Little bit of a filler chapter as this was the original Chapter 6 split into two, to stop it dragging on for eternity. Thank you very much for your reviews so far - very encouraging. The next update may take some time as I am without broadband (how will I cope) so it requires being able to bribe someone to let me use their internet access. Anyway, I digress, enjoy and please, please review.
Pips
Chapter Seven
I have always found that optimism usually vanishes in the morning, the same way the dew on the grass disappears with the early sun. Therefore when I woke the next day, I lay in my narrow bed for a moment and tested my emotions, tried to see if the positive feeling that ennobled my body yesterday still existed.
Tentatively I thought to the piece of music that sat upstairs waiting to be dealt with and immediately excitement flooded through me. Like the day before, I knew, simply knew that this was the piece to take me back into the world that I loved, my re-entry ticket into society and possibly my admittance to Ali's heart.
It was not the same heady passion that yesterday had swept me up in it's embrace, before dumping me down, but a steady, quiet firm belief, in my ability and my talent. I needed to work on this music; I needed to let the world hear it sing out.
Glancing over at the cheap little digital clock in its plastic case that sat by my bedside I noted the time – seven o'clock. A blessed relief, I had slept a whole hour longer then normal, no doubt due to the stress and exertion of yesterday. My parents had not commented on my afternoon's absence, after all it had no doubt been obvious where I was, the music crashing through the house like a tsunami.
I cautiously wiggled my jaw, trying to ease feeling into it, hoping that it had not tightened dramatically overnight. One of the many inconveniences of the healing was that movement was crucial to keeping the skin elastic and supple. During the night it had a tendency to stiffen up and every morning was a battle to once again loosen the muscles and regain control of my limbs.
I undertook the usual routine, enjoying the silence of the morning as it allowed me to indulge in the music in my head. My parent's were still rightly fast asleep; a well deserved Sunday lie in, but I did not have the patience to indulge in such laziness, no my muse was already calling me.
Learning from yesterday I put a t-shirt on over my garments and tied my hair back, amazed at how, with six months of neglect it had grown from a short spiky cut to a dark glossy mane, the ends sweeping the rounded neck of my top. For the first time in ages I grinned at my reflection, almost startled when the face in the mirror responded. At times I could still not believe that these features were now mine; how one side of my face almost seemed to be a parody of the other.
One half; on the left, was still perfect, unmarred by the flames that had licked at my skin. A dark glossy eyebrow, that could be arched sardonically or lowered in displeasure, sat above my deep grey blue eyes. Perhaps my nose was a little too straight, but it only served to heighten the line of my mouth and the set of my chin, as well as cheekbones that I had been told a woman would kill for.
In complete ironic contrast the other half was now a mass of red. The doctor's had said they were pleased with my progress, but I could not see much to be positive about. The scars were softer after six months of almost constant pressure from the mask, but they still had a tendency to blister and the skin was still healing, merging and softening. I still had at least another year of the purgatory, possibly longer. Until the graft was soft and white there was no escaping it.
"Fuck it," I swore, for there was little else I could do about the situation and it seemed easier to mutter profanities then voice my true feelings, I would leave that to my composition. Replacing the mask, I grinned again as the bells of the church burst into song, demanding that people come to morning service. Nine o'clock then, time I was at work.
I hurried downstairs and made myself a cup of tea to take with me, turning on heel to rush upstairs to enshrine myself. I got no further then the bottom of the staircase, my socked foot resting on the first step when I paused. If one thing had startled me yesterday it was the contrition I had felt when I realised how my mother had clung on to the memories of her son and how I, in return had done so little for her and my father.
Well now it was time for all that to change. Stalking back into the kitchen I poured the hot water into the pot and laid up a tea tray for them, as I knew my mother loved, taking it upstairs with me.
"Mum, Dad," I knocked lightly on their door, hearing the lazy acceptance of my call, the thick voice of someone not quite awake or asleep. Pushing open the wood I stalked into the room, resting the weight of the tray in my left hand and trying to grasp it with my right. "I bought you some tea," I said to the couple that were struggling upright, battling with the confines of the duvet.
"Oh darling, how thoughtful," my mother sounded sleepy and yawned. "We don't deserve this."
"I was just up, gonna' play the piano, didn't want to wake you up with the music," I brushed off her thanks, even though it gave me a warm glow.
"Working on something new Ric," my father added gruffly, adding his voice to the dim light of the bedroom. "Would you open the curtains for us slightly, son."
