They are already assembled, this Monday group. Cars, mini-buses, an ambulance have gathered them. Now they sit, a few in wheelchairs, drinking their coffee. They chat quietly. Some call across the room. There is laughter.
An introduction, and theyquieten. They smile encouragement. They don't see her fear, nor her doubt. Surely on the terrifying edge of life, their thoughts must be tunnelled down; narrowing, narrowing. How can they possibly be interested? Isn't all this irrelevant?
She opens they case, and they look. They exclaim at the rich mahogany varnish, at the gleaming keys, at the way all the sections fit together.
She crows on the reed, and they laugh at the unmusical sound. But then all is assembled ....
She plays, and they listen. They listen to folk songs, to Mancini, to "Land of My Fathers" (one man sings along in Welsh), to Gershwin's "Summertime", to "When I'm 64" ("Make that 74!" "84 for me!", to "Where e're You Walk" (again, a rich barione joins in, and others hum along), and finally Sarastro's aria from "The Magic Flute"; her own favourite melody. It's a prayer really, and a good last piece.
They fire questions: som many. What is the wood? Where is it made? How heavy is it? Is it very expensive? Do you need a lot of puff? All those keys: are they difficult to remember? Do you have to use a new reed every time? They haven't seen one, nor heard one, nor, for some, heard of one. She is amazed and humbled by this group: yes, by this life-affirming group.
Their thanks are warm and generous. One man stands and says, "I wasn't sure: I didn't think I'd be interested in a bassoon; but I was. I'm an engineer, so I can appreciate the skill needed to make a complex instrument like that. And that last piece you played - did you say Mozart? - well, I found there were tears in my eyes. That's never happened to me before".
She packs up, warmed by this gift he has given her. She knows that music - that sound alone - can move the listener deeply; but she had not understood that here, far from being irrelevant, its power may be all the more intensely felt.
Goodbye. Thank you. Will you come again? She heads for her car. In the office, a date has been set. Yes; it is goodbye. The date is six months away.
Monday 27 February 2017
Wednesday 22 February 2017
Police Report on a Double Death, by Alice Hutchinson
The case of Alexei Pavlovich Tikhonov, following the discovery of the two bodies, has awakened much interest throughout the city. Although not all the facts have yet been ascertained,enough has been discovered for most of the story to be constructed.
Tikhonov was a middle-aged scholarly bachelor, and most of his immediate circle were people like himself. His life had hitherto been blameless: the only one of his acquaintances known to the police was his disreputable schoolfriend Ketsbaia the Tatar, who was suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods. But Tikhonov's quiet life was to be overturned Yelena Borisovna Chetskaya.
She is described as being young, vivacious, friendly and very pretty. She remains something of a mystery, in that the police have been unable to trace a single relative of hers. It has been suggested that she was, as the old saying goes, "no better than she should be", but no firm evidence on that point has yet come to light. Why she was attracted to Tikhonov is not at all clear (it could hardly have been for his money, for he had little), but there is no doubt that he quickly became besotted with her. Rather than take her back to his sparse bachelor apartment, he installed her in an expensive hotel, where they lived together for several weeks. He bought her clothes and jewels, and accompanied her to the theatre and other public events attended by the cream of society.
Tikhonov's limited finances were soon exhausted. He sold such of his possessions as were of any value, but then had to turn to other methods of raising money. His old friend professor Razminsky has reported that several rare old manuscripts are missing from his collection, so it seems likely that Tikhonov stole these and then sold them on through Ketsbaia. He may have committed other thefts as well. But He must have known that his crimes would be discovered before long, and he would face exposure and punishment. He therefore obtained a measure of poison, and on the third of June poured it into glasses of wine, which he and Yelena then drank.
Tikhonov's suicide is readily explicable, but, why he should murder Yelena is harder to understand. It was not only pointlessly cruel, but goes entirely against what we know of his character. It is better to think that the two of them, having briefly found happiness in each other's company, resolved to depart this life together.
Tikhonov was a middle-aged scholarly bachelor, and most of his immediate circle were people like himself. His life had hitherto been blameless: the only one of his acquaintances known to the police was his disreputable schoolfriend Ketsbaia the Tatar, who was suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods. But Tikhonov's quiet life was to be overturned Yelena Borisovna Chetskaya.
She is described as being young, vivacious, friendly and very pretty. She remains something of a mystery, in that the police have been unable to trace a single relative of hers. It has been suggested that she was, as the old saying goes, "no better than she should be", but no firm evidence on that point has yet come to light. Why she was attracted to Tikhonov is not at all clear (it could hardly have been for his money, for he had little), but there is no doubt that he quickly became besotted with her. Rather than take her back to his sparse bachelor apartment, he installed her in an expensive hotel, where they lived together for several weeks. He bought her clothes and jewels, and accompanied her to the theatre and other public events attended by the cream of society.
Tikhonov's limited finances were soon exhausted. He sold such of his possessions as were of any value, but then had to turn to other methods of raising money. His old friend professor Razminsky has reported that several rare old manuscripts are missing from his collection, so it seems likely that Tikhonov stole these and then sold them on through Ketsbaia. He may have committed other thefts as well. But He must have known that his crimes would be discovered before long, and he would face exposure and punishment. He therefore obtained a measure of poison, and on the third of June poured it into glasses of wine, which he and Yelena then drank.
Tikhonov's suicide is readily explicable, but, why he should murder Yelena is harder to understand. It was not only pointlessly cruel, but goes entirely against what we know of his character. It is better to think that the two of them, having briefly found happiness in each other's company, resolved to depart this life together.
Tuesday 14 February 2017
The Laburnum Tree, by Andrea MacDonald,
They can’t find me
And I can see
everything
They’d never think to
look for me here
We were forbidden to
touch or go near you
An immediate allure
Poisonous tree
they said
Shelter for me
Under the boughs
Gateway to my secret
orchard
My halcyon hideaway
We met in May at the
end of the garden
My secret place
With log stools and a
table
Purloined from the
wood pile
Call Call Call me
I will not come
Me and my toys are
here
Do Not Disturb
Sunday 5 February 2017
Teacher Don't Teach Me Nonsense, by Kwaku Gyamfi
I am selling my mum's shop when Mary comes. She is about seven years old. She has these deep dimples that can break your heart, and she is always smiling. She wants a bottle of Pepsi. I put my laptop on a chair beside me and get up to take the product for her. Out of curiosity, she inches closer to the laptop. I give her the Pepsi but she still stands looking at the machine. I am reading from it.
“Are you doing your homework?”
I turn to look at her, “No Mary.”
“O.K, you are learning so you can do your homework.” She made it sound like a question.
“No. I am not studying for my homework.”
She wouldn’t give up. “Oh I know. You have an exam.” She speaks excitedly, like a scientist who has made a major discovery.
“No,” I say. I see confusion in her eyes, they beg, questioning.
“I am learning because I will use it one day. I am learning for life.”
She still appears perplexed. I don’t know how to make her understand me.
“Are you doing your homework?”
I turn to look at her, “No Mary.”
“O.K, you are learning so you can do your homework.” She made it sound like a question.
“No. I am not studying for my homework.”
She wouldn’t give up. “Oh I know. You have an exam.” She speaks excitedly, like a scientist who has made a major discovery.
“No,” I say. I see confusion in her eyes, they beg, questioning.
“I am learning because I will use it one day. I am learning for life.”
She still appears perplexed. I don’t know how to make her understand me.
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