The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

After a long and boring spoken introduction by an announcer, which seemed likely to run on into the next century, the Fifth Symphony began at last.

Duh-duh-duh-DAH.

I cupped my chin in my hands, propped my elbows on my knees, and gave myself over to the music.

Father had told us that the appreciation of music was of paramount importance in the education of a decent woman. Those were his exact words, and I had come to appreciate that there was music suitable for meditation, music for writing, and music for relaxation.

With my eyes half closed, I turned my face towards the windows. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see both ends of the terrace reflected in the glass of the French doors, which stood ajar, and unless my eyes were playing me tricks, something had moved out there: Some dark form had passed by outside the window.

I didn't dare leap up to look, though. Father insisted on intent listening. Even so much as a tapping toe would meet instantly with a wicked glare and an accusatory downward-jabbing finger.

I leaned slightly forward, and saw that a man dressed all in black had just sat down on a bench beneath the rose bushes. He was leaning back, eyes closed, listening to the music as it came floating out through the open doors. It was Dogger.

Dogger was Father's Man with a capital M: gardener, chauffeur, valet, estate manager, and odd-job man. As I have said before, he had done it all.

Dogger's experiences as a prisoner of war had left something broken inside him: something that from time to time, with a ferocity beyond belief, went ripping and tearing at his brains like some ravenous beast, leaving him a trembling wreck.

But tonight he was at peace. Tonight he had dressed for the symphony in a dark suit and what might have been a regimental tie, and his shoes had been polished until they shone like mirrors. He sat motionless on the bench beneath the roses, his eyes closed, his face upturned like one of the contented Coptic saints I had seen in the art pages of Country Life, his shock of white hair lit from behind by an unearthly beam from the setting sun. It was pleasant to know that he was there.

I stretched contentedly, and turned my attention back to Beethoven and his mighty Fifth.

Although he was a very great musician, and a wizard composer of symphonies, Beethoven was quite often a dismal failure when it came to ending them. The Fifth was a perfect case in point.

I remembered that the end of the thing, the allegro, was one of those times when Beethoven just couldn't seem to find the 'off' switch.

Dum ... dum ... dum-dum-dum, it would go, and you would think it was over.

But no--

Dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum--DAH dum.

You'd go to get up and stretch, sighing with satisfaction at the great work you'd just listened to, and suddenly:

DAH dum. DAH dum. DAH dum. And so forth. DAH dum.

It was like a bit of flypaper stuck to your finger that you couldn't shake off. The bloody thing clung to life like a limpet.

I remembered that Beethoven's symphonies had sometimes been given names: the Eroica, the Pastorale, and so forth. They should have called this one the Vampire, because it simply refused to lie down and die.

But aside from its sticky ending, I loved the Fifth, and what I loved most about it was the fact that it was what I thought of as 'running music.'

I pictured myself, arms outspread, running pell-mell in the warm sunshine down Goodger Hill, swooping in broad zigzags, my pigtails flying behind me in the wind, bellowing the Fifth at the top of my lungs.

My pleasant reverie was interrupted by Father's voice.

'This is the second movement, now, andante con moto,' he was saying loudly. Father always called out the names of the movements in a voice that was better suited to the drill hall than to the drawing room. 'Means 'at a walking pace, with motion,'' he added, settling back in his chair as if, for the time being, he'd done his duty.

It seemed redundant to me: How could you have a walking pace without motion? It defied the laws of physics, but then, composers are not like the rest of us.

Most of them, for instance, are dead.

As I thought of being dead and of churchyards, I thought of Nialla.

Nialla! I had almost forgotten about Nialla! Father's summons to supper had come just as I was completing my chemical test. I formed in my mind an image of the slight cloudiness, the swirling flakes in the test tube, and the thrilling message they bore.

Unless I was badly mistaken, Mother Goose was pregnant.

* FIVE *

I WONDERED IF SHE knew it.

Even before she had risen up weeping from her limestone slab, I had noticed that Nialla was not wearing a wedding ring. Not that that meant anything: Even Oliver Twist had an unwed mother.

But then there had been the fresh mud on her dress. Although I had registered the fact in some tangled thicket