"Yes," I wandered over and pulled open the heavy drapes at the window, allowing another glorious day of early spring sunshine into the room. "I think it has potential, just needs some tidying up."
I felt, rather then saw the significant glances my parents exchanged and before I could be cross-examined any further, decided to take my leave. "I'm going to be busy today, so um, don't worry if I'm not around for meals or anything." I gave a little wave and left the room, trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation I knew would start as soon as my foot crossed the threshold.
Instead I pounded up the further flight of stairs in my eagerness, crossing over to the piano, grasping the ragged and sweat stained score in my hands and flopping on to the sofa, stubby pencil in hand.
I had no need to play the notes for the music was flowing through my head, the melodies and bass, here the entry of the brass, there the solo playing of the clarinet, before the full romantic sweep of the strings once again took up the theme. In my head I saw Ali dancing away, still wearing her practice costume of yesterday rather then the extravagant tutus and skirts of the stage, but in my minds eye I could see her dancing, dancing to the music I was creating.
I remember reading that Tchaikovsky wrote the Nutcracker ballet with the dancers in mind, composing the pieces alongside the choreography so that they steps matched the music perfectly. Oh to have that luxury here, for I did not know enough about dance, how it was constructed. All I could do was hope the rhythms would fit and if it were possibly to ever be used for dance I could tweak it until steps and music fitted together like a couture outfit.
"Eric?" the voice startled me out of my reverie and I glanced towards the door to find my mother standing there, a sandwich and a drink in her hands. "Darling, it's midday, I thought you might be hungry."
"Yeah, um, thanks Mum," my voice was rough with shock, where had the morning disappeared to? Three hours vanished in a flash.
"Are you…succeeding?" She questioned, obviously wanting to make conversation. With a mental sigh, I waved my hand causally towards the sofa where I sat cross-legged. She picked her way gingerly through the paper scattered on the floor and came and sat down next to me. "You look as if you've been busy."
I glanced towards her and smiled slightly, not knowing how to voice the process that I was in. After all Mum had heard me compose before, perhaps not works of this magnitude, but she had often been the sole audience to many of my teenage attempts.
"It's coming on well," I finally offered gruffly. "Really well in fact." I leant down and picked up the sandwich she had placed on the floor, feeling the bite of hunger in my stomach for the first time that day.
"And what is it? A new song for one of your artists?" I had to bite back the laugh that threatened to well up, for I knew my mother was trying to be up to date with her comments. I had once laconically mentioned that I had written a few tracks on the debut album of my latest signing. The fact that the song had subsequently entered the top ten meant my mother was as proud as if she had sung it herself. Now she believed that was all that I did in my line of work.
"No, this is a much larger work, more well like a," I paused, knowing that to utter the word would cause my mother to think that the relationship between Ali and I was cemented and not the opposite. "Like a ballet," I finished finally.
"Really!" To my surprise she said nothing but merely nodded, a knowing look entering her eyes. Instead of the banal comments I thought she would mouth she looked at me. "Well, I had better not disturb you, would you like a cup of tea later darling?"
"Oh um yes please." I was thrown by her restrained behaviour, the opposite of what I had expected. She didn't use it as an opportunity to question me about Ali, or talk about yesterday, but ruffled my hair in an annoying way and left. I glanced around the room with a feeling of unease. There was something unusual in her behaviour, something I could not quite understand.
Like yesterday, it was early evening before I emerged from my garret to join the world of gentle conversation and the Sunday newspapers downstairs. The feeling of pleasure at my work was cemented. It had been an astonishing twenty-four hours and I was now ready to take a step forward with it.
The only problem meant that I would have to contact colleagues of my former existence, organise the necessary orchestra, and make contact with a world I had left behind.
The thought sent a shiver through my body; after all I had no idea how I would be received. It used to be easy, for I took advantage of my looks and through a mixture of charm, persuasion and anger I could achieve almost anything. Now I was no longer one of the beautiful boys, I wondered if the respect I use to receive had burnt away with my skin.
The thought stayed with me all night and I spent most of it tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable, all the more aware of the discomfort of my position as I lay awake in the darkness, willing and bribing myself to try and sleep.
It was a fruitless task, for the more I concentrated on shutting the world out, the more it demanded to be let in. My skin itched, my mind raced and then the jabbing pain of healing nerves decided to get in on the act and make sure that my night was one of total misery.
It was three o'clock before I finally slipped into a restless slumber, too exhausted to do anything more. The last sound I was aware of was the sweetest music playing in my head. Music that I had composed.
Morning came as the hands of the clock swept around again, the usual routines wearily carried out before I once again sat on the couch, telephone in hand, willing myself to phone my assistant Dev.
Devon Saunders was my assistant and until recently, I thought my friend, who had joined me when 'Gin Sounds' was a small obscure label, buoyed up by borrowed money, with only two artists on its books. Ahh, those heady days. I allowed myself a few moments to wallow in halcyon memories, before snapping back to the situation in hand.
If I was to go anywhere, or do anything with this monumental piece of music I had written, then I needed to record it, to touch it up and more importantly to get an orchestra together. I had never been good with the logistical details that this involved, the phoning around; the bookings of halls; dealing with health and safety it all bored me rigid. Once the music had been written I had usually have lost patience with my signing, only turning up when it was truly necessary. I also found it a fine way of keeping the artists in hand, for they were often believed they were dependant on my ability to launch them. I would leave it to Dev to massage egos, set up meetings, organise musicians.
Now I needed him to do the same for me. Now I had an inkling about how much of a bastard I had been to so many people, for I was feeling the adrenalin rush and the fear of being on a precipice of achievement. One wrong move and it could all crumble underneath me, or I could take the leap and fly.
I could feel my heart beat echoing in my dry mouth as I hesitantly dialled the number, waiting for it to be answered. "Devon Saunders," the voice came across the line, the rough east end vowels modulated for telephone conversation. The voice sounded weary, tired. He had obviously been out partying last night.
"Hi Dev."
"Gin? Gin bloody hell is that you? Thought you'd bloody fallen off the face of the earth. What yer doing?" I smiled as his affectionate nickname for me. The first time we met he had told me my name was 'for poofs and tossers only' and from that day on had proceeded to call me by his abbreviation of my surname. It had stuck to the point that I had used it for my company.
"I need you to do me a favour Dev," I said after he had finished his eulogy about hearing from me.
"Anything." The way he pronounced it, the word came out as anyfing.
"I've written some music and I need to record it."
"Cor, thought you were sick mate. Knew you were just hiding away composing, said to so many peoples it was like that. Is it for that little bit of hot stuff you was shagging then? She was mighty pissed off when you disappeared you know – got all hoity toity. Had to palm her off on one of the other labels here."
"Oh, really." I was amazed at how little I cared about the rise and potential fall of Elisa Woods. She may or may not be a success, it depended if she let her ego get the better of her talent. Not all producers were willing to nurture her the way I had been.
"Yeah, Gary Evans took her over, rumoured he was real jealous that you were sleeping with her. Anyway, when do you want to record? Who do you need? Up here? So many people want to see you again."
"Oh god." The words escaped my lips unbidden. It was what I had feared, returning to work to be stared at, vetted. I wasn't ready for that."
"Gin?" Devon's voice sounded suspicious at my swearing.
"Dev, could you just organise a studio somewhere in south London. I don't need to come into the offices, I'm not back at work yet, this is just a personal project. I need an ad hoc orchestra, your basic thirty and a piano, for me."
"You playing again Gin? What you composed?"
"Um, a ballet. But Dev, don't let people know. It is still in the early stages, a work in progress, if you know what I mean."
"Sure mate. End of the week be all right for you? Over Kingston way?"
"That would be great. Could you e-mail me the details?"
"Yeah." His voice sounded confused at my lack of enthusiasm for chatter and gossip; also my obvious reluctance to come back up to the office. I suppose as far as he was concerned this was out of character for me. I had always been in the thick of things before. "All right if I come along to hear?"
"Um, I suppose so, but Dev…"
"What?"
"Things are…." I trailed off, unsure how to explain everything that had happened in the past six months. "Things are different, the way I look and stuff." It was a lame explanation, pathetic in it's description.
"I won't bring anyone with me Gin, promise, just want to see you, you old wanker."
"Thanks Dev, you always make me feel wanted," I replied wryly. "Listen, I had better leave you to it and I guess I will see you Friday if I don't hear otherwise. Start at ten?"
"I'll get the studio for the day. Get there as soon as. See you Friday." I nodded as he ended our conversation. In the past that phrase meant that I would get there whenever I chose to roll out of bed. Now it meant as early as I could physically get there.
I had set the wheels in motion and now it would be almost impossible to stop. In four days the music that had sprung out of me would be transposed, recorded and fine-tuned. With a sigh I climbed off the sofa and sat down at the piano, four days to make sure the score was as perfect as I could get it.