Free Listening in the Dusk by Celia Fremlin

heavy objects which had so far defeated Alice: the rusty refrigerator door, the old-fashioned mangle, and the various defunct television sets. An oblong monstrosity the size and weight of a cabin-trunk gave him pause for thought. It was, he assured her, an early tape-recorder. Forties vintage probably. “A museum-piece, really,” he opined, running his finger through the thick dust that obscured all marks of identification. “If only we knew someone who …”
    “But we don’t,” Alice hastily interposed, fearful lest some plan should come into being other than making the damn thing disappear as completely as possible behind or beneath other damn things. “I’m trying to make this place not be a museum, I want to live in it, see?” At which he shrugged good-naturedly and concurred, dragging the thing towards long oblivion in accordance with her wishes.
    He really was a singularly good-natured fellow. Too good-natured , perhaps, Alice mused, to be likely to succeed in “getting somewhere” in the fiercely competitive musical world. Not that she knew anything about this world, but it was common sense that a streak of ruthless determination, even of savagery, would be needed in the process of clawing one’s way up, however outstanding one’s talent. Savagery was certainly no part of Brian’s nature; on being ushered into Alice’s domain, and finding that his electric fire had not only found its way up here — as he had surmised — but had also, in the kindness of Hetty’s heart, been switched full on, all three bars, he had merely laughed.
    “She is a nice old stick, isn’t she?” he commented. “ This ought to knock the damp for six, Alice, if anything could. This is a hell-hole for damp, you know, especially under the eaves. I tried keeping my old college notes up here, you know, in boxes. I’dbeen dragging them about with me for years, ever since my parents got divorced and ceased to provide a convenient dumping-ground. I fancied I’d be needing them — the notes I mean, not the parents — but I might just as well have let them go down the chute with the rest of the happy home, because when I came to look at them they were glued together with mould, right through. Mind you, I could have won a prize or two at art exhibitions, if I’d thought of it, because they were wonderful moulds, a kind of pink and green tracery, some like trees, some like diagrams in a medical book. Each page different, like a set of Rorschach blots. They’d have been a wow in the art world, ending up on television, probably, illustrating some grievance or other about Arts Council grants. Still, one can’t think of everything …”
    By the time darkness came down, the room had been transformed. Brian had dragged out the various bits of rolled-up carpet from their various hiding places, and unrolled them one by one for Alice’s inspection. Most of them were too worn and tattered to be worth considering, but one, of intricate Persian design, had only a couple of easily-mendable tears in it, and spread out over the bare boards alongside the divan, it gave a wonderful air of luxury to the room, a glow of pink and orange and copper which toned rather than clashed with the multi-coloured pinkish cretonne already covering the improvised sofa. The final and most useful task performed by Brian was the raising of the motor bike from its prone position, in which it took up a couple of square yards of precious floor-space, and up-ending it against one of the beams. Tossing aside the lace bed-cover with which Hetty had swathed its ugliness, Brian stood back to admire his handiwork.
    “You should never cover things up just because they’re ugly,” he pronounced. “You should feature them, make something of them. Just as you should with your own failings and failures. Don’t hide them from the world. Stand forth boldly and say, ‘Here I am, the chap who fails at everything! The chap who gets doors slammed in his face by pretty girls,