Free Fearful Symmetry by Morag Joss

resolutely addressing the air.
    ‘I’m, ah, delighted to be here. Helene suggests kindly that you may want to know a little about me. Well, I’ve been involved in music from, ah, birth, you might say. My father’s a musicologist, now retired, and my mother taught maths. I always say I got the best out of both of them, as I’m the only child! Anyway, usual stuff, degree in music, ah, composing since university, various things, choral, ensembles, piano. Some London performances, including Marthe Francis’s debut recital at the Wigmore, some youth commissions, based in London, went to Prague earlier this year. And the reason I’m now in Bath is thanks to my teacher and mentor Herve Petrescu’—he paused to allow the name to impress them deeply—‘who was the reason I went to Prague. That’s about it.’
    He gave an embarrassed, slightly sardonic smile in Poppy’s direction. ‘It was hard to believe at first that the Circus Opera Group of Bath would approach Herve Petrescu in Prague for suggestions for their community opera maestro, but you did, and so there you are. And here I am.’
    He gave a little mock bow to a little mock applause, led by the beaming Helene. Then, with an almost right-angled bend of the wrist, he pressed the back of one hand into the small of his back, took two or three steps away from the group and turned on his heel to face them. He raised his other hand, pressed his fingers and thumb together and, frowning at his fingertips as if they held something small, interesting and wriggling, began.
    ‘My music, you see, depends on a degree of, ah, perceptive prominence so that the least identifiable or neutral processes mainly act on developments related to time, while the, ah, most identifiable or marked processes are perceived as patterns.’
    Poppy gazed at him rapturously and nodded encouragement. Cosmo licked his lips.
    ‘So conceptually, my music, my art, corresponds to crossing a new perceptive threshold, which takes on an almost thematic, ah, function. Only almost.’ He smiled, sensing that his listeners needed that reassurance. ‘But, and this will be clear to everyone, this implies, I feel necessitates, a degree of rethinking vis-à-vis the theme, apropos the principle of textual, and contextual, integration.’
    Adele, who had been sitting in the window seat with the platter of biscuits on her lap, announced flatly with her mouth full: ‘Fourteen.’
    Cosmo looked helplessly at Poppy, who addressed the room earnestly: ‘And that’s why this process of consultation is so crucial. So, right, are there any questions for Cosmo or myself? Or can we take that as all agreed, then?’
    Poppy and Cosmo exchanged a look across the silence. Cosmo folded his arms and for the first time looked almost relaxed.
    ‘Great. Looks like everyone’s happy, then. So, we’re not going down the Jane Austen route, right? And we’re definitely not having the Romans and the, ah, hot springs. Great.’
    ‘Thirteen,’ came the slightly muffled voice from the window seat.
     
    A S A NDREW came through the door Valerie yelled from the kitchen, ‘Andrew, get in here!’
    Christ, how could she know? He entered the kitchen tentatively.
    She was bringing a little casserole out of the oven.
    ‘Just sit down while I tell you. Here, chicken and rice. You must be starving.’ She put the dish on the table, lifted the lid and plunged a fork into the steam. She began to stir the contents round with such speed and ferocity that the fork became a blur. But she was smiling.
    ‘Gnash. Gnash. It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Come on, eat!’ She clanged the fork against the side of the dish and pushed it over.
    Andrew, dumbly suspicious, sat down.
    ‘Beau Nash.
Brilliant
theme. Good title, isn’t it,
Nash
? Or maybe just
Beau
? Anyway, much better than anything on Jane Austen or the Romans.’
    Andrew chewed and nodded, interrupting Valerie only to thank her for getting him some supper. ‘It’s very nice. Thank you.