Free Songbird by Julia Bell

you are twenty years old.  You were born in Wales and you lost your mother
when you were fourteen.  Your father was a mine owner and was killed in a
tragic accident.  I know you teach music for a living, but…”
    “But?”
    “I
know nothing else about you.”
    “You
know enough.”
    “Those
are only the bare facts.  I don’t know the important things.  What you like or
dislike.  What interests you have.  What your dreams and desires are.  I don’t
know what makes Isabelle Pritchard the person she is.”
    “Would
you like to know?”
    “Yes,
I would.”
    “Why?”
    “Because
I feel it’s important to know as much as I can about the mother of my child.” 
I turned my head away, aware that a scarlet flush had spread into my cheeks. 
“Does that embarrass you?  I’m sorry.  I don’t want to make you feel
uncomfortable.”
    I
glanced back at him and took in a breath, trying to steady my palpitating
heart.  “Well, you have the time to discover all you can about me.”
    Mrs
Holland appeared to tell us that luncheon was being served.
    “Shall
we go into the dining room,” he said, offering his arm.  “Perhaps after we’ve
eaten you’ll sing for me.”
    I
threw back my head and laughed.  “Not in a million years.”
    The
meal was very pleasant, sitting in Mrs Holland’s beige dining room and ‘Karl’
proved to be quite interesting.  We talked about everything, but tried to keep
away from anything personal.  Politics, religion and science were discussed,
but then we came to the arts.
    “Do
you like the theatre?” he asked, as he poured me another glass of wine.
    “Yes,”
I said slowly.  “Although I don’t go often.”
    “I
went to the Lyceum last week to see Ibsen’s A Doll’s House .  It was very
good.”
    “I
saw the Merchant of Venice last year.”
    “You
enjoy Shakespeare?”
    “Yes,
but Macbeth is my favourite.  It’s full of dark desires, ghastly deeds
and madness.”
    He
laughed softly.  “You obviously have many admirers to accompany you to the
theatre.”
    I
fluttered my eyelashes at him and clicked my tongue.  “I have many friends.”
    “I
can’t catch you out, can I,” he smiled.
    “I
suppose you go to the theatre with your wife?”
    “Yes,
I do,” he said without hesitation.
    “Have
you been married long?”  He looked down at the tablecloth and grinned, but
didn’t answer.  “May I ask how old you are, then?”  He still didn’t answer, but
kept on smiling.  I decided to go back to our former topics of conversation. 
“Do you like opera?”
    “I go
very rarely,” he sighed.
    “Why?”
    He
sat back in his chair and pursed his lips.  “I’m not very keen on listening to
large ladies bellowing at the top of their voices.”
    “Not
all opera singers are large,” I said indignantly.
    “In
my experience they are.”
    “Well,
perhaps you are choosing the wrong operas.”
    “What
would you suggest?”
    “Mozart,
Verdi, Rossini.”
    “You
know your opera, Miss Pritchard.”
    “I’m
a music teacher.”  I smiled enigmatically.
    “Mrs
Holland has a wonderful piano in the parlour,” he said, leaning forward in his
chair.  “Why don’t you sing some of your favourite arias.  You might be able to
persuade me otherwise.”
    I
wagged my finger at him.  “Oh no, you don’t.”
    “Why
won’t you sing for me?”
    “I
told you I charge one shilling and sixpence an hour for singing lessons.”
    “Cheap
at the price,” he grinned, reaching into his pocket.
    There
was a gentle knock and Mrs Holland appeared at the door.  “Sorry to interrupt
you, sir.  But it’s two o’clock.”
    Karl
pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it in alarm. 
“Goodness me, where has the time gone.”  He rose to his feet.  “I’m very sorry,
my dear Isabelle, but I must go.”  He came round to my side of the table and
took my hand.  “Farewell until we meet again.”
    I
watched him follow Mrs Holland out into the hallway and