The Tooth Tattoo(27)

‘And get asked to leave? I like it here.’

She pressed closer. ‘This is what you like