The Underworld

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The Underworld

“Will you stay with me, will you be my love?”
The words still rung in his ears; His feelings for her still hurt so much that his stomach went into a knot every time he thought of her hair, her smell, her voice, her words.

Many years had passed since the summer days they’d spent together in the fields of Dorset; the long hours they spent gathering the hay for the farmer friend of her parents. The long dusty days in the golden fields which always ended with the glorious sun sinking large and glowing into the distant hills. Her beautiful skin, the summer kisses and sunburned hands he’d held as their days began to grow longer; chilly nights creeping into their tight embrace in the room in the eaves under the thatch.

Steve was in the college library when he first knew something was wrong. His mobile buzzed gently next to him as he read through his essay for the umpteenth time – the words still looked wrong. Amelia’s mother? Why should she be calling? Steve ignored the Nokia and continued to read;
‘Schubert belonged to a musical family and had every opportunity to play chamber music (like Mozart, his own preference was for the viola) and it was therefore natural that he should compose in that medium. Altogether he wrote more than…’

Why could he not say what he really thought about Schubert’s music? Why was it that Steve’s fellow students and their tutors relegated Schubert to being only a second tier composer? Only being a composer of small scale works – except, perhaps the last two symphonies – shouldn’t have prevented him becoming regarded as one of the ‘great’ composers. His death at the age of only 31 certainly robbed the world of his true potential, but couldn’t everyone see what he would have become?

Amelia was not only beautiful but incredibly talented. She sang like a bird. A bird that had grown up and was now free to fly and sing with a confidence and maturity that Franz himself would have written for. Steve knew when he met her at a friend’s party at the end of his first year that she was special and that he had met her at the time when she was just starting to believe in herself and her talent. She wrote to him shortly after their summer together.

‘Oxford is so cool – I’m looking out of the window of my room at the falling leaves – all red and gold. It’s warm and I’m thinking of you with me. Why do the days seem so long now that we’re not together when the truth is that they are getting shorter? I’m learning Gluck’s Orfeo – Che faro senza Euridice – you must know it. It’s so sad’

Looking up to the library window lit from the outside only by the flashing lights of the London evening traffic whose low hum permeated the silence of his study, Steve saw her face again. Her strawberry blonde hair fell long and lusciously over her shoulders. Her tanned shoulders and slim brown arms were held out to him
‘Come on, jump!’ she’d called from across the ditch at the edge of field, ‘I’ll catch you.’ Her hands were pleading with him.

He missed her. He always missed her. Many years had passed since those golden days in the fields and he still wanted her. Why did it have to happen?

“Steve?” the voice message from Anne had begun, “Steve? Er.., I was just calling, well, to tell you that, well, Amelia told me to leave you a message. Look, this is really hard, could you call me? Sorry.”

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