Spark: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

have a very nice home.”
    “The rest of the flat is my personal residence, but this …” She gestured to the parlor. “
This
is the transformation room. You are sitting where men and women of all ages and walks of life have lost their dreadful accents and gained confidence. The transformation room is where students learn that clear spoken language is the first step to true communication.”
    Throughout her little speech, Mrs. Driscoll stared at me and saw my shaven head, my awkward body, my general strangeness. Joey was evaluating me, too—sniffing with his wet black nostrils and tasting the air with his tongue.
    “So what brings you here, Mr. Morgan? Do you have to give a speech or make some sort of business presentation? I have helped several students who were paralyzed with fright whenever they stood in front of a crowd.”
    “Mrs. Driscoll, I have always believed that honesty is the best policy.”
    “Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Honest communication is necessary between student and teacher.”
    “I don’t meet a lot of people at work, Mrs. Driscoll. I spend most of my time talking to computers.”
    Mrs. Driscoll took a sip of tea. “That kind of job is very common these days.”
    “And maybe because of this, I’ve suffered from depression.”
    “Ahhh, yes. Now I understand.” Mrs. Driscoll’s shoulders relaxed and she leaned back against a fringed pillow. “Say no more, Mr. Morgan.
Say no more.
I myself have been visited by a black cloud of sadness several times in my life, especially since the passing of Mr. Driscoll, but Joey rescued me.…” She reached out and stroked her dog. “Dear, dear Joey. My little savior.”
    “I’ve been going to a therapist,” I said. “And he recommended that I join an amateur theatrical society. Last month, I started taking classes with a group that meets at a Methodist church in West Wickham.”
    Mrs. Driscoll clapped her hands together and the bracelets jingled brightly. “
Yes,
Mr. Morgan! The theater can heal a wounded spirit and broken heart! I’ve seen it countless times. When we are completely artificial, we can find out what’s real.”
    “One of the plays we’re considering for the spring is called
Look Back in Anger.
I’d like to learn a working-class British accent so I can give a great audition.”
    “That is a marvelous idea! Simply marvelous! I would be pleased and proud to be your teacher.”
    We started our first lesson five minutes later. I had looked up the play on the Internet and downloaded a copy. Mrs. Driscoll knew the different characters and decided that I should audition for the role of Cliff—a man with a South Wales accent.
    After that first lesson, I would arrive at the apartment three nights a week, carrying a briefcase as if I had just come from my imaginary job in Canary Wharf. Mrs. Driscoll would chat about her day, then sit on the couch and begin teaching. We studied the “Welsh Glide”—where I had to stretch out vowel sounds while my voice glided downward from high pitch to low pitch. Gradually, I became comfortable with dropping the “yea” sound in a word androlling my Rs slightly by pushing my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
    Mrs. Driscoll didn’t have a Shadow and rarely used her computer. I assumed that she would be curious about my job and family, but my teacher preferred to talk about her own experiences as an actress and the “rogues and Romeos” who had “trifled” with her heart before she met Brian Driscoll—a Chartered Accountant who had taken her on “delightful holidays” to Greece and Spain.
    One evening on the train to Stoke Newington I realized that I was looking forward to my lesson. Mrs. Driscoll radiated a warm energy that kept my foot from jiggling when I crossed my legs. I liked the slow movements of her hands and the sound of her bracelets clicking together. I liked the smudge of lipstick on the edge of her teacup and the sound of her breathing—the humanness of this Human