wine held like a club in his mittened hands.
I stood up and brushed off the dirt and leaves that clung to the back of my coat, and walked up the road beside him, telling myself that whatever happened inside, it didn’t matter. If it all went terribly wrong, I could just thank the host, slip out, catch the train home and go to bed. I’d wake up in the morning and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.
Anton asked about the Fantasiestücke , and I mumbled a few words in reply as we stepped up to the glossy ivy-green door with its heavy brass knocker. The somnolent street now seemed to be bathed in the glow of the party inside—chatter and laughter emanated from the house, and above it all the sound of Schumann, purling like a breeze through a chandelier.
I glanced down at my father’s old leather brogues, shining up at me so eagerly, and fiddled with the corners of my collar. Up the road, a dull light shone out from the Black Lion Inn and I had the sudden desire to be sitting in there by the fire, surrounded by strangers, all perhaps escaping a party of their own. I decided that’s where I’d go if things didn’t work out. I’d happily stay there all night, I thought, occasionally wandering outside to sit on a bench and watch the guests arrive and leave from number nine.
Anton was thumping the brass knocker, his chin pressed against his Fair Isle vest, humming Corelli. I stood beside him, waiting with my head bowed and hands clasped in front of me.
The door swung open and Walter Turner appeared, arched over us on the landing, glaring at us through the grey hair that hung in front of his crow-like eyes. He was a tall, wiry character in a dark woollen suit, a white shirt and a thin mauve tie. The tips of his shirt collar were buttoned underneath the tie, which jutted out awkwardly below its tiny knot. He appeared to have dressed in rather a hurry.
‘Hello—excellent, excellent,’ he said, flicking his hair to the side, after which it fell immediately back in front of his eyes. ‘It’s Anton, yes? Wonderful. And who’s this? You must be the young chap having a birthday! Seventeen? Wonderful, what a glorious age; yes, the purity and intensity of youth,’ he announced theatrically and nodded to Anton. ‘Do come in, do come in. Would you like a drink? Delphine? Del- phiiiine? ’ he called over his shoulder as he darted behind us, pulling off our coats and hats. ‘Two champagnes, dear.’ He continued, ‘Of course by the time one reaches my age, unless one fosters that youthful spirit, one becomes all dry and withered from lack of life.’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘Like parched orange skin.’ He then launched off down the hall, a flick of his hand behind his back signalling us to follow.
Not an eyebrow was raised as we entered the living room and walked amongst the small clusters of guests, gathered like posies of weary wind-blown poppies. Most stood about in earnest discussion, and although there was the occasional garish bow tie or audacious laugh, on the whole I had to admit it all looked rather dull. Books lined one entire wall, and impressionist paintings of landscapes and figures hung along the others. Then I noticed through the crowd, on the far side of the room, playing at a Steinway Louis XV Grand—Noël.
His head was turned towards the higher octaves as if he were listening to, rather than watching, his hands. He appeared lost in thought, as though he too werestanding away from the piano amongst a party of strangers, absorbing the sound that drenched the room. He was playing Schumann’s Fantasie opus 17.
Anton handed me a glass of champagne then signalled for me to follow him. I excused myself, telling him I’d join him presently, hardly recognising my own voice, then walked over to sit on the chartreuse-coloured silk sofa in the far corner, at the foot of the piano.
The instrument almost completely obscured my view of Noël; a sliver of his face, in between the walnut satin body and
I stood up and brushed off the dirt and leaves that clung to the back of my coat, and walked up the road beside him, telling myself that whatever happened inside, it didn’t matter. If it all went terribly wrong, I could just thank the host, slip out, catch the train home and go to bed. I’d wake up in the morning and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.
Anton asked about the Fantasiestücke , and I mumbled a few words in reply as we stepped up to the glossy ivy-green door with its heavy brass knocker. The somnolent street now seemed to be bathed in the glow of the party inside—chatter and laughter emanated from the house, and above it all the sound of Schumann, purling like a breeze through a chandelier.
I glanced down at my father’s old leather brogues, shining up at me so eagerly, and fiddled with the corners of my collar. Up the road, a dull light shone out from the Black Lion Inn and I had the sudden desire to be sitting in there by the fire, surrounded by strangers, all perhaps escaping a party of their own. I decided that’s where I’d go if things didn’t work out. I’d happily stay there all night, I thought, occasionally wandering outside to sit on a bench and watch the guests arrive and leave from number nine.
Anton was thumping the brass knocker, his chin pressed against his Fair Isle vest, humming Corelli. I stood beside him, waiting with my head bowed and hands clasped in front of me.
The door swung open and Walter Turner appeared, arched over us on the landing, glaring at us through the grey hair that hung in front of his crow-like eyes. He was a tall, wiry character in a dark woollen suit, a white shirt and a thin mauve tie. The tips of his shirt collar were buttoned underneath the tie, which jutted out awkwardly below its tiny knot. He appeared to have dressed in rather a hurry.
‘Hello—excellent, excellent,’ he said, flicking his hair to the side, after which it fell immediately back in front of his eyes. ‘It’s Anton, yes? Wonderful. And who’s this? You must be the young chap having a birthday! Seventeen? Wonderful, what a glorious age; yes, the purity and intensity of youth,’ he announced theatrically and nodded to Anton. ‘Do come in, do come in. Would you like a drink? Delphine? Del- phiiiine? ’ he called over his shoulder as he darted behind us, pulling off our coats and hats. ‘Two champagnes, dear.’ He continued, ‘Of course by the time one reaches my age, unless one fosters that youthful spirit, one becomes all dry and withered from lack of life.’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘Like parched orange skin.’ He then launched off down the hall, a flick of his hand behind his back signalling us to follow.
Not an eyebrow was raised as we entered the living room and walked amongst the small clusters of guests, gathered like posies of weary wind-blown poppies. Most stood about in earnest discussion, and although there was the occasional garish bow tie or audacious laugh, on the whole I had to admit it all looked rather dull. Books lined one entire wall, and impressionist paintings of landscapes and figures hung along the others. Then I noticed through the crowd, on the far side of the room, playing at a Steinway Louis XV Grand—Noël.
His head was turned towards the higher octaves as if he were listening to, rather than watching, his hands. He appeared lost in thought, as though he too werestanding away from the piano amongst a party of strangers, absorbing the sound that drenched the room. He was playing Schumann’s Fantasie opus 17.
Anton handed me a glass of champagne then signalled for me to follow him. I excused myself, telling him I’d join him presently, hardly recognising my own voice, then walked over to sit on the chartreuse-coloured silk sofa in the far corner, at the foot of the piano.
The instrument almost completely obscured my view of Noël; a sliver of his face, in between the walnut satin body and
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