A/N: Betaed by Little Dorritt and Jen.
Part Seventy-Seven
On the Wednesday evening, Karen was relaxing in her flat, a large scotch and her cigarettes to hand, and with some soft music playing on the stereo. The last two days had been a whirlwind, spent trying to get to grips with the complex juggling of ten different accommodation wings, plus the hospital wing, education wing and administrative offices. She'd visited them all, introduced herself to everyone, and now couldn't remember half their names. Some of them she'd obviously known before, but not all. She decided that it was really quite nice to have an evening to herself, not to have to make polite conversation, something she felt she'd been doing almost constantly since yesterday morning. Taking a swig of the scotch, she rolled the liquid round her mouth, luxuriating in its fiery tingle as it slid down her throat. She hadn't come home till after eight last night, though that wasn't really anything new, and had slumped on the sofa with no energy for anything. Fully intent on doing the same tonight, even though she'd come home earlier, Karen briefly wondered if this was what her life would consist of from now on. She had to fit George in somewhere, though for the life of her she couldn't quite see where at the moment.
She was just reaching for a cigarette, when the phone rang. "How's your bowing hand these days?" Were John's opening words to her. "None of your business," Karen replied with a laugh. "And that has to be the worst chat up line I've ever heard." "Are you busy?" John asked, getting to the point. "Yes, working my way through an enormous scotch and doing absolutely nothing. Why?" "Do you feel like coming over?" "What's it worth?" "Bring your viola with you, and it might get you a part in 'The Creation.'" "Well, I'm not entirely sure I'd have the time for it anyway. Quite how Simon managed to fit in so many rounds of golf is beyond me." "Come on, you know you want to," He cajoled. "Besides, we need an experienced violist." "Flattery will get you nowhere this time, John, I'm exhausted." "You're not going to do a George on me, are you?" "Meaning?" "Meaning, I do hope you're not going to back out on me, just because you don't think you're up to it." "You bastard," Karen said slowly, knowing she couldn't wriggle out of this, and knowing that he knew it too. "I will excuse your pitiful vocabulary on this occasion," He said, his grin audible because he'd got what he wanted. "Where are you?" Karen asked in resigned acceptance. "At the digs. Oh, and you'll get to meet George's father." "John, are you seriously telling me that you want me to do an utterly impromptu audition, when I haven't practiced in weeks?" "More like months," John admonished. "Yes, I am." "Give me half an hour to make myself vaguely presentable." "I'll have a scotch on ice for you." "I'll bloody need it." Slamming down the phone, and kissing a wistful goodbye to her restful evening, Karen splashed her face with cold water, redid her make up and picked up her viola.
She had been to see John at the digs before, but this time was different. If she did take a part in 'The Creation', then she would be really entering into his world, into George's world. Still, if she did, at least she now had a job that could begin to match the level of a barrister. She didn't just work for the prison service any more, she was a prison governor, and she knew this gave her the sort of professional standing that would demand an approximate, if not similar, level of respect. Locking the car, she hoisted her viola under her arm, and followed the doorman up to John's rooms. As they approached, she smiled as she heard the incredibly pretty sound of his violin, tinkling its way through a cheerful run of notes that immediately lifted her spirits. When John came to the door, he looked happier than Karen had seen him in a long time. "You look like you're enjoying yourself," She said, kissing him on the cheek. "I am, and will be even more if you agree to play." "I'm not promising anything, John," Karen insisted, knowing he would probably win in the end, but determined to give him a good run for his money. It was as she said this that Karen took notice of the other occupant of the room. He was tall, with hair graying to almost white, and who looked to be in his late seventies. "Joe," John said, seeing