Free Dying Fall by Judith Cutler

‘Haven’t they ever seen a plant?’). Labourers were still busy, their voices overloud across the occasional sudden silence.
    I put the roses down quickly and turned back into the building. There was no sense of George in all that mud.

Chapter Seven
    Tuesday passed. That is the best I can say about it. I got home weary after my evening class to find on the doorstep a spray of flowers and a note from Aberlene. Inside on the mat, with several bills, lay a note from Aggie, who now had the flu herself. Had I remembered the binmen and her plants? I did the weekend’s curtains and lights routine again. Then I forced myself to eat – I do a truly reprehensible cheese on toast, oozing with Worcester sauce and raw garlic – and reached for the day’s
Guardian.
The education section. And a possible job in Huddersfield! A promotion. A nice part of the world to live. The Choral Society and infinite numbers of
Messiahs!
George used to regale us with the story of the violinist who dreamt he was playing
Messiah
in Yorkshire and woke up to find he was.
    There was a phone number, so I used it, and started to draft my CV.
    I have taught students, every year for the last ten, how to draw up a CV. We discuss what’s relevant and what order to put it in. I remind them always to keep a copy, preferably on disk, so they can constantly update it. Obvious. Easy.
    Except I’d not applied for a job for some time, and didn’t have a disk to my name. That would be a question I could ask at interview, if I got that far. Would they allow me IT training? I wrote it down. And then started messing with CV headings.
    The front doorbell rang.
    Crazy: my hair stood on end. And I could hardly walk.
    Whoever it was rang again.
    I forced myself to the window, to peer through a gap in the curtains. I couldn’t see much – although I’d got one of those intruder lights, I kept it switched off because our local foxes activated it all night long. So all I could make out was a dark, bulky shape. Perhaps the car would give me a clue. No car except my neighbours’ collection.
    The movement of the curtains must have given me away, because the figure stepped back, looking round.
    And then I laughed. No one to be afraid of. Jools.
    As I let her in, I gabbled with embarrassment and relief.
    We hugged, but without enthusiasm, it seemed to me, on her side. It was patently a duty call. I’d have felt awkward myself, trying to console someone for the loss of a person I hadn’t liked. They’d had to get on when they worked together – there’s no room for prima-donna-ism in an orchestra. And George spent a great deal of time helping her with her technique – she’d never quite lived up to the promise she’d shown at her audition and at her subsequent trial. Not that he ever complained about her, because he was sensitive to my loyalties: Jools might not be a close friend but she was an old one.
    Without saying anything she pushed a couple of tapes at me.
The Firebird,
with a particularly lovely solo from George, and a couple of Haydn symphonies. I was very touched.
    She accepted my offer of coffee but was scathing when I produced my last drop of the summer’s duty-free brandy.
    â€˜I don’t drink, remember. Not when I’m training.’
    â€˜But there’s only an eyeful –’
    She pushed the bottle away. Her sleeve caught in the glass, sending it spinning across the table. I caught it.
    â€˜I’m taking this seriously. So no alcohol. And you’d be a lot fitter if you cut down.’
    This was not the conversation I’d expected. And I resented any suggestion that I wasn’t fit. I cycled everywhere, jogged regularly, and when I was bored – which I suppose was not all that often, really – I worked out with weights at a fitness centre.
    â€˜Jools, please –’
    â€˜Tea. Coffee. All that tannin and caffeine,’ she continued.