Nocturne Read Online Free PDF

friends. How did he make ends meet? How come he never seemed to have a job? How come no one seemed to visit at weekends? I put the questions in a disguised form one Saturday morning. We were drinking coffee in the front room after I ’ d hung a new pair of curtains.
    ‘ I t must be hard getting work as a musician, ’ I mused. ‘ I know how tough the competition can be. ’
    ‘ Work? ’ Gilbert savoured the word, as if it belonged to a language he didn ’ t entirely understand.
    ‘ Yes. I thought you must play for a living. ’
    ‘ No, not at all. In fac t never. ’
    I waited for him to elaborate. When nothing happened, I tried another tack.
    ‘ Did you learn as a child? Were you taught, you know, properly? ’
    ‘ Of course. ’
    ‘ With a view to … ’ I shrugged, ’ . … playing in an orchestra? Or a jazz band? Or by yourself, as a soloist? ’
    ‘ By myself. ’ He nodded. ‘ Yes. ’
    There was a long silence. I ’ d noticed that this was a habit of his, pausing a conversation at a place that intrigued him, or made him think, or perhaps even puzzled him. He seemed totally unembarrassed by silence, and that I rather liked. After the clamour and madness of another week at Doubleact, silence was a godsend.
    Finally, he asked whether his playing bothered me. I told him it didn ’ t. On the contrary, I liked it very much.
    ‘ Even late at night? After you ’ ve got in? ’
    ‘ Even then. ’
    ‘ You don ’ t mind? ’
    ‘ Not at all. ’
    He was studying me carefully.
    ‘ Some people hate it, ’ he said. ‘ Your predecessor, for instance. ’
    ‘ The man who used to live here? ’
    ‘ Yes. ’
    ‘ Did he . . ‘ I shrugged, ‘ … . protest? ’
    ‘ Worse than that. ’
    ‘ You had words? ’
    ‘ Worse still. ’
    I watched his long, bony fingers stray to his face, and I remembered the fading bruise I ’ d noticed when we first met.
    ‘ You ’ re telling me he hit you? ’
    ‘ Yes. ’
    He lowered his voice, describing the encounter. There ’ d been trouble before. The man used to hammer on his ceiling with the end of a billiard cue, the slightest noise, anything. Playing the flute had been the last straw. The attack, when it came, had been unprovoked. They ’ d met in the hall. He ’ d been carrying the billiard cue.
    ‘ Smack. ’
    Gilbert nodded, pale and wide-eyed, driving his fist into his open palm. Then he did it again, and his shoulders sagged at the memory, and his head went down, and for a moment I really thought he was crying. I moved closer to him, meaning to help, but he reached out, fending me off. Like this, vulnerable, he looked about twelve.
    ‘ I ’ m sorry, ’ I murmured. ‘ It must have been terrible. ’
    He nodded, his fingertips back on his face, tracing the ridge of bone beneath his eye.
    ‘ Did you go to the police? ’
    ‘ I… couldn ’ t. ’
    ‘ Why not? ’
    ‘ He told me… ’ he began to blink, then shook his head, ‘ … he frightened me, Julie. ’
    He ’ d never used my name like that before. I patted his hand. It felt cold to the touch.
    ‘ It doesn ’ t matter, ’ I told him. ‘ He ’ s gone now. ’
    ‘ And you really like the music? ’
    ‘ Of course. ’
    He left shortly afterwards, and the music - when it came - was sweeter than ever.
    My mother ’ s birthday is February 4th. Spending it alone, after my father ’ s death, would have been miserable and so my brother and I arranged a surprise weekend for her. My brother runs a pub on the Isle of Wight. On the Friday night, I arranged to take the train down to Petersfield. On the Saturday, mum and I would drive to Portsmouth and ship across to the island. On the Sunday, her birthday, we ’ d celebrate.
    The only problem was what to do about the cats. My mother ’ s allergic to them and my brother keeps a huge Alsatian. For most of the previous week I ’ d wondered about boarding them out while I was away but doing that seemed a shame, especially since they ’ d both