Karen's appraising glance. "This is Karen Betts, and Karen, this is Sir Joseph Channing, George's father." "It's a pleasure to meet you," Karen said, holding out her hand, which he shook. Joe's piercing gaze wavered assessingly between John and Karen. "Don't look like that, Joe," John said, interpreting his stare. "Karen's just a friend." "Hmm," Joe said in his deep, gravelly voice. "That's what you keep saying about Mrs. Mills." "Would you like a drink?" John said to Karen, ignoring Joe's jibe. Saying that she would, Karen sat down in one of the armchairs and laid her viola case on the floor beside her. "Karen's just been made Governor of Larkhall prison," John said, handing Karen a scotch and refilling Joe's glass. "Yes, so I've heard," Joe said dryly. "It's been doing the rounds of the Lord Chancellor's department." "I wouldn't have thought it was such a ground breaking story," Karen said, wanting to provoke this man into a discussion with her. "Ah, well," Joe said, lighting a cigarette. "Larkhall has been in the news rather too much in the past couple of years. So, whilst a young, attractive female governor might not be such a novel idea, one who has been well and truly submerged in the unfortunate events surrounding the prison she is now governing, is ground breaking." John looked a little uncomfortable. "That's hardly fair, Joe," He said, not wanting him to frighten Karen off altogether. But he had completely underestimated Karen's ability to deal with unwanted comments. "I wouldn't exactly say I was young," She said with a smile. "Though the rest is true. I take it you don't approve of such a voyage into the unknown? Perhaps a straight, white, upper class male, without such a colourful past would have been better?" John couldn't help but grin. He knew Karen was purposefully goading Joe, and he wanted to see how Joe would react. "There are worse things than a touch of tradition at the top end of one's profession." "Oh, I'm sure," Karen said dryly. "Though we do have to move with the times." "Yes, so my daughter and my granddaughter are always telling me. The more you say, the more you sound like George." Karen smiled, this indirect compliment touching her deeper than Joe Channing could ever have suspected.
After John had given Karen a while to sink her scotch and to relax, he broached the subject of her taking a part in 'The Creation.' "What do you think we should get Karen to play?" He asked Joe, picking up the score. "The viola might be a start," Karen quipped back, knowing that John was about to really push her to the limits of her ability. But it was Joe who, after thumbing through the score, allowed a slightly malevolent, very George-like grin to spread over his face. "Why don't you play with her?" He said to John, as if Karen wasn't there. "Give her some moral support." "She'll need it," John said, looking over Joe's shoulder at the piece he had selected. "Precisely what do you have in store for me?" Karen asked, knowing that if John thought she needed some moral support, it really must be difficult. "Oh, only this," John said, holding out the score to Karen. Glancing at the music she was about to attempt to play, Karen nearly fled. 'Rolling in Foaming Billows', the aria was called, and the violas were clearly supposed to represent the waves breaking on a rocky shore. But these weren't any calm, gentle waves that you might find on a beach in Cornwall, but more like the forceful current swept back and forth by the driving rain, slapping against the side of a ship. John saw the brief flash of trepidation in Karen's face, soon to be replaced with her usual calm and focused exterior. Getting her viola out of its case, she stood, running her hand almost lovingly along its curved neck of maple, softly plucking the open strings. Handing her the bow, John watched as she swiftly warmed up, giving her time to regain the feel of gracefully sliding bow over string. Picking up his violin from where it had been resting in an armchair, John stood next to her, the open score propped on his rickety music stand. Raising his slightly gnarled hand to keep the time for them, Joe said, "Try the first twenty seven bars." Then, fixing his piercing gaze on Karen, he added, "Let's see what you're made of." Fervently praying that she could live up to the expectations being placed on her, Karen raised her bow.
