‘She’s fal en in love with some music thing,’ Dil y said, stil watching Chrissie. ‘Some folk-music degree, or something. Sounded a bit weird to me.’
‘
‘She sounded completely mental about it. Newcastle University or something. Where
‘Wel , obviously I can’t force you,’ Chrissie said, ‘but it does seem very strange, very sudden. You’ve only been there ten minutes—’
‘They’ve brainwashed her,’ Tamsin said.
‘I wish somebody’d wash
‘You can be such a little cow—’
‘Al right,’ Chrissie said, ‘al right. Of course I’m not going to forbid you. I couldn’t forbid you, in any case. I suppose—’ She stopped. Then she said with difficulty, ‘I suppose I should wish you luck. Wel , I do. I do wish you luck, darling. If this is what you want.’
‘Oh my God,’ Tamsin said, uncrossing her arms and flinging them out dramatical y. ‘This family is fal ing apart.’
Dil y went over to the cooker and prodded at the egg with a wooden spoon.
‘It’s al gone rubbery—’
‘Yes,’ Chrissie said. She sounded tired, defeated. ‘Yes. Wel , ring and tel me. Or text me. At least text me. Oh, and Amy? I sold the house. Yes.
Yes, I think so, I think that too. OK, OK, darling. Night night.’
She took the phone away from her ear and held it, looking down at it.
‘What have they done to her?’ Tamsin said.
When Amy woke, it was broad daylight and the uncurtained window by the bed was ful of the wide, high, cloud-streaked Northern sky. She lay there for a while, so that her mind could swim slowly to the surface, past al the events of the day before, past the lunch and the conversation, past the discoveries and the phone cal home, and past – much more savouringly – the marvel ous unexpected midnight hours when Scott had at last sat down at the piano and played, and she had retrieved her flute from her rucksack and joined him, and it was better than talking, better than anything, better even than playing with Dad had been, because Scott played like an equal, played as if only the music mattered and who cared who was fol owing or leading.
It was past two in the morning before either of them thought of the time. And then Amy had discovered she was starving and they had eaten a bag of cashew nuts and some cheese slices Scott found in the fridge and shared a battered KitKat from the bottom of his work bag. Going into his bedroom, Amy had been almost overwhelmed by the need to thank him, to say that she felt rescued, guided, excited, but had not known how to do any of that without embarrassing both of them, so she had put her arms round his neck, awkwardly and in silence, and he had somehow understood, and had given her a quick, hard hug, and said, ‘You’re not the only one who’s had a good day,’ and let her go.
Then he said, ‘I’l be gone in the morning, remember. It’s Monday.’
‘Oh—’
‘I took a half-day off, Friday. Can’t do more right now.’
‘No, I know, I knew—’
He was tossing a pil ow and an unzipped sleeping bag on to the sofa.
‘Mr Harrison’l look after you. He’l show you the Sage. He knows his way round the music scene better than I do, in any case.’
Mr Harrison! Amy shot up in bed. Where was her watch? What was the time? What would happen if she kept Mr Harrison waiting?
‘It was opened in 2004,’ Bernie Harrison said. ‘It’s bigger than two footbal pitches and twice the height of
Amy was turning slowly, head thrown back, gawping.
‘I’ve run out of things to say—’
‘I’m old enough to remember the Northern Sinfonia being founded,’ Bernie said. ‘It was 1958. Michael Hal . I was sixteen, same age as your—’
He stopped. ‘No, I suppose she isn’t your anything, Margaret, is she?’
Amy retrieved her dazzled gaze from the immensity of the Sage’s roof.
‘Not real y—’
‘Your father’s first wife is just your father’s first wife.’
Amy swal owed.
‘She – she was his only wife. He and Mum never—’
Bernie Harrison cleared his throat.
‘Wel , don’t let it trouble you. Doesn’t trouble me. You made your mark with Margaret, I can tel you.’
‘I hope she wasn’t upset about me not staying—’
