Free The Devil's Music by Jane Rusbridge

material is thinner than the green velvet that you have chosen for the winter curtains, and your guiding fingers can only just keep pace with the silver foot as it slips along the ironed seam. Even so, you want to press harder on the pedal, to keep pressing until the needle can no longer keep up, until its steady up and down is forced into a different rhythm, a more extravagant motion, one that no longer produces a row of tidy stitches.
        Your hair is hot and heavy. You lift it with both hands, relishing the shift of air on your neck as you twist and divide the handfuls of hair into sections, folding them into the French roll you wore for nursing, pinned with three Kirby grips from your pocket.
        Michael says the winter curtains for the house should go up in September, so you aim to have them ready before you go down to Sussex for the summer. He wants to save on the coal bill. The door that opens on to the garden doesn’t fit well, and there is a cold draught once the fire is lit. He wants a curtain over the front door too.
        The needle jerks. It snaps. You lift the foot, turn the seam over and find that the thread is tangled into a clump. The previous twelve inches or so of stitches have pulled the seam into wrinkles. It will have to be unpicked.
        Michael has already had bristles fitted along the bottom of the back door, and metal strips around the door frame. You worried about Andy’s fingers getting caught. He’ll only do it once , Michael said.

Chapter 1

    You can see Michael’s face in the dressing-table mirror three times.
        ‘She’s almost four.’
        His mouth is talking from three different angles. Triple. The word sounds precarious. And it doesn’t seem possible that four years have passed since Elaine’s birth.
        ‘Soon she’ll be too heavy for you to lift. A decision has to be made.’ He bends towards his reflection and slides the knot of his tie up to his collar. The centre mirror tilts. A deft adjustment settles the knot into place, three times. ‘—take the expert advice we’re given—’
        His words topple like skittles; their falling clatter making you dizzy.
        ‘—Elaine’s awareness—M.D.—general well-being—future complications—’
        The bedspread lies wrinkled on the floor.
        C a n d l e
        w i c k
        Meanings dwindle into images; nonsense.
        ‘—institutions—several highly recommended—beneficial—siblings—’
        No.
        You will tell him about yesterday. Slicing onions, Elaine asleep in the carrycot, legs splayed open, her nose close to the curled fingers of one hand as if she was trying to breathe her own smell. Then, the doorbell, Elaine’s eyes flying open, a little gasp.
        You will tell him, now, and then this will stop. But you’re half in, half out of bed, nightdress rucked under your thighs, words rolled up somewhere, like socks put away in a drawer.
        ‘For all concerned—future—’
        It was only yesterday. The doorbell rang again, an insistent buzz, and Elaine straightened her legs, beat them twice on the mattress, her eyes fixed on you. You’d thrown down the knife, wiped the smell of onions on to your apron and heaved Elaine up out of the carrycot.
        ‘There are no other options.’
        Take a breath. Speak now.
        You’re back, almost tipsy with it, yesterday, on the doorstep – smiling and stumbling a little, Elaine clasped against one shoulder – and the huge, tawny man in white painting overalls smiles back, the tips of his teeth showing through a bush of reddish beard. Something: a swoop in your blood. You had wanted to grasp hold of him, tell him. Elaine had heard the bell. You were certain. You wanted it to happen again. He could ring the doorbell again. Your eyes pricked from the onions. He put down his tool box and offered his hand.
        It might happen again.
        Michael pauses at the bedroom door. He’s crisp and ordered, ready for