The suggested estimation of speed for this aria was allegro, and Joe Channing was taking this recommendation to the letter. As his hand moved to and fro and up and down, Karen struggled to keep up with him. Flatly ignoring whatever John and his violin were doing, she strove to climb and descend the chromatic runs in the manner in which they'd been written, not simply in a random conglomeration of tangled notes. There were twelve bars of frantic semiquavers to get through, before she would reach anything even vaguely in tune with her own ability. As her bow slid swiftly up and down the approximation of a tempestuous storm, the fingers of her left hand moving rapidly on the strings, Joe Channing could see that her body, apart from her moving hands, was as tense as a statue. He reflected that perhaps he had been a little too hard in suggesting this particular piece, though she was living up to the challenge admirably. The sultry, smoky sound that resonated from her instrument, reminded him of a bird, an eagle maybe, who has witnessed many tragedies, and whom life has given many scars. With everything that had been said about this woman in the papers over the last couple of years, Joe supposed that this is what she was. When Karen reached the point at which the bass singer should have entered, she could relax. The second violins would have taken over the waves if they were there, the violas being given a brief respite with a few bars of far simpler work, though returning to the beating storm to introduce the bass solo's second subject. The twenty-seven bars assigned to them might have only taken a matter of minutes to play, but to Karen they had felt like an endless climb up a treacherously icy mountain. When they stopped, Karen realised that she had been gripping her bow so tightly that her fingers were now stiff. Slipping her bow into the hand that held the viola, she began flexing them. When she looked up, John was smiling at her. "How long is it since you last played?" He asked, the pride dancing in his eyes. "Believe me, you really don't want to know," Karen replied, because no way was she about to confess that it had been several months since she had last exercised her strings. "You rose to the challenge," Joe Channing said with a smile. "Which is almost more important than your actual skill." When he said this, Karen was hit with the realisation that he hadn't just been assessing whether or not she would be a suitable participant in any musical endeavour, but whether or not she would make a successful governing governor. "Did I pass?" She asked him, for an unfathomable reason, desperately wanting to make a good impression with George's father. "With flying colours," Joe replied, holding out a hand to shake hers. "Welcome aboard. I will add your name to the list forthwith."
A while later, when Joe Channing had left, John refilled Karen's glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" Karen asked fondly. "No," John replied, sitting down in a chair near her. Karen lit a cigarette. "So, apart from being tiring, how's the job?" "I love it," Karen said firmly. "I'm not sure how long the novelty will last, but I'm happy, exhausted, but happy." "Good," He said with a smile. "It's about time you got some payback from the prison service. Oh, and talking of your recent rise in status, guess who we've picked up to play Adam?" "No-one I know, surely," Karen replied, unable to think of anyone who might fit the bill. "Neil Grayling." Karen almost choked on her scotch. "Grayling? We are talking about the same man, here?" "Oh, yes. The circuit administrator, possibly the biggest irritation I have, discovered via the grapevine, that Neil Grayling disclosed a devout interest in classical music at his interview. So, Ian Rochester paid him a visit yesterday, and the word is, that he is delighted to join us." "This is going to be more fun than I first thought," Karen said with a smile, wondering just what George would say to playing Eve opposite Grayling's Adam. "Yes, it certainly looks that way, but don't tell George. I want this to be a surprise for her." "John, even for you that's a little cruel," Karen said with a laugh. "Oh, I don't know," John said almost evilly. "Singing opposite someone she's previously crucified in court, it might be good for her. By the way, what did you think of George's father?" Karen smiled. "He's very like her, in some ways, isn't he?" "Just as stubborn and just as determined to succeed," John said succinctly. "There's no doubt that George gets her argumentative streak from him." "I bet he makes a good appeal judge," Karen said, taking a long drag. "Oh, he does, when he's not being pressured by the establishment," John agreed. "The rows I used to have with him about politics and the judiciary, when I was married to George were sensational." "Poor George," Karen commiserated. "Being stuck in the middle." Then, looking at him closely, she added, "You miss the father-in-law figure, don't you?" "Perhaps," John admitted. "Though it wasn't always enjoyable. Joe thought I wasn't good enough for his daughter." "He probably would have thought that about anyone," Karen replied. "He didn't think that a liaison with a baker's boy was quite the right image for an up and coming legal star." "Well, you've hardly failed on that score." "I suppose so, and who knows, maybe doing this will bring back some of the friendship we once had."
