Dying on Principle (3 page)

‘The technicians have their own canteen,' she said.

‘Well, we could nip out to the Court Oak.'

‘I don't drink. Thank you, Ms Rivers. I'll report back to you later.'

Why should she be so keen to avoid me? Was it me, or didn't she like people? Just then I didn't have time to worry. I had a class to go to, and teaching T. S. Eliot to A-level students requires all my concentration.

And I didn't have time for any lunch, either. As I came out of class it started to rain, and I literally ran home to rescue my washing. I was just in time to see Aggie locking my front door on her way out. Rather than embarrass her by thanking her, I simply turned on my heel and ran back. What I might do, perhaps, was get too many bedding plants and, by claiming I hadn't room for them, persuade her to do me another favour by accepting them.

Meanwhile, I had another class to teach.

After an exhausting session with GCSE students and the apostrophe s during which I wondered if even a computer would have patience enough to deal with the little cypher, I staggered back to my office for a drink.

Although there was a perfectly good staff canteen, I was so overwhelmed by the luxury of having a room to myself – even one only about eight feet by eight – after the mêlée in which I had passed my time at William Murdock College, that occasionally I would dive in just to savour it. It struck me that the recent prohibition on making tea or coffee there was unnecessary, but I could easily circumvent it by drinking packet fruit juice, which was probably healthier anyway. I could even look out of the window without being assailed by vertigo, whereas my William Murdock office was on the fifteenth floor.

There was a quiet tap at the door: Melina, clutching a printer.

‘Until I can repair yours,' she said, immediately busying herself with cables and plugs.

‘Don't worry: I'll sort that out,' I said. ‘Fancy an orange juice?' I broke another from the polythene wrapper and tossed it to her.

She caught it, put it down awkwardly, then picked it up and pulled off the straw. ‘Thanks.' But she finished the connections before she drank.

To my surprise, I didn't have to choose the next topic of conversation. Perhaps she thought asking me questions would be the best way of fending off mine.

‘How long are you going to be working here, Ms Rivers?'

‘Sophie.'

‘We're supposed to call you academic staff by your name and title.'

‘Titles like Dr and names like Trevelyan?'

‘She's quite new here too.'

I couldn't quite work that one out. ‘How long have you worked here, then?'

‘Couple of months, that's all. Dr Trevelyan started at Christmas. But—' She stopped.

I waited. Nothing.

‘I should have come in January,' I said at last. ‘But there was a big administrative cock-up—' Melina winced. ‘Administrative hitch,' I corrected myself, ‘so we had to wait till now. And we go back to our own places as soon as we've finished. Not that I for one am in any hurry. I live just up the road, and this place is luxury compared with what I'm used to at William Murdock.'

She stared at me and seemed about to speak when the phone rang: Dr Trevelyan, wanting to know if Melina had finished.

‘Just doing a test print now,' I said, grateful that ink jets are so silent as to be undetectable over the phone.

Melina, however, asked the computer for a test print-out. It obliged.

‘What did you do before you came here?' I asked, accompanying her to the door.

‘Same thing. A small firm in the Jewellery Quarter. We serviced computers for big firms.'

‘Who?' I asked, interested that she should have chosen to take a job in education.

‘Lots,' she said. And was gone.

Synchronicity or coincidence? My evening with Aberlene seemed to pivot round the question, thought I don't recall either of us proposing to debate it.

It started with my chopping fresh coriander to add to a curry for supper. It's my favourite herb. It's not just the taste, the smell, though those are exquisite in themselves. It's because it always brings back my friend George. And the pleasure of being with George, loving him as a dear friend, rather than the agony of his death last year.

The edge had gone off my pain by now. Some of it went when the van he'd left me was destroyed in a fire. But his bassoon still sat on the wardrobe in my spare room.

Apart from singing, I can only play the piano, so the bassoon was never used. It might even be bad for it: some instruments suffer if they're allowed to lie fallow. But then, I could never sell it – how could I make money out of George's death? I couldn't give away anything he'd given to me, either.

