awkward – he always felt awkward, even in his own home. Marietjie smiled at him and a web of fine wrinkles appeared at the corner of each eye. ‘You’ll be late for Mrs Harrison,’ she told him. ‘She may be English but that’s no reason to keep her waiting.’
CHAPTER 4
Mrs Harrison was indeed waiting when André arrived. She was a weather-beaten woman with large breasts that flopped tiredly beneath a loose cotton blouse. Her hair, in contrast, was pulled up in a tight ponytail that accentuated the feline slant of her eyes.
‘You’re late,’ she said as she opened the door.
Claire and Bill Harrison lived in a large rambling house that was bereft of any particular style. Over the years they had added several extensions to the house and each new building project had little in keeping with what was there before. Now the house was an illogical sprawl of thatched roofs and glass skylights in between stranded patches of light and shade.
Mrs Harrison insisted on having her lessons on the patio which looked out onto the garden and the fields of corn that stretched away in the distance. The acoustics out on the patio were very poor but not so poor as to trouble a student with as little talent as she.
‘I’ll add on the extra minutes at the end,’ André said. He did not apologise and no apology was expected. He knew Mrs Harrison as a coarse, good-natured woman who forgot a rebuke as quickly as it was uttered.
André took his violin out of its case and busied himself with it for several minutes.
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ Mrs Harrison said with a sigh.
‘The thought has crossed my mind,’ André replied without turning to look at her.
He unfolded the music stand and clipped a photocopied page of sheet music to it. It was a beginner’s piece and not too difficult. It was marginally more advanced than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, which they’d practised the week before.
‘Bill’s out all day today,’ Mrs Harrison said with good-natured irritation. ‘God knows where he goes.’ She cast a flabby arm in the direction of the fields. ‘It’s not as though the farm can’t take care of itself. I mean, the rain falls and the bloody crops grow. How much supervision does that need? But he’s off every day at the crack of dawn and doesn’t come back until nightfall.’
Her voice grated on André. Despite the years since she’d emigrated, Mrs Harrison’s accent was still more British than South African, more Manchester than Mthatha.
‘Farming’s difficult, Mrs Harrison,’ André murmured. ‘I should know. I grew up on a farm.’
They had this discussion before every lesson and André had learned to let his student ramble.
‘That’s right. In Bloem, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Terrible place Bloemfontein. Full of Dutchmen.’ Then she clapped a thick hand over her mouth. It was a game she played, a jolly attempt to provoke her music teacher. ‘I think I’ve put my foot in it again.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Harrison. I don’t live in Bloemfontein anymore.’
‘It’s Claire. Only the bank manager calls me Mrs Harrison.’
‘Very well. Claire.’
‘You’ve never told me why you swapped Bloem for this godforsaken place.’ She jerked her head in the general direction of the city centre. ‘Don’t get me wrong, André, I’m glad I found you. I was going mad in stages with nothing to do. Nothing meaningful anyway.’
‘So that’s why you decided on violin lessons.’
Mrs Harrison nodded eagerly. ‘I simply had to learn something new. Bill doesn’t understand. He thinks I’m post-menopausal. Men can be such fools. I’ve been post-menopausal for years, not that he’d know the difference.’
André didn’t offer any comment and she carried on.
‘Other than yourself, André, I don’t think there’s a decent violinist within a radius of fifty miles.’
André replied with a ready smile. ‘And soon there’ll be two of us. Shall we begin?’
Mrs Harrison already had her violin out of its case. As usual, she struggled with the piece, fumbling over the notes from the very start.
‘Mrs Harrison?’ André said after a while.
‘Call me Claire. I won’t tell you again.’
He tried not to sigh. ‘Your posture. It’s all wrong. May I?’
He came around her and adjusted the angle of her arms, gently pushing her forearm and prodding her elbow until he was satisfied. It was slightly disconcerting to be in such close proximity to the woman. Her odour was warm and mildly unpleasant, with a piquant undertone of stale perspiration.
‘And please, Mrs Harrison,’André said. ‘No vibrato.’
She had taken to wobbling her fingers on the fingerboard of her violin whenever she played. It was an unfortunate habit she had picked up from television.
Mrs Harrison stuck out her lower lip. ‘None at all?’
André shook his head and motioned for her to play.
‘Oh, I’ll never be any good!’ Mrs Harrison exclaimed after a few minutes. She fell back into the padded cane sofa, which belched loudly under her weight. She looked despairingly at André.
‘Play for me?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
André began to play the first few bars of the nursery rhyme, only for Mrs Harrison to interrupt him.
‘I don’t mean that silly piece! Play me something proper.’
Dropping the bow to his side, but the violin remaining wedged against his neck, André looked at her. ‘Proper?’ he asked.
‘Yes! Something a real violinist would play. You know – Beethoven or Mozart. Or Brahms.’
André pointed the end of his bow at the music stand. ‘We really need to concentrate on your lessons,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how my playing a more advanced piece of music will benefit you.’
‘You’ve never played anything proper for me,’ Mrs Harrison said with a pout. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you couldn’t play the violin at all. At least not anything proper.’
A wave of heat sped up André’s neck and engulfed his face alarmingly.
‘That’s absurd!’
‘Then show me.’ Mrs Harrison drew her legs up on the sofa and settled back to wait.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here’s something proper for you.’
He played a few bars of Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’. He found the piece repetitive, but he thought Mrs Harrison might recognise it. As he played he looked up at the ceiling fan above his head. It turned slowly, with languid revolutions that barely stirred the air.
‘Well?’
There was a look of rapt attention on Mrs Harrison’s face. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t sound right without a piano, does it? Play something else.’
This time André let out the sigh he’d been incubating for so long. ‘We really should get back to our lessons, Mrs Harrison.’
Mrs Harrison folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. ‘I want you to play me something proper,’ she said firmly. ‘Or I’ll find myself another teacher.’
‘Very well.’
André didn’t think it wise to remind her that there were no other decent violinists within a radius of fifty