Part Seventy-Seven
On the Wednesday evening, Karen was relaxing in her flat, a large scotch and her cigarettes to hand, and with some soft music playing on the stereo. The last two days had been a whirlwind, spent trying to get to grips with the complex juggling of ten different accommodation wings, plus the hospital wing, education wing and administrative offices. She'd visited them all, introduced herself to everyone, and now couldn't remember half their names. Some of them she'd obviously known before, but not all. She decided that it was really quite nice to have an evening to herself, not to have to make polite conversation, something she felt she'd been doing almost constantly since yesterday morning. Taking a swig of the scotch, she rolled the liquid round her mouth, luxuriating in its fiery tingle as it slid down her throat. She hadn't come home till after eight last night, though that wasn't really anything new, and had slumped on the sofa with no energy for anything. Fully intent on doing the same tonight, even though she'd come home earlier, Karen briefly wondered if this was what her life would consist of from now on. She had to fit George in somewhere, though for the life of her she couldn't quite see where at the moment.
She was just reaching for a cigarette, when the phone rang. "How's your bowing hand these days?" Were John's opening words to her. "None of your business," Karen replied with a laugh. "And that has to be the worst chat up line I've ever heard." "Are you busy?" John asked, getting to the point. "Yes, working my way through an enormous scotch and doing absolutely nothing. Why?" "Do you feel like coming over?" "What's it worth?" "Bring your viola with you, and it might get you a part in 'The Creation.'" "Well, I'm not entirely sure I'd have the time for it anyway. Quite how Simon managed to fit in so many rounds of golf is beyond me." "Come on, you know you want to," He cajoled. "Besides, we need an experienced violist." "Flattery will get you nowhere this time, John, I'm exhausted." "You're not going to do a George on me, are you?" "Meaning?" "Meaning, I do hope you're not going to back out on me, just because you don't think you're up to it." "You bastard," Karen said slowly, knowing she couldn't wriggle out of this, and knowing that he knew it too. "I will excuse your pitiful vocabulary on this occasion," He said, his grin audible because he'd got what he wanted. "Where are you?" Karen asked in resigned acceptance. "At the digs. Oh, and you'll get to meet George's father." "John, are you seriously telling me that you want me to do an utterly impromptu audition, when I haven't practiced in weeks?" "More like months," John admonished. "Yes, I am." "Give me half an hour to make myself vaguely presentable." "I'll have a scotch on ice for you." "I'll bloody need it." Slamming down the phone, and kissing a wistful goodbye to her restful evening, Karen splashed her face with cold water, redid her make up and picked up her viola.
She had been to see John at the digs before, but this time was different. If she did take a part in 'The Creation', then she would be really entering into his world, into George's world. Still, if she did, at least she now had a job that could begin to match the level of a barrister. She didn't just work for the prison service any more, she was a prison governor, and she knew this gave her the sort of professional standing that would demand an approximate, if not similar, level of respect. Locking the car, she hoisted her viola under her arm, and followed the doorman up to John's rooms. As they approached, she smiled as she heard the incredibly pretty sound of his violin, tinkling its way through a cheerful run of notes that immediately lifted her spirits. When John came to the door, he looked happier than Karen had seen him in a long time. "You look like you're enjoying yourself," She said, kissing him on the cheek. "I am, and will be even more if you agree to play." "I'm not promising anything, John," Karen insisted, knowing he would probably win in the end, but determined to give him a good run for his money. It was as she said this that Karen took notice of the other occupant of the room. He was tall, with hair graying to almost white, and who looked to be in his late seventies. "Joe," John said, seeing Karen's appraising