Chapter 3
Danny knocks on the conservatory door. The conservatory is a large glass extension running along one side of the house, warm, with exotic plants and smelling of earth. A bookcase against the wall of the house is stacked with sheet music. In winter the room doubles as a greenhouse, protecting tender plants in pots that usually belong on the terrace. In summer it is light and airy, a screen keeping off direct sunlight. A central area is clear apart from wicker chairs and a low table.
The woman who answers the door is not much older than he is, early 20s, perhaps 25. But dressed in a rather more formal way than her age would suggest, her hair tied back, her tight-waisted dress reaching to the floor; perhaps designed to reinforce her status as teacher, to accentuate the divide between them.
“Hello Danny,” she smiles. “Do come in”.
He carries his cello in its case awkwardly through the glass door, and starts to set up his instrument in the middle of the room, familiar with the room and the routine. Another cello is already there, lying on its side.
“Lizzy, Lizzie, did I hear the door?” A man’s voice calls from somewhere in the house, and a moment later he appears in the doorway.
“Yes Father, it’s Daniel Williams, here for his lesson.”
“Williams?”
“Sir.”
“Ah, yes. Are the twins home?”
“I think they’re upstairs.”
“Yes of course. Carry on.” And he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
Although only seventeen, Danny is several inches taller than his teacher, and he colours the room as he moves about it. He tunes his cello, and hands over his practice book.
“We’ll start with some scales.” She opens the book. “G, and G minor I think.”
And the lesson proceeds. Danny is her best student, and she has looked forward to these weekly lessons over the last few years, her last lesson on Friday, a treat to start off the weekend. She teaches piano and singing pupils in one of the music rooms in the main school building, but the cello is her favourite instrument and she likes to bring her cello students back to the house. Her father, the headmaster, doesn’t like the sound of lessons in the house interfering with his work, but the sound of a cello from the conservatory doesn’t usually reach his study.
They move on to a cello sonata Danny has been practising. He struggles with a passage, and Lizzie picks up her own instrument to demonstrates the correct bowing to him. As he has more and more over the last few months, Danny finds he is watching the woman more than her cello playing. He watches the curve of her arm, and the texture of her neck, rather than focusing on her playing. She suggested once that they try some duets together, but he struggled to concentrate when she was playing with him. Now it is almost the end of term, the end of Danny’s time at school, and she asks him to finish off with Bach’s first cello suite which he has been working on all term. When he finishes playing she sits for a moment, eyes closed, before looking at him.
“That was really beautiful,” Lizzie tells him. “I’ve never heard a student play better.” He blushes, looks at his wristwatch and starts to pack away his instrument.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do when you leave school? You could be a really serious cellist; and we need to find you another teacher. Are you staying in the area? No, you’ll be going home to Wales.”
He looks up at her, still embarrassed, unsure where to look. “I don’t know. My father says there’s war coming; I’m nearly old enough to sign up.”
He isn’t the first of her pupils to tell her this, but from his lips it sounds shocking, and she looks away. “You mustn’t talk like that. It’s just too grim to think about, you need to focus on your exams, and your music. You can’t think about fighting.”
“My family are in business. My father would expect me to join him, as my brother did. But I don’t really know what I want to do. I’d like to carry on playing, but there’s no orchestra to join anywhere near home.”
“Cardiff would be the best place. I know a few musicians there, I could speak to someone.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think my family would want that.”
She looks up at the clock on the wall. “We’ve overrun, I’d better let you go. It’ll be your last lesson next week, we can talk about it then. Concentrate on your Bach, and I’ll try to find something interesting for you to try at sight. Something different for the end of term.”
The next week Danny comes for his lesson at the usual time, and finds Lizzie waiting for him.
“Don’t come in, I’ve got a surprise for you.” And she puts on her coat and picks up a small music case. “Come on, we’re going for walk. Bring your cello, and you can carry this.” She hands over a music stand, and leads him through the garden, through a gate, past a football pitch and then following the footpath through a field uphill away from the house and the school. After a few minutes it levels off, and they pass through a gap in the hedge coming out at the side of the school chapel.
“I told you I would find something interesting for you. It’s a nice day, I thought we’d sit outside,” and she leads him to the side of the chapel overlooking the valley. The grass is long and fresh with wildflowers, and birds are singing loudly with no respect for the surroundings.
“You tune up,” and she gets two sheets of handwritten manuscript out of the case. “I’ve adapted a song, Danny Boy, that I heard someone singing last year. It’s not very uplifting, but I think this is a suitable setting for it. The hills, the view, the church.” Danny looks at the music. He knows the tune, but it is set in a low register, and the music doesn’t match the song in his memory. He starts to play, but she stops him immediately, gesturing with her hand.
“No, slow right down. I think it should be played slowly, sadly, with feeling. Start again.”
He starts again, slowly, but he struggles with the notes. She has added in grace notes, arpeggios and double-stopping, some plucked chords, creating harmonies on the solo instrument. Lizzie is standing behind him, looking down at the music, and he feels her breath on his neck. After a few bars he stopped playing, and she puts her hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll play it for you.”
He stands up and moves to one side to let her take the cello. She sits, adjusts one of the strings. As she starts to play his world slows down. The playing is beautiful, full of melancholy. The tempo is fluid, and slow. She introduces strange chords that seem to jar, and then resolve themselves. The main tune repeats, but in a different key and a different setting, as if she is improvising as she plays. Danny’s head is light, as if he has left his body behind, and the scene recedes. He is watching from a distance. There is a crackle of energy in the air, a buzzing in his head, his breathing and his pulse have slowed. The colours in the churchyard around him fade to shades of grey. Tears are running down his cheeks.
The music ends, and she stands, carefully puts down the cello, and comes towards him. Briefly she kisses his lips, touches his shoulder, and then steps back. He makes to follow her, and then stops.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“No, no it’s alright.” He wipes his face, and dropped his eyes to the ground, blushing. ”I’d better go,” he says.
“No, let’s just sit here for a bit. I don’t know when I shall see you again. And this is yours.” She gives him the manuscript, and he looks at it and puts it carefully away in his cello case.
“Thank you.” He doesn’t have the words, so says nothing more. They sit on the bench for a while, close, but not touching, not speaking. You can see the hills around, the valley, the corner of the lake. It is quiet and warm, and there is peace.