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Concerto in D minor for 2 violins.
"Miss Russell," called the receptionist, "if you
could go through to room 3b, they will see you now."
Claire stood up, smoothed her suit trousers with
her hand, picked up her CV. She threw her half empty
plastic coffee cup in the wastepaper basket and by
running through the words of her favourite song she
attempted to compose herself. The corridor had modern
art prints lining the walls, balcony views of
Mediterranean coastlines in water-colour. The windows
looked out across the industrial estate, patchworked
with car parks and warehouses. The sky was dull and
listless. She found room 1a, it was followed by room
6c, then 2a. It was like trying to find a back street in
Birmingham, no discernible order. It was probably just
to soften up the candidates before they were
interviewed. She ran through the song words again, but
it didn't seem to work.
Interviews are stressful at the best of times, but
Frank Holbrook was especially nervous today. The
biggest and final argument with Mrs. Holbrook had
blown up last night, and he had woken fully clothed on
the sofa. The hallway of their house was cluttered with
suitcases and supermarket carrier bags stuffed with
clothes. The note on the kitchen table left no doubt.
Dear Frank,
I don't blame you for last night, it has
been a poor 6 months for all of us. I phoned your
mother and spoke to her, she's willing to let you stay in
her spare room until this all gets sorted out. I packed
your things, please post your key through the letterbox.
Believe me please, this is the only way.
A.'
If that wasn't bad enough it was interview day,
he didn't have enough time for this sort of stuff, but
then again it might help to take his mind away from the
mess of his personal life.
She knocked on the door and entered with the
muffled reply.
"Good day, Miss. . .," he checked his notes,
"Miss Russell. Okay, I'm Frank Holbrook, take a seat
and relax, it's just a bit of an informal chat to get to
know you better and to answer any questions you
have."
"Thank-you." She said, inwardly groaning, the
twenty-three previous interviews had led her to understand
that the men who started gently (with reassurances) were
inevitably the bastards who proceeded to humiliate you and
then haul you over the coals.
This was the fifth interview he'd taken this morning
and despite being consciously preoccupied he found it
difficult to concentrate on the questions he was asking. The
night before had started commonly enough. When he
arrived home & she wasn't in he guessed that she was
probably with her lover (when she promised it wouldn't
happen again he knew that she meant being caught). So
he'd poured himself a generous Gin, splash of tonic, and sat
down to rest on the sofa. Australian soap operas were on
television. Just before 7 o'clock he decided to fix himself
something to eat, a microwave ready-meal from Marks &
Spencer. So he returned to the sitting room with his chicken
chow mien and watched the news. There wasn't any
washing up to do after he'd finished because he'd eaten the
noodles straight from the plastic packaging. Another G &
T. Annabel had come back in at quarter to twelve, he woke
up from his dozing in front of the TV and rose to greet her.
She raised her hand, dismissing, and told him he stank of
gin. He didn't bother to protest and settled down for this
evenings lecture. But it never came, perhaps perceiving that
he no longer listened she had decided to take a new and
altogether crueller approach.
"You're leaving me." She told him.
Still sleepy and confused he had protested and
begged her not to leave him.
"No, no, no!" she barked, "You're
misunderstanding me, you are going to leave me tonight.
I'm having an affair, our marriage is over. You are going to
leave me."
"But I've got no where to go!" he protested.
"Don't worry, I'll sort that out, but I need you to be
out before Wednesday because that's when Neil is moving
in."
Then he'd begun to laugh, for to be lied to and
betrayed was an appalling thing to happen to anyone, but
the truth was worse. Neil was a buck toothed imbecile, but
in his mind (and in Ana's) he suspected that he could give
her the child she desperately wanted. So he had stretched
out on the sofa and drifted into a boozy sleep.
". . .which I used during my 3 weeks working for
Thomas & Sons, but I've had more practice using Excel."
"Very good, very good." he wondered how long he
could bare living with his mother and where he should
move to after that. "Well, Miss. . ." he checked his notes
again (and felt embarrassed) "Russell, thank-you for your
time, you'll be hearing from us in a few days."