glance. "This is Karen Betts, and Karen, this is Sir Joseph Channing, George's father." "It's a pleasure to meet you," Karen said, holding out her hand, which he shook. Joe's piercing gaze wavered assessingly between John and Karen. "Don't look like that, Joe," John said, interpreting his stare. "Karen's just a friend." "Hmm," Joe said in his deep, gravelly voice. "That's what you keep saying about Mrs. Mills." "Would you like a drink?" John said to Karen, ignoring Joe's jibe. Saying that she would, Karen sat down in one of the armchairs and laid her viola case on the floor beside her. "Karen's just been made Governor of Larkhall prison," John said, handing Karen a scotch and refilling Joe's glass. "Yes, so I've heard," Joe said dryly. "It's been doing the rounds of the Lord Chancellor's department." "I wouldn't have thought it was such a ground breaking story," Karen said, wanting to provoke this man into a discussion with her. "Ah, well," Joe said, lighting a cigarette. "Larkhall has been in the news rather too much in the past couple of years. So, whilst a young, attractive female governor might not be such a novel idea, one who has been well and truly submerged in the unfortunate events surrounding the prison she is now governing, is ground breaking." John looked a little uncomfortable. "That's hardly fair, Joe," He said, not wanting him to frighten Karen off altogether. But he had completely underestimated Karen's ability to deal with unwanted comments. "I wouldn't exactly say I was young," She said with a smile. "Though the rest is true. I take it you don't approve of such a voyage into the unknown? Perhaps a straight, white, upper class male, without such a colourful past would have been better?" John couldn't help but grin. He knew Karen was purposefully goading Joe, and he wanted to see how Joe would react. "There are worse things than a touch of tradition at the top end of one's profession." "Oh, I'm sure," Karen said dryly. "Though we do have to move with the times." "Yes, so my daughter and my granddaughter are always telling me. The more you say, the more you sound like George." Karen smiled, this indirect compliment touching her deeper than Joe Channing could ever have suspected.
After John had given Karen a while to sink her scotch and to relax, he broached the subject of her taking a part in 'The Creation.' "What do you think we should get Karen to play?" He asked Joe, picking up the score. "The viola might be a start," Karen quipped back, knowing that John was about to really push her to the limits of her ability. But it was Joe who, after thumbing through the score, allowed a slightly malevolent, very George-like grin to spread over his face. "Why don't you play with her?" He said to John, as if Karen wasn't there. "Give her some moral support." "She'll need it," John said, looking over Joe's shoulder at the piece he had selected. "Precisely what do you have in store for me?" Karen asked, knowing that if John thought she needed some moral support, it really must be difficult. "Oh, only this," John said, holding out the score to Karen. Glancing at the music she was about to attempt to play, Karen nearly fled. 'Rolling in Foaming Billows', the aria was called, and the violas were clearly supposed to represent the waves breaking on a rocky shore. But these weren't any calm, gentle waves that you might find on a beach in Cornwall, but more like the forceful current swept back and forth by the driving rain, slapping against the side of a ship. John saw the brief flash of trepidation in Karen's face, soon to be replaced with her usual calm and focused exterior. Getting her viola out of its case, she stood, running her hand almost lovingly along its curved neck of maple, softly plucking the open strings. Handing her the bow, John watched as she swiftly warmed up, giving her time to regain the feel of gracefully sliding bow over string. Picking up his violin from where it had been resting in an armchair, John stood next to her, the open score propped on his rickety music stand. Raising his slightly gnarled hand to keep the time for them, Joe said, "Try the first twenty seven bars." Then, fixing his piercing gaze on Karen, he added, "Let's see what you're made of." Fervently praying that she could live up to the expectations being placed on her, Karen raised her bow.
