Two men with umbrellas—I only realise that it’s raining when I see them—a woman holding a child’s hand, another child in her wake, a horse and cart on the other side of the road. Bang. I turn round and see a Pigeon wing fluttering, walk back to it—the other wing is broken, its abdomen torn open, the Pigeon is still alive, looking at me from one eye, she can’t move her head—this Pigeon is going to die, there’s really nothing to be done—I look around, there’s a pile of bricks against one of the houses a little further on, I can’t see any other option, so I take a brick, meanwhile everyone simply walks on, no one has noticed the Pigeon, carts drive back and forth, coachmen guide their horses just past it—I must hurry, that poor creature, the Pigeon looks at me again when I return, sorry, I say, I’m terribly sorry, and I kneel down and slam the brick onto the Pigeon as hard as I can, smash the skull to pieces in a single blow, and I strike again although the Pigeon is already dead, the Pigeon is now truly dead—I stand up and put the brick back on the pile against the wall, blood making small feathers stick to its underside, another Pigeon is watching some way off, its mate, probably, and I whisper sorry once again and then I walk on and people are still acting as if they haven’t seen anything at all, though there really was something to see, and now I’m probably weeping but it’s raining and so my tears can’t be seen, and no one looks closely enough anyway.
I wake up at half past four for the fourth morning in succession. I listen to the city, almost silent at this hour. Every morning voices swell up, die down after a few hours, then grow louder as the afternoon progresses, only to die down further as the evening comes to a close, whispering the night in. The wind moves the windows and the curtains, branches, leaves. Houses keep the wind outside, let laughter in. Footsteps make the street speak. Horses’ hooves mark time. Motor engines lay low bass notes under the sound of wheels on stone. I make sounds too. At night I can hear myself: breath, heart, thoughts. I miss the sea, the fields of my childhood, the silence that the Blackbirds let you hear. The past: that which means you’re here now. No: the past is a hill in the distance which can never come closer, but which can also never really recede. Now is a face in the crowds that suddenly gains expression, that looks back at you, passes you by.
Olive has written to say that Kingsley has perhaps started a new life in France, that he’s met a girl there. That seems like a tall story to me—he hasn’t any reason not to get in touch with us, and although letters might take a long time to reach home they are arriving again. The army hasn’t yet responded to our enquiries. I last saw him a week before he left for France, in the pub. Thea was there too. They’d just heard they were sending them to the Front, but Kingsley was no different than usual. Serene. Margie was in France too. He was going to get in touch with her, if he had the chance. There was drinking and lively tales—about the girls there, and the drink, and battles that failed to come. They sang popular songs, which everyone could sing along to, except me, which made Kingsley and his pals laugh out loud, seeing that I was the musician. After that evening there were just two letters home, to my parents.
My eyes are smarting. I’d better go for a walk. I quietly get dressed, open the door, pad across the velvety carpet down the stairs—my feet know the stair treads, know how big a step they must take.
I walk towards the Thames through the darkness. In the shopping street I see a tramp and two streets further on a group of washerwomen. No one else is around at all. In the distance I can hear a Blackbird. He calls differently to the Blackbirds at home. Three gliding notes, a trill at the end. I hum the tune back. Next time I must bring a pencil and paper with me. A second Blackbird sings the answer. I scan the trees. The first one repeats its song. I can hear where the sound is coming from, but I can’t see the birds. They fall silent, I walk on. Tomorrow I’ll come again, and then I’ll bring a notebook with me.
“Brahms’s First Symphony.” Stockdale is giving out the parts. “Gwen, in the second movement you’ll play principal violin.”
Billie smiles at me, shifts to one side. She gives my leg a little pat as I sit down.
I blush. I’ve played solo previously, in a Mozart piece, but then two days before the premiere Stockdale gave my part to Davey, because I wasn’t yet ready for it.
“It’ll be fine,” Billie whispers.
We have to start the piece three times over because the tempo isn’t correct. I can feel my heartbeat quicken as we get close to the solo, and play softer than usual, too soft, see Billie glance at me, wrestle my way through the notes—what I’m playing is right, but it simply has no meaning. We play the piece again, and again, and then Stockdale sends us home. “I take it that everyone understands what the homework is? Gwen, will you stay behind for a moment?”
I pack away my violin, daren’t look at him directly.
“Sit down.” With a flamboyant gesture he points to the chair beside him.
“It was awful, wasn’t it?”
He waves the words away. “It’ll be all right. As long as you practise. Do you think you’ll manage that?”
“I have practised.”
“I realise that, but I mean that you’ll have to work harder, really hard. And I think that’s the best thing for you. But we don’t have to do this. I can easily give the solo to Billie.”
I shake my head. “I can do it.”
“Good.” He gives me a pat. “I think your parents will want to be at the premiere.”