Free Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Page A

a couple of wrong notes, then braying trombone slides, then the tempi falling apart until what had been recognisable music degenerated into what to Poppy sounded like mere mess, though the players were still reading from their scores and playing with what seemed to be full concentration, indeed effort, until the semblance of a key and beat emerged, and there was Begin the Beguine with the full yearning schmaltz. Then that too was allowed to fall apart, collapse and become chaos. Poppy concentrated with all her intellect on trying to follow some kind of thread through the tangle. The Beguine was still in there somewhere. Was the hornpipe? The Fauré Credo emerged, then something Poppy didn’t know but which sounded like one of the other Bachs, then Blues in the Night with a saxophone taking the Bessie Smith part, and so on. The last clear passage was of course God Save the Queen , but that too degenerated into a chordless bray which then deliquesced with instrument after instrument dropping out until all that was left was a penny whistle piping right at the top of its register. Then silence.
    At least it was something to talk about in the car, a low, softly upholstered, glossy, powerful object, an Audi or something.
    â€˜I’d have to hear it several times before I could decide if it was anything more than a joke,’ said Poppy.
    â€˜It would be worth the effort?’
    â€˜I’ve probably got more spare time than you. Yes, I think so. It’s too much fun first time through, spotting what’s coming next, like one of those Christmas quizzes in the Observer , but I think I might get to like the original bits for their own sake. I thought I was just beginning to hear shapes and patterns. It’s a new language. I’ve just started Polish, and at first there didn’t even seem to be syllables. It’s like that.’
    â€˜You play an instrument?’
    â€˜No—in fact I don’t know much about music—the sort of thing musicians are taught, I mean. I had totally unmusical parents and I didn’t go to the sort of school which does much about it without being prodded. But when I married and my husband started taking me to the opera …’
    â€˜Not here tonight?’
    â€˜We’ve split up, but anyway he’d have hated it. He likes a stage to look at, and things happening, and singers. He used to get miffed when he saw me sitting there with my eyes shut—you know what tickets cost—so I started getting the records out of the library and listening to them before we went, over and over, teaching myself …’
    â€˜Have you eaten?’
    â€˜I’ll scramble an egg when I get home.’
    â€˜Enough for two?’
    â€˜Oh … if you like. It’s not at all …’
    â€˜Scrambled eggs will do. Heard any Stockhausen?’
    â€˜Only on radio, and even then … Isn’t there something called Hymnen ? It goes on for ever, voices chanting, with tiny variations …’
    â€˜You have to be there. Radio’s no use, or records. They are just pushing sounds out to anyone who happens to be listening, so the experience is dissipated. Go, and the sounds are moving inward to each listener, focused, concentrated. It is the reverse experience.’
    â€˜I see what you mean, but I don’t know if I think like that. I agree that actually going to a concert forces me to concentrate, but I don’t …’
    â€˜Not what I meant. The thing, the performance, of course exists as much as a book or a painting exists, for as long as the performance lasts. But none of them—performance, book, painting—is complete, is fully existent, until I experience it …’
    It was difficult for Poppy to pay attention and at the same time run through the steps needed to scratch together a supper she wouldn’t be ashamed of There were five eggs, a few rashers of bacon, the carrots should still be presentable, that pot