Free Play Dead by Peter Dickinson

Famine, and was described in the programme note as a political suite. Each short section started with a member of the ensemble reading some item to do with Ethiopia—a government statement, a UN report, an eyewitness account, a medical text about malnutrition—and then beginning a solo with the other members joining in one by one. The programme note explained that how they did this and what they played was partly dictated by the composer and partly chosen by themselves according to formulae she’d laid down. The music was clearly very demanding on the performers, with ceaseless shifts of tempo and volume. Poppy could discern no key, but she worked at listening almost as conscientiously as the performers worked at playing. When the piece ended she decided it hadn’t been worth her time, or theirs.
    In the interval she rose to rest her back and stood against the wall. The audience—youngish, casually earnest—mostly seemed to know each other, but the woman who’d given her the ticket didn’t seem to be there. She felt let down by this.
    Her lack of empathy with the music seemed to emphasise her solitariness.
    She was trying to eavesdrop on a group who were discussing some kind of confrontation with what sounded like a religious leader, a guru with inadequate charisma, perhaps, when a man’s voice, flat and gravelly, said ‘You weren’t, I take it, actually asleep? I wouldn’t blame you.’
    Poppy had been so wrapped in her isolation that it took her a moment to realise he had spoken to her. She turned and saw it was Mr Capstone. Though inconceivably out of context there was no mistaking his totem-emphatic features.
    â€˜I was doing my best to listen,’ she said.
    â€˜To what result?’
    â€˜A bit disappointing, I thought. There were bits I quite liked—that funny little five-note twiddle that kept popping up in unlikely places, like the rabbits on the Peter Pan statue, I decided.’
    She hummed the phrase. The predatory mouth turned out to be capable of a smile.
    â€˜A good image,’ he said. ‘Sentimental kitsch.’
    â€˜But it didn’t belong. I think that was the trouble. I don’t think she really minded or understood about the famine. That’s probably uncharitable—I’m sure she minded but she didn’t understand.’
    â€˜You may exercise your charitable bent if you wish. I think she neither minded nor understood. I would guess she has a politically activist partner or patron whom she’s trying to conform to. We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
    â€˜I brought my grandson to play with Deborah. I’m Poppy Tasker.’
    â€˜That’s it.’
    He made no excuse for not having recognised her, though it wasn’t surprising. Her presence at a function like this must seem quite as unlikely to him as his did to her.
    â€˜Do you think it’s worth staying for the second half?’ he said.
    â€˜I’ve got to give it a try, or I’d think less of myself. It’s not really my kind of music—I stop just before Tippett, I’m afraid, but I feel there must be something there if I listen the right way.’
    â€˜Why did you come?’
    Poppy explained, and finished with a shrug and a laugh at having to present so inadequate a reason to a serious concert-goer. A solitary girl smoking in a doorway turned her head at the sound. Mr Capstone nodded and looked at her in silence, consideringly, for several seconds.
    â€˜If I were to stick it out I could give you a lift home,’ he said. ‘You presumably live in our area.’
    â€˜The other side of the park. But I’ll be quite all right on the Tube.’
    â€˜I was in two minds in any case.’
    The piece that comprised the second half was by another composer, also a woman. To Poppy’s joy it began with the hornpipe from Pineapple Poll , played with great sparkle and gusto until things began to go astray,