"Thank-you." she stood up and shook his hand, then
left quickly.
As she strolled out of room 3b Frank noticed the
smooth slope of her shoulders beneath her shirt. She must
have taken her jacket off during the interview, he hoped he
hadn't been unnecessarily hard on her without noticing.
"Excuse me," he called after her, he picked up her
jacket and handed it to her.
She left without a word.
Tom Carty, the Personnel Manager strode into
Frank's office and sat down without a greeting.
"So, what sort of dross have you had through here
today?"
"A mixed bag, couple of promising kids but they
wouldn't stay in the job for long. One girl obviously
thought that the position involved travel and when she was
told what it involved she said it wasn't really her sort of
thing."
"What a wasted morning this was then, same every
time. A load of dossers looking for an easy skive or a bunch
of upwardly mobile graduates who feel that getting their
fingers dirty is beneath them. We need a new recruitment
policy to get some fresh GOOD blood into the company. If
you don't start getting some results you are going to have
to start looking for alternative employment, or I think
maybe our Scottish branch could do with an office junior.
How would Ana like the wilds of Aberdeen, Frank?"
"I think she'd be indifferent." He groaned, "I left
her. . . she left. . . oh fuck. I don't know."
"Have you been like this all morning? You're lucky
I don't sack you here on the sp. . ."
"Look," he interrupted, "I conducted the interviews
as professionally as anyone else you could have had in there
and for your information I found someone who would be
perfect for the job."
"Who?"
He checked his notes.
"Miss Russell."
"All right. But if she doesn't work out. Just watch
your back."
As Tom left the room, Frank found that for the first
time today he was fully focused on the task in hand. The
job was simple, and any of the candidates he'd seen could
do it without any hassle. But the memory of those slender,
delicate shoulders had cut through his morning. She didn't
arouse any excitement in him, but it had been so long since
he'd felt vaguely sexual about anything that he doubted he
would have noticed the emotions if she had.
Sarah Holbrook had dominated her son terribly
when he was a boy, as a young man she had subtly
influenced his decisions and whereas she had never liked his
choice of wife, it was she who had driven him to it. But,
true to form with middle age came dark times between
them. Annabel antagonised the split, leading to a total
breakdown in their relationship. There had been scant
emotion as they were reconciled that evening, civil
greetings and enquiries were exchanged. It would be a long
haul until intimacy returned to their conversations. So it
was that Frank lay down amongst his boxed possessions
and fell asleep in his mother's spare room.
Saturday rolled around. Frank had now spent four
nights under the same roof as his mother, they had chatted
about inconsequential things and skilfully avoided any
incendiary comments. They were both hoping for a brief
and above all uneventful stay. Frank stayed up listening to
Jacques Loussier albums after she'd gone up to bed. The
volume was turned down low (he didn't want to disturb her
sleep) and he'd dimmed the lights to a dusky shadow (it had
been a long time since he'd used dimmer switches). The
doorbell went.
"Excuse me Mrs. Holbr. . ." she said as he opened
the door, "oh, sorry."
"Miss Russell, I didn't know that you knew my
mother."
Claire looked stunned, took a second to regain her
composure and then forced a smile.
"I live next door." she answered curtly (but she
hoped that it hadn't come over as unfriendly), "I wondered
if the electricity was down all along the street or whether
it's just my house."
"I don't think we've had a power cut, but I'll just
check for you if you'd like, come in, come in."
They stepped into the lounge and the lights buzzed
quietly as the dimmer was twisted, the sound of jazz piano
gently came from the stereo.
"Oh, great! In that case it means it's just MY
house." She pressed the palm of her hand against her
forehead.
"I'll have a look at it for you if you'd like."
She looked at him, obviously deciding whether he
could be trusted in her house. Her gaze softened and he was
almost dismayed when he realised he'd been earmarked as
harmless.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble." Then an
afterthought, "Have you got any fuse wire in the house?"
"I think there's some under the stairs." He went and
searched for the piece of card it was wrapped around and
then followed her next door.
