coming to London. He would understand her needs. And how long would it be before she could move? Would the paper try to hang on to her? She’d have to find someone to take over her lease on Evelyn’s flat, probably Mickey; he’d been in love with the place since she moved in. Yes, the move was good. For once in her life all the ends had come together at the right time. She took hold of them.
2. Concert
Invitation
The dark before dawn pulled Mark awake. The night had been full of dreams and memories of Exeter, the choir, the organ, his room at school. The darkness of the bedroom here at home was warm, comfortable, but there was a tingling, sizzling feel to the air. He got up.
Embar coiled around his legs purring, near tripping him on the stairs, then reaching his long, black length up the leg of the kitchen table as Mark made coffee. Mark opened a tin of cat food, deposited the plate under Embar’s nose then took his coffee to sit in the hollow of the ash tree by the bridge.
Dawn came late here. The valley faced west, the next stop after the end of the cliffs was America, but from the house you could hear only a whisper of the sea. Light crept up over the trees, a mile away, eastward, at the head of the valley. The rowan trees at the top of the waterfall would be lit already. He waited. The light grew, dripping westward down the valley, bringing colour into the garden. The birds began their morning song. Suddenly the place was full of light and sound and colour.
Black, white and red wings flashed past him. Two swallows dived and swooped over the grass. He squinted at them, it seemed they were chasing a golden thread. The dance continued above the lawn in front of him, the birds coming closer and closer. With a shriek they let fall the thread right into his hands. He was holding a long, fine red-gold hair. His fingers tingled, holding it close to his face he could smell the perfume, flowery, elusive, distinctive. He could see its owner in his mind’s eye, a small, slender, laughing woman, surrounded by green grass and backed by ancient grey stone. A wind blew up the valley, he grasped at the hair but it blew away and the vision was gone.
Later, at breakfast, Mrs Protheroe brought in the post as he lingered over toast and marmalade. There was a letter from Exeter, he slid a buttery knife under the flap and opened it. The Cathedral School headed paper stared back at him.
‘Dear Mark,’ the letter began. ‘It’s been such a long time since you’ve visited your old alma mater. We follow your progress through the news and the music programmes but it has been some years since we saw you in person. It would be good to meet again and catch up
.
I wonder if we can tempt you to give us a Candlemass concert next year? We’d like the concert to be on Saturday 31 st January, old Imbolc Eve, as I’m sure you remember, so we can do the thing on the day. If you can spare the time, there are several excellent organ students who would love to meet you as well. Perhaps you could even give a master-class?
Margaret and I would be delighted to put you up. I expect you remember the house from your time here at school. Looking forward to hearing from you. Do say you’ll come
.
Warmly yours
,
Cedric Appleforth, Precentor, Exeter Cathedral
.
Mark sat holding the letter after he had read it, memories of tea and musical evenings with the Appleforths crowding his mind from his years at the cathedral school. He shook his head, blinked and smiled. Candlemass was six months away, he pulled the diary to him, turned up the date. He planned to return from Italy in time for Christmas and had promised himself January at home after that. Yes, that would be good, he would like to go, give them a concert and catch up with old friends. And it was only a couple of hours up to Exeter at the most. He picked up the post and headed for his study, he would write to accept straight away. The precentor was right, it was a long time since he had been
2. Concert
Invitation
The dark before dawn pulled Mark awake. The night had been full of dreams and memories of Exeter, the choir, the organ, his room at school. The darkness of the bedroom here at home was warm, comfortable, but there was a tingling, sizzling feel to the air. He got up.
Embar coiled around his legs purring, near tripping him on the stairs, then reaching his long, black length up the leg of the kitchen table as Mark made coffee. Mark opened a tin of cat food, deposited the plate under Embar’s nose then took his coffee to sit in the hollow of the ash tree by the bridge.
Dawn came late here. The valley faced west, the next stop after the end of the cliffs was America, but from the house you could hear only a whisper of the sea. Light crept up over the trees, a mile away, eastward, at the head of the valley. The rowan trees at the top of the waterfall would be lit already. He waited. The light grew, dripping westward down the valley, bringing colour into the garden. The birds began their morning song. Suddenly the place was full of light and sound and colour.
Black, white and red wings flashed past him. Two swallows dived and swooped over the grass. He squinted at them, it seemed they were chasing a golden thread. The dance continued above the lawn in front of him, the birds coming closer and closer. With a shriek they let fall the thread right into his hands. He was holding a long, fine red-gold hair. His fingers tingled, holding it close to his face he could smell the perfume, flowery, elusive, distinctive. He could see its owner in his mind’s eye, a small, slender, laughing woman, surrounded by green grass and backed by ancient grey stone. A wind blew up the valley, he grasped at the hair but it blew away and the vision was gone.
Later, at breakfast, Mrs Protheroe brought in the post as he lingered over toast and marmalade. There was a letter from Exeter, he slid a buttery knife under the flap and opened it. The Cathedral School headed paper stared back at him.
‘Dear Mark,’ the letter began. ‘It’s been such a long time since you’ve visited your old alma mater. We follow your progress through the news and the music programmes but it has been some years since we saw you in person. It would be good to meet again and catch up
.
I wonder if we can tempt you to give us a Candlemass concert next year? We’d like the concert to be on Saturday 31 st January, old Imbolc Eve, as I’m sure you remember, so we can do the thing on the day. If you can spare the time, there are several excellent organ students who would love to meet you as well. Perhaps you could even give a master-class?
Margaret and I would be delighted to put you up. I expect you remember the house from your time here at school. Looking forward to hearing from you. Do say you’ll come
.
Warmly yours
,
Cedric Appleforth, Precentor, Exeter Cathedral
.
Mark sat holding the letter after he had read it, memories of tea and musical evenings with the Appleforths crowding his mind from his years at the cathedral school. He shook his head, blinked and smiled. Candlemass was six months away, he pulled the diary to him, turned up the date. He planned to return from Italy in time for Christmas and had promised himself January at home after that. Yes, that would be good, he would like to go, give them a concert and catch up with old friends. And it was only a couple of hours up to Exeter at the most. He picked up the post and headed for his study, he would write to accept straight away. The precentor was right, it was a long time since he had been
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