With the coriander juice still green and pungent on my hands, I phoned Aberlene.

Which is where the synchronicity came in: Aberlene greeted me with a laugh and told me she'd been in the process of looking up my number. She had something she wanted to discuss, she said, and had been going to invite me out for a quiet drink. But when I established that she had not yet eaten, I invited her round to share my curry; she could bring a bottle if she liked. She liked, and would be round about eight.

This gave me time to tidy my kitchen, and I laid the table in there, rather than attempt to clear my papers off the dining table. We left her wine – a New Zealand Chardonnay – to chill. Neither of us felt it would enjoy the company of my Malaysian chicken curry, creamy with coconut and sharp with coriander. But it helped the cheese and the conversation, chiefly orchestral gossip. I sensed, however, that Aberlene was holding something back, but to ensure an easier time later I decided not to press her.

We took the rest of the bottle into my living room. For a while she prowled, commenting on a watercolour I'd just bought. And then she settled on the sofa, folding her long legs under her, and I took an armchair.

When it came to it, neither of us was particularly keen to broach our propositions. In the end, laughing like teenagers, we flipped a coin.

‘All right,' I began, losing graciously, ‘I want to say something which may sound – I don't know, quixotic if you like.' I told her about George's bassoon. ‘What I want to do is lend it to someone – like that lad who joined in the spring – so it gets played. It doesn't even have to be anyone in the MSO, really. I'm sure you've got contacts all over. So long as it's played and cared for – in both senses, I suppose.'

Aberlene touched my hand gently and poured some more wine. ‘But George wanted
you
to benefit from his death if anyone did.'

I shrugged.

‘And you've never even bought yourself a car to replace his camper van. I've heard all your excuses – cars in cities, public transport, vandalism at your college, the risk of it being stolen, too little, too big, too fast, too slow. I've heard them all, Sophie. Come on, don't you owe it to George to – to oblige him?'

I spread my hands.

‘Tell you what,' she continued, ‘I'll mention your offer to someone I know on one condition – that you find some way of letting George enrich your life. It was what he wanted. And I tell you, Sophie, he really did worry that you didn't have safer transport than that bike of yours.'

‘But I don't need even a bike at the moment.' I actually felt uneasy having more than enough money to buy a car. George had believed in giving away what you didn't need, and I hadn't even got round to giving the interest on the van's insurance payout to Oxfam as he'd have wanted.

‘But you'll be back at William Murdock – when? September? Promise me that you'll have done something about getting a car by then. Or,' she smiled sweetly, ‘no deal on the bassoon. And don't say you'll bloody well sell it to spite me because I know you and you couldn't.'

She was right, of course, so I didn't say anything.

‘Now,' she said, looking embarrassed. She shifted her legs to the floor and straightened her back, looking magisterial. ‘What I needed to talk to you about. And I want you to remember that it is not a response to what you've just been saying. I was about to phone you, remember, quite independently.'

I nodded.

‘It's not gratitude, though in a way I suppose it is. But not for that. I'm sorry – I'm making a real hash of this, and don't tell me I'm not.' She paused, took a swig, and settled her hands on her lap as if trying to relax. ‘As you know, the orchestra has its own friendly society. We all pay in so much a month, and can call on it for help with health problems – you know, when we need physio before the Health Service can get round to it.'

I nodded.

‘After the Maxwell affair,' she continued, ‘the role of a trustee is even more important. And with the pressures on everyone's money at the moment we want to make sure our society's money is well managed. These days the orchestra can't afford to make
ex gratia
emergency payments as it might once have done. That's why – now Thomas Kelly and Henry Gibson have retired – that's why the players want to nominate you as an independent trustee. You've been a loyal friend to the orchestra—' She overrode my protests. ‘A loyal friend to the band as a whole as well as to some of us individually. If you're happy, we'll be writing to you formally.'

When I demurred it was to make the obvious comment: ‘I don't know anything about money – accounts, investments, anything.'