Her house was neatly organised and painted in
pastel shades. It looked eerie in the dark, the only light
came from the streetlights and a pocket torch. He undid the
cover to the fusebox, the screws had rusted into the case.
The house had been built in the sixties and the wiring had
barely been touched since then. Frank found the master
fuse, unwound the melted wire and replaced it with the last
loop from the card. The plug slotted in with a clunk, the
sound of violins flowed into the cupboard in which he was
squatting and he was blinded by the sudden light.
She thanked him earnestly and he said that it was
nothing and that he was just glad to help. But once again as
he spoke to her his mind was wandering, images of those
slender shoulders transfixed his eyes and he stared longingly
at her sweater. He just wanted to reach out and hold her
arms in his hands. He smiled and left. Amongst the boxes
that evening he finally had a night of uninterrupted sleep.
"She's a nice young girl," his mother confided over
breakfast. She was about to continue but a devilish look
from Frank shot the conversation smartly in it's infancy.
He continued to eat his boiled egg in silence, she
boiled the kettle and talked softly under her breath unused
to having another person around. There was a twitter of
birdsong through the open kitchen window and the sun was
pulsing down upon her scruffy winter lawn.
"Would you tidy up the garden for me before you
move out?" she asked, "I find it uncomfortable to bend
these days and last summer was so wet that I didn't get
much chance to work on it at all."
"Yes, it's no trouble at all."
There came a knock at the back door, through the
rippled glass he could see a young woman and he almost
dreaded his reaction.
Claire was wearing a summer dress and seemed so
welcome in this musty kitchen he had trouble keeping from
smiling. She noticed and blushed.
"I just popped round to thank your son for last
night." She nodded to him, Sarah glared at her son,
suspecting some hideous indiscretion but was relieved to
see that she was still unfamiliar to him, for he concentrated
on his fingertips and squirmed at the allusion.
"I was wondering," she continued, "if you would
care to join me for a meal at Marco's on Tuesday night,
some of my friends are celebrating a birthday."
There was an uneasy silence before Frank realised
she meant him and not his mother.
"I'd be delighted."
"I hope the evening wasn't too dull for you." She
chuckled.
The adrenaline rush of the early stages of a liaison is
quite unlike anything else in the world. Frank had been
away for a long time and he felt as though every second his
heart kept beating was a surprise.
"The evening has been wonderful, simply
wonderful."
"I'm glad, I know that my friends can be a little bit,
intense."
"I wouldn't have said intense, more highly focused
and incredibly certain."
She poured out a gin & tonic for him, but he said he
was trying to stay away from the stuff and begged a milky
coffee. She took the gin and placed his coffee on the side,
then joined him on the sofa. She rummaged in the cushions
and found a remote control pointing it at her hi-fi the strains
of violin music replaced the silence. She sipped at her drink
and then said,
"It's Bach, the absolute peak that baroque music
reached." She concluded dramatically.
"I like Bach too." He jumped in, and then fell silent,
not wanting to seem over eager.
"That's great," she leaned closer to him, wanting
him to feel comfortable.
But the spectre of his wife had risen and a life lived
under the thumb of the women in his life made him
withdraw. The distance between them seemed more than
age and experience (although the gap there was not as great
as he might have thought). She noticed his change in stance
and felt bitterly disappointed. He'd seemed so animated, so
witty and so utterly, utterly disillusioned. It had surprised
her how comfortable she felt when she was around him.
"This is, without a doubt, my favourite piece of
music."
"It's very strange." He said, his attention focused
again, but tinged with sadness for tonight could no longer
be so romantic, the bubble had for the moment been burst,
"it sounds as though they're playing two different pieces
entirely."
"But they are," she smiled, placing her hand on his
arm (but not threateningly), "they each play their own
exquisite songs, occasionally complimenting, sometimes
coming to the fore or receding into the background. Most
of the time they seem entirely separate, but just once in a
while they meet."
She leant forward and their lips touched.
"Then they separate again."
But before she had finished talking he'd taken her
arms in his hands and they kissed. The concerto drew to a
close and they went to bed.
©1998 Mark Sexton
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