The suggested estimation of speed for this aria was allegro, and Joe Channing was taking this recommendation to the letter. As his hand moved to and fro and up and down, Karen struggled to keep up with him. Flatly ignoring whatever John and his violin were doing, she strove to climb and descend the chromatic runs in the manner in which they'd been written, not simply in a random conglomeration of tangled notes. There were twelve bars of frantic semiquavers to get through, before she would reach anything even vaguely in tune with her own ability. As her bow slid swiftly up and down the approximation of a tempestuous storm, the fingers of her left hand moving rapidly on the strings, Joe Channing could see that her body, apart from her moving hands, was as tense as a statue. He reflected that perhaps he had been a little too hard in suggesting this particular piece, though she was living up to the challenge admirably. The sultry, smoky sound that resonated from her instrument, reminded him of a bird, an eagle maybe, who has witnessed many tragedies, and whom life has given many scars. With everything that had been said about this woman in the papers over the last couple of years, Joe supposed that this is what she was. When Karen reached the point at which the bass singer should have entered, she could relax. The second violins would have taken over the waves if they were there, the violas being given a brief respite with a few bars of far simpler work, though returning to the beating storm to introduce the bass solo's second subject. The twenty-seven bars assigned to them might have only taken a matter of minutes to play, but to Karen they had felt like an endless climb up a treacherously icy mountain. When they stopped, Karen realised that she had been gripping her bow so tightly that her fingers were now stiff. Slipping her bow into the hand that held the viola, she began flexing them. When she looked up, John was smiling at her. "How long is it since you last played?" He asked, the pride dancing in his eyes. "Believe me, you really don't want to know," Karen replied, because no way was she about to confess that it had been several months since she had last exercised her strings. "You rose to the challenge," Joe Channing said with a smile. "Which is almost more important than your actual skill." When he said this, Karen was hit with the realisation that he hadn't just been assessing whether or not she would be a suitable participant in any musical endeavour, but whether or not she would make a successful governing governor. "Did I pass?" She asked him, for an unfathomable reason, desperately wanting to make a good impression with George's father. "With flying colours," Joe replied, holding out a hand to shake hers. "Welcome aboard. I will add your name to the list forthwith."
A while later, when Joe Channing had left, John refilled Karen's glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" Karen asked fondly. "No," John replied, sitting down in a chair near her. Karen lit a cigarette. "So, apart from being tiring, how's the job?" "I love it," Karen said firmly. "I'm not sure how long the novelty will last, but I'm happy, exhausted, but happy." "Good," He said with a smile. "It's about time you got some payback from the prison service. Oh, and talking of your recent rise in status, guess who we've picked up to play Adam?" "No-one I know, surely," Karen replied, unable to think of anyone who might fit the bill. "Neil Grayling." Karen almost choked on her scotch. "Grayling? We are talking about the same man, here?" "Oh, yes. The circuit administrator, possibly the biggest irritation I have, discovered via the grapevine, that Neil Grayling disclosed a devout interest in classical music at his interview. So, Ian Rochester paid him a visit yesterday, and the word is, that he is delighted to join us." "This is going to be more fun than I first thought," Karen said with a smile, wondering just what George would say to playing Eve opposite Grayling's Adam. "Yes, it certainly looks that way, but don't tell George. I want this to be a surprise for her." "John, even for you that's a little cruel," Karen said with a laugh. "Oh, I don't know," John said almost evilly. "Singing opposite someone she's previously crucified in court, it might be good for her. By the way, what did you think of George's father?" Karen smiled. "He's very like her, in some ways, isn't he?" "Just as stubborn and just as determined to succeed," John said succinctly. "There's no doubt that George gets her argumentative streak from him." "I bet he makes a good appeal judge," Karen said, taking a long drag. "Oh, he does, when he's not being pressured by the establishment," John agreed. "The rows I used to have with him about politics and the judiciary, when I was married to George were sensational." "Poor George," Karen commiserated. "Being stuck in the middle." Then, looking at him closely, she added, "You miss the father-in-law figure, don't you?" "Perhaps," John admitted. "Though it wasn't always enjoyable. Joe thought I wasn't good enough for his daughter." "He probably would have thought that about anyone," Karen replied. "He didn't think that a liaison with a baker's boy was quite the right image for an up and coming legal star." "Well, you've hardly failed on that score." "I suppose so, and who knows, maybe doing this will bring back some of the friendship we once had."