Free Madame Sousatzka by Bernice Rubens

case, Marcus had never heard it ring, never on a Friday anyway, so perhaps she looked upon it as an ornament. Which was why he was startled this Friday when suddenly, only a few minutes after he had come into her room, the telephone started ringing. Jenny was surprised too, and she got up quickly from her seat, and turned off the kettle as she picked up the receiver, as if the operation of the one depended on the non-operation of the other.
    â€˜Hullo,’ her voice was tentative and questioning. She listened for a while, glancing nervously at Marcus as he picked up a magazine from the floor. ‘You know I never work on Fridays,’ he heard her say. Then another long silence.
    â€˜I don’t mind, Jenny,’ Marcus whispered. She waved away his offer with her hand. ‘I really don’t, if it’simportant.’ She would let him take the crumpets down to his room in the basement, and he’d play draughts with the Countess till it was bedtime. But the thought of missing a Friday night with Jenny and of upsetting his week-end routine made him miserable and, in spite of his offer, he looked at her pleadingly.
    â€˜No, it’s impossible,’ he heard her say. ‘It’ll have to wait until you come back. I’m sorry, Felix, but you know Fridays are out.’ She said good-bye sadly and as she put down the receiver, she re-lit the gas under the kettle.
    â€˜I’ll go, really I will,’ Marcus said with enthusiasm, knowing that his departure was no longer necessary.
    â€˜Friday night is for you, Marcus. It has been for almost a year. In any case, I hate changing a routine. It brings bad luck, especially on a Friday.’ Jenny was very superstitious. She was always on to Marcus if one of his socks was inside out, and she was forever touching whatever wood was in sight to ward off the evil spirits. ‘Take a crumpet,’ she said. ‘The kettle’s almost boiled. Bring the plate over here. We’ll have it by the fire.’
    â€˜What work d’you do, Jenny?’ It was the first time Marcus had thought of asking her.
    Jenny laughed. ‘All kinds of things.’
    â€˜What things?’
    â€˜I help people out. Give them a hand.’
    â€˜Doing what?’
    â€˜Oh, all sorts of things. How’s Sousatzka today?’ she added quickly. ‘Not ready for your concert yet, I suppose?’
    Marcus grunted. Somehow he felt this Friday wasn’t going to be like the others. Jenny seemed to be terribly nervous, and she was being awfully cagey about her job. She couldn’t settle down with her nail-painting, either. Then there’d been that ‘phone call, and now she was on about the concert, just like Mr Cordle, and his mother. ‘No, I’m not ready,’ Marcus said angrily, ‘and I don’t want to talk about the concert any more.’
    Jenny smiled. ‘We’re both on edge today, aren’t we? Come on,’ she laughed, ‘let’s make the tea, and whenyou’ve drunk yours, I’ll read your tea-leaves.’
    Jenny had never read his cup before, though he had heard from Mr Cordle that she was a professional cup-reader. Madame Sousatzka, too, used to swear by her, which probably accounted for the odd unwashed cups which lay about the studio, guarding their secrets until Jenny was ready to reveal them.
    The prospect of having his future read excited Marcus. He wanted most of all to know about the concert. He prepared himself to have faith in everything Jenny would tell him, and with each mouthful of tea, he swallowed a measure of disbelief. At last he strained the tea from the cup, leaving a pattern of leaves that lined the bottom and one of the sides, its intricacy promising a wealth of forecast. ‘Here, Jenny,’ he said challengingly, ‘what does all that say?’
    Jenny casually looked inside the cup whilst taking a pair of spectacles out of her bag. Marcus had never seen Jenny in