‘Doesn't matter. All the other trustees know about money. The other new trustee's sharp enough to cut himself. But these guys don't necessarily know how we feel – you know, about ethical investments and so on. The other thing is that now that there are two more women than men in the orchestra, we'd like a woman trustee. At least one. You're the token woman, Sophie,' she cackled.

‘Gee, thanks.' But I was touched, really touched. I got up and filled our glasses again to cover it.

‘Welcome and good luck. And the first meeting's on Thursday evening, by the way,' she said. And then, in a change of mood that disconcerted me, she lifted her glass to a photo of George on the piano. ‘Absent friends.'

‘Absent friends!'

At this point one of them phoned.

‘Sophie?'

‘Chris!'

Aberlene got up at once, ostentatiously touching her watch and tiptoeing to the door.

‘Can I call you back in two minutes, Chris? Home or work?'

‘Home.'

‘Two minutes, then.'

Aberlene was smiling when I put down the phone. ‘Your Chris is still around, I gather?'

‘He's not my Chris. He's a friend. I'm very fond of him, but he's just a friend.'

‘Not the worst of starts for a relationship,' she said. ‘And he's very good-looking. And a nice body.'

I hesitated. I'd never found him at all attractive, not sexually, but I didn't want to argue.

Grinning in apparent defeat, I saw Aberlene to the door, wondering only as I opened it what she was doing for transport. But a car was parking opposite, and I recognised the features of the principal cello, Tobias Friedman. So Aberlene had got herself a handsome bloke, had she? She grinned, touched her lips, and ran off like a joyous child.

It was never easy to phone Chris, not because I didn't like him but because I did. I liked him too much to enjoy the knowledge that he was in love with me.

But we spoke easily enough when I got through. He'd been engaged first try, so I stacked the dishwasher – an extravagance to celebrate my temporary upgrading for this new job – and made a coffee before returning to the living room. He started by asking about the job, quite detailed questions, in fact. But he didn't follow up any of the things I touched on. Then I asked about his life: he offered me news of his car and garden. But he was clearly holding something back.

‘You might as well spit it out, Chris. I can almost hear you purring. Hey, you've got a conviction in that rape case – yes?'

‘Hole in one! I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me one night. To celebrate,' he added, as if he had to justify the invitation. Which in a sense he did. Although we saw each other regularly, I always tried to ensure that it was in ways that didn't demand either the expression or the rejection of great emotion. We'd been up to the Hawthorns several weekends to cheer West Bromwich Albion up the ignominious Second Division, and if he needed a woman for some police do, I'd sometimes go along. I'd bagged him as an honorary member of our college's indoor cricket team. But the inequality in our feelings always lurked, sometimes rising quite painfully.

‘Of course!' I said, without, I hoped, any obvious hesitation. ‘My treat.'

‘Bugger that! Mine. Not every day we nail a bastard like that.'

‘I'll buy the booze then – champagne!'

‘We'll argue about that tomorrow.'

‘We won't argue at all.'

‘I'll pick you up. Eightish?'

‘Eightish. How smart? And don't tell me I always look nice, or I'll wear my gardening jeans.'

‘You do always look nice – but how about smartish? Suit for me, if that helps. Hell! There's another call waiting to come through.'

‘How on earth d'you—?'

‘Got one of those clever BT thingies. Look, it could be important. See you tomorrow.'

‘See you, Chris; take care.'

I went to bed considering the adjective ‘smartish'. Not a girlie dress, of course; he knew better than to expect that. How about silk shirt and trousers? I could drop them into Harris's at eight tomorrow morning and collect them before they closed. I set the alarm and picked up
Pride and Prejudice
.

There are some cyclists who are accidents waiting to happen. They carry too much, often children perched on little plastic seats, or wobble from lane to lane, or fail to use lights when they're needed. I do none of these. I'm psychotically virtuous when it comes to cycling – helmet, fluorescent jacket, lights, everything. And I've battled in and out of town in rush-hour traffic for at least ten years. I've had lots of near misses, true, with apparently blind motorists, but this morning's little dice with death unnerved me more than it should have done.