Free After Brock by Paul Binding Page A

very tall man with a distinguished beard had unwisely put down behind him, on top of the rockery.
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    â€˜There are some matters too sad for words, Nat, and this (I admit defeat) is one of them. I got, on our two brief but (to me) immensely valuable and welcome meetings, the strongest impression that, whatever the differences you’ve had with him, whatever the regret you doubtless felt when he and your mother separated, you have a lively, ongoing, essentially affectionate relationship with Peter. So please understand and respect me when I say that I have chosen (once and for all) not to disclose the history of those early years in which Peter played so important a part in my life. And that, I am one hundred per cent sure, is how Peter himself would want it, in fact how he does want it, considering how much in the dark he seems to have kept you.
    â€˜In other words I prefer Peter to stay up on his Heights, and not to drag him back down into the lows we all, sadly, have to dwell in.
    â€˜That Ilona and I could have no children (or adopt them, for that matter) has been a great source of sadness to us both. We always have liked the company of young people. Well, I must do, mustn’t I? – my work being what it is. If you can accept the above qualifications, I would be so pleased if we could both see you. Ilona’s health is such a problem that it’s difficult to make any forward plans. We have a system of minders, but even so it might be best for the two of us to meet somewhere away from Walworth Road at the end of some lesson of mine. I shall be here, I think, for the best part of the summer, then in September I shall go to Hungary, for my annual (at the very least) visit and, God willing, Ilona will be well enough to accompany me, and enjoy the landscape and music.
    My good wishes to you, Nat…’
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    Music here in Tulse Hill was represented tonight by a Cajun group, reminder of a ‘fantastic’ visit to Louisiana and the Bayou country that Josh’s parents had made after a ‘fantastic’ confer-ence at a major New Orleans hospital (where they’d been called in to pronounce as experts on improvements after the city’s great flood disaster). Well, the players suited the hot, strangely still evening all right: accordion swelling and subsiding in volume like someone half crying his heart out, half just letting himself go quiet, a fiddle singing alongside him, plangent (the right word?) in its vibrations, and guitar throbbing with the kind of pent-up sexiness I could feel there in my body for Em/Emily – and probably for a number of other girls here, like the one Josh had been talking to most of the evening. Over and again the Cajun melodies swooped and sighed: ‘Allons à Lafayette’. ‘Allons danser Colinda’. ‘Jolie Blonde’, streaming through all the garden’s greenery and rousing many people old and young to dance, including the very white, very glinting Emily (with Rollo – of course, with Rollo). But not me, I wouldn’t risk it, I’m a shit dancer. But tears came into my eyes and a lump into my throat. Sentimental, stupid. When the musicians paused, I went over to them, after having gulped another nicked glass of wine (red this time), and said: ‘Why the fuck can’t you guys play music from the UK?’
    The fiddler (it was to his face I’d delivered the words) said, with a surprised, indignant look; ‘Anything in mind, asshole?’
    â€˜Something in the nature of “Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road”!’ I said. And walked away towards where the beer cans were on the nearest trestle table.
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    â€˜There are some matters too sad for words, Nat, and this (I admit defeat) is one of them.’
    Well, maybe I won’t bother with any more of the party. I’ll just record the way it ended for me. No, I will just add one more thing. When Josh’s