Death and the Maiden

Death and the Maiden

It had been a tedious commute home from his days teaching at the Guildhall. The appearance demands of the quartet meant that James could only ever offer himself up to the students for two days of the week; he loved teaching and the regular money it brought to the Noble household certainly kept Mrs Noble happy. No, whatever sacrifices were required, the quartet was absolutely his life and had been for the past sixteen years since he joined.
“Good evening Ian,” he called across the assembly hall of Mitcham Park School on seeing his cellist and quartet leader carefully putting scores on the small neat ring of four music stands and attendant chairs which had been carefully placed on the stage. The serious-looking Ian didn’t look up and continued bustling around the empty stage.
“Ian?” James called as he knelt to carefully place his scruffy viola case on the back row of the children’s sized chairs. Ian looked up slowly from the score he was apparently examining and he gazed blankly towards the back of the hall.
“Oh…hello James,” he said distractedly.
“Everything OK?” The silence was broken by the sound of James undoing the zip from around his case and the two catches noisily snapping open. No reply.

Joining Ian on the stage, James carefully placed his viola on the chair set out for him and proceeded to tighten the bow hairs and rosin them in his usual attentive way – frequently staring at the small block of resin as if expecting to see it wearing away with every other stroke over the hairs.
“What’s up? You’re early today” he said nonchalantly.
“Just things on my mind; the train was early.”
“Oh, you sure?” James knew not to look towards Ian as he asked. He wanted to sound as if he wasn’t bothered and was just making polite conversation. He was bothered. Ian had been a different man since the death of his wife Elizabeth six months previously.
“Well, actually, it’s Amelia. I just get the feeling that she is not settled. Ever since the Edinburgh String Quartet Competition she’s been a bit off. Have you noticed?” James thought briefly of the long blonde hair of their beautiful young first violinist Amelia who he’d taught at the Guildhall for three years before she joined the Butterworth Quartet; he couldn’t think of much ‘off’ about any part of her to be honest.
“Well, I can’t say that I have. She has always been the reserved sort.” James had finished with his bow which had now been placed with viola on the chair. “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked as he left the stage for the kitchens next to the hall.
“Yes, thanks. So she hasn’t said anything to you then?
“No. I think you’re imagining it Ian. You know what these young stars are like - they can be temperamental.” James hoped that this last comment would be the end of it and turned the cold tap on hard so that the noise would drown out any response. Ian was waiting for it to stop, however.
“No, it’s not that.” Ian announced as soon as the tap was stopped. “Anyway, there is something else I wanted to mention as well. I also wanted to talk you about bookings. We seem to be down for the next quarter and I can’t see any reason why. We’re told that attendances at classical music concerts are breaking all records and that the public can’t get enough of them. If that’s the case then why are we down? - I think we’re playing better than ever so I can’t understand it.” James wasn’t enjoying the conversation that he was having to conduct from another room.
“It’s nothing to do with that and you know it. Granted, if you have a few bad performances and the press notice it then there can be a knock on effect with bookings - the real problem is competition - there are too many new young quartets about.”

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