The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [10]
‘Fine.’ She yawned widely and shook some Golden Nuggets into a bowl. She sloshed milk on top and began mechanically scooping them into her mouth, crunching hard. As the sugar kicked in, her eyes opened a bit. She gazed blankly out of the open French windows to our stretch of parched lawn, fringed by dusty laurels. ‘I was a bit nervous in the Schubert, though. Probably played a few bum notes.’
‘Didn't sound like it from where I was sitting.’ Ant crossed the kitchen to put his mug in the sink.
‘Could you hear?’ She turned to look at him.
‘The walls at the Royal College are notoriously thin. Granny always used to listen to me.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened with interest. ‘So what about the Beethoven? A bit too slow at the end?’
‘It's supposed to be slow. It's a moody old piece by a moody old bugger contemplating slitting his throat. You had me reaching for the Sabuteos when you launched into those last arpeggios, I can tell you.’
She laughed and I glowed as I cleared up around them, enjoying the musical banter. It was all Greek to me, just as it was when they talked poetry and Latin and, well, Greek.
Anna got up to put her bowl in the sink and I watched as they leaned languidly against the stainless steel together, chewing the academic fat: both tall, fair-skinned and blond, Ant's springy curls turning slightly grey at the temples, Anna's hair much straighter, more flaxen, and tucked behind her ears. Athletic, their figures might be described as, not small and solid like mine, and they both had fine features, straight noses, and wide-apart eyes, which gave them a faintly startled look, although Anna's weren't quite as blue. She'd got his temperament too – calm, unruffled – and definitely his brain. So what had I brought to the party? You might well ask. Ant would be kind enough to say, amongst other things, an impulsiveness to temper his natural caution, his reserve. I might say, not a lot. I smiled as I tossed a fork into the cutlery drawer.
As I popped a slice of bread in the toaster, half an ear on what they were saying about Schubert not being as religious as he made out and just laying it on thick to get in with Beethoven, I marvelled how, even though my subconscious must absorb a certain amount, I never really made sense of it. If you asked me in ten minutes if Schubert had been the religious one or Beethoven I wouldn't have a clue. But I enjoyed listening. A culture vulture, my father used to call me, when, instead of watching Grandstand with the rest of the family, I'd catch a bus into town and go round the Bodleian, or be found lying on my bed with my nose in a book whilst Tim helped with the lambing. Not the sort of book Ant and Anna read, I might add, but a light romance – very light – possibly a clogs-and-shawls saga from the mobile library that used to stop outside the farm. But any sort of book was highbrow to Dad, and the fact that I read all day persuaded him I was clever. That I then messed up my A levels and ended up going to secretarial college was therefore a bit of a surprise all round. Not that he minded. On the contrary, he was pleased I was doing something practical, ‘acquiring a skill,’ he'd say proudly, something I could use afterwards. But I hadn't used it, had probably known I never would, and had gone straight into Bletchley's Books on the outskirts of town as a sales assistant. Dad wasn't convinced about that, but I loved it. Loved the feel and smell of the books – which in my department were way beyond me – loved the people who used to come in and pore over them with their long scarves and their owl glasses. One of whom, of course, was Ant, who'd lost his copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and had come in to replace it.
‘Sir Gawain and the what?’ I'd said, scrolling down the list of titles on my computer.
‘Green Knight?’ He'd swivelled round to look at the screen and I remember our heads were quite close.
‘Is it a fairy tale?