I tried not to think about my mum much, if at all.
I always felt that, if she didn't want me, then why should I care about her? But, sometimes, I felt very conscious of her absence and, as I stood in Mrs. Norton's guest bedroom, it was one of the moments where I missed her. Truth be told though, it wasn't actually Eleanor in particular I missed, because she probably wouldn't even have known the answer but, as I stood indecisively in the middle of the room, I realised that I was sorely in need of anyone who could help me understand the etiquette of being a guest. Was I supposed to strip the bed?
Previously, I'd only stayed overnight at Caroline's and Isobel's, and I wracked my brain to remember what we'd done then. Isobel's house was so tiny that I'd slept on the couch, fully clothed, under a flimsy blanket and, at Caroline's, all I could recall was that they had a housekeeper and everything always seemed to be left for her to sort out. I had no idea of the polite thing to do and, as a result, I experienced a slow burning embarrassment at my own ignorance. I knew that I couldn't bear to expose my lack of social grace to Martin, and provide yet more evidence of the gauche, awkward kid I really was. You can imagine my relief when I saw him come downstairs a bit later, carrying armfuls of linen; I felt positively giddy that I did not need to reveal yet more of my own failings to him.
Like fairly often that week, my mind was again just a jumble of thoughts and emotions, and it was all I could do to try and sort them out and keep myself under control. I'd been furious that morning with the ex-girlfriend and our set-to about the bathroom had really shaken me up, although it had also demonstrated to me that there is some Eleanor Glasson in my genetic makeup, as I'd screeched at the awful Edith like a mad old harpy. Then I'd been ecstatic about having my diary back, and so grateful to Martin for returning it to me that I'd had to struggle quite hard to keep those feelings hidden. Mrs. Norton had rung and hearing about my new accomodation had been quite exciting because it really felt like a new beginning and might possibly even be fun. As usual, the doubts returned shortly afterwards, and I was filled with anxiety about the reality of my future, and fear about how alone I really was. But Martin had been there, once again, to reassure me and I was, as usual, transfixed by his beautiful voice and his calm, gentle reasoning. Looking into his soft, blue eyes, like the besotted schoolgirl I was, all I could think of was how stupid and undeserving Edith really was. That he'd been her boyfriend, and everything that entailed, stung a bit and I will admit to feeling rather jealous. Not for the first time in the last few days, I wished I was ten years older and about a hundred times more sophisticated.
I tried to focus by organising my things but didn't take me long to gather it together and I wondered why we hadn't just left the boxes in Martin's car, or at least downstairs since they were all still where he'd carefully placed them yesterday. It was probably just as well though when I thought about it because I could only imagine the shame if Edith had seen them; my shoddy, humiliating life contained in a couple of scruffy cartons, and exposed to her derision would have been too painful to endure. Picking up the smallest and lightest of them, I was about to go downstairs again when I heard the pipes groan, and the shower splutter and, realising that I would have downstairs to myself again, I slipped another cassette into my pocket for good measure.
I'd finished my magazine and was looking around for something else to read. I have developed the habit of, when I go to a friend's house, always investigating their record collections so I suppose the equivalent at Mrs. Norton's was a good look through her bookcase. I passed on the animal husbandry encyclopaedias and the history of tractors but I did find a couple of nice books about London; even if they were a bit old, they did at least have colour pictures so, settling myself down with Ultravox, and a glass of milk, I became temporarily engrossed.
After a while I became aware of Martin moving around in the kitchen behind me and I looked up at him, only to notice that he was casting me disapproving glances.
"It's not loud." I said defensively.
"Mmm." He replied, sounding unconvinced. "What are you doing?"
"Reading. Well, looking at pictures mostly. I found a book about London. Thought I'd see what I could learn."
"And you can concentrate, can you, with that, umm, appalling noise, in the background?" He chided, busying himself around the sink, dishcloth in hand.
Suddenly, I felt a bit miffed. Martin was clearly unimpressed with my choice of music, that was no longer a surprise, but now he was also unhappy with my attention to detail while washing up, as he pointedly wiped and rinsed the sink again. He picked up the Tea-towel that I'd thrown on the table and began to fold it, deliberately and neatly, before placing it through the handle of the cooker. Then, he deliberately went over to the cassette player and switched it off.
He cleared his throat and then he said my name. Normally, I love how he says it but this time it sounded a bit ominous and I braced myself for what might come.
"Louisa, I have been thinking about our discussion earlier and, aah, I must admit that I have discerned a degree of restlessness within you, a definite oscillation of mood." He said over his shoulder, in the authoritative tone I now recognised as his doctor voice. "Umm, mood swings, if you like..."
"I've had a rubbish few days, Martin." I interrupted quickly, a little hurt by the implied criticism.
"Umm, yes, but I have been considering your...aaah, unusual situation and whether your apparent preference for fast-paced, up-tempo pop music...aaah, whilst undoubtedly exciting for you...adds to your overall state of disquiet."
"What are you saying? What? That I'm what? What? I'm not...what?" I shot back at him, suddenly feeing very defensive.
He glanced back at me again and I could see that his expression was serious and unwavering.
"I just think that, in order to achieve the goals to which you aspire..perhaps...ummm, perhaps you could improve on...ummm, you might need to work on...your ability to concentrate."
I felt stung and it must have been written all over my face because his tone changed and he turned around, somewhat warily, to face me.
"Louisa." He said, more gently. "By all accounts, it does seem that you have the ability to strive for a tertiary education. You have told me yourself that that is your goal. What I'm trying to say...what I want to say is that, umm, well, you will face more obstacles than most..."
"Don't you think I know that?" I interrupted, a little churlishly, and I felt my jaw set defiantly.
He sighed.
"I am just concerned that..a lack of structure, ummm, no family support...and, let's just call them aaah...many...potential distractions..." Martin said, trailing off uncomfortably as I turned my head turn away from him, and folded my arms defensively across my chest.
"Go on, I'm listening." I said crossly.
He looked at me cautiously.
"Alright...ummm, studies have shown that listening to music that follows a tempo that synchronises with the natural rhythms of the body, aaah...the pulse and heartbeat and so forth, improves ones inward focus and strengthens, aaah, the ability to ignore distractions... so...is therefore conducive to the enhancement of one's learning capacity."
He must have seen the scepticism on my face.
"Concentration takes practice, Louisa, and I don't think your choice of music helps you, that's all I'm saying." He faltered, before ducking his head sheepishly and picking up my box from the end of the table. Refusing to meet my stare, he cleared his throat deeply and loudly and, rather pointedly, strode out of the back door.
Later that afternoon, after I had refused lunch, and we had loaded up his car, barely speaking, and even though it was earlier than we'd planned, Martin suggested we drive to the village anyway. I didn't argue. I was quite disappointed that he'd been what I felt a was a bit thoughtless and, as a result, I felt a bit hurt. Even worse, he seemed completely oblivious to my unhappiness.
We drove along in silence and I leaned against the door, staring morosely out of the window. After a while, it seemed to finally dawn on him that I was upset but his solution was to fill the uncomfortable void by banging on about eating properly again. I didn't even have the energy to protest so I listened without saying a word and he interpreted it as my agreement. I closed my eyes, leaned back into the seat, and sighed deeply.
Moments later, I heard him fiddling around in the centre console and, to my surprise, with one deft movement, the car was filled with music. Of course, Martin being Martin, it was some sort of boring classical music; slow violins really, if you asked me to describe it.
"Umm, Louisa, perhaps I wasn't clear earlier." He said, and paused uncomfortably; taking a deep breath and glancing over at me cautiously. "I, umm, I wasn't criticising, if you want to know."
I opened my eyes and turned my head towards him but I didn't say anything in response and, clearly, he took my silence as encouragement to continue.
"Are you aware that, in order for music to increase concentration and learning capacity, it must synchronise with your, aaah, natural heartbeat. If the beat of the music is slightly slower, let's say ummm, about sixty beats per minute, your heartbeat will slow to that rate. This is the interesting part, ummm, because it is said to cause the mind to enter a deeply relaxed state in which your brainwaves shift from their usual beta frequency of thirteen to thirty nine cycles per second, to the alpha range, about eight cycles per second. To put it simply, Louisa, your body relaxes but your mind becomes alert."
My mouth fell open slightly as I watched his enthusiasm for his subject grow. I had never met anyone who knew about things like this and it was rather endearing. I supposed the science teachers at school knew about this sort of stuff but none of them ever showed this much excitement about their subjects, which was a shame.
"I have a particular preference for the Baroque and, umm, as such, I know that the adagio movements are composed around the sixty beats-per-minute rhythm that has such notably relaxing effect on ones mind. In my own experience, aaah, compositions featuring string instruments, such as the harp and the violin, and played in 4/4 time, have appeared to offer the most benefit, especially in the areas of improving learning; bolstering both ones memory and ones concentration."
I grimaced and, pushing myself upright in the seat, I turned towards him, gazing back at him resignedly. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about; it may as well have been in double dutch as foreign as it all was to me.
"Go on then, educate me Martin. Who is this?" I said.
He glanced back at me suspiciously, no doubt waiting for me to tease him but I simply gave him a quick, small smile of encouragement.
"Ummm, this is Albinoni, aaah Tomas Albinoni. Well, aah, attributed to him but there is somewhat of a dispute around who the actual composer might be."
"Oh right." I said, my interest increasing slightly. "So, there was, like, beef, even way back in the olden days?"
"Beef?" Martin asked, scowling at me. "Louisa, I have no idea what you are talking about."
"My Sweet Lord."
He looked at me, dumbfounded, and I rolled my eyes at him in mock despair.
"You know, Martin." I said impatiently. "George Harrison was 'sposed to have copied a tune. From some American girl group. I forget their name though."
His blank look did not change
"George Harrison? You know? The Beatles."
Martin stared at me for a second, gently shaking his head in disbelief, before at frowning at me in bemused exasperation.
"Albinoni Concerto number two." He said quickly, showing the whites of his eyes like a terrified animal, before whipping his gaze back to the road.
"In B-flat." he added, rather lamely, after a moment.
While I couldn't say I enjoyed it, part of me was touched that, in his own funny way, Martin had been trying to help me, and so I listened without complaint to his Broke Music. Other than my directions to Ms. Freethy's place, we drove along with neither of us feeling the need to speak and, when we pulled up outside, I even thanked him for playing it for me, and he looked quite pleased. I did actually feel a little bit calmer too but that might just have been my relief that Martin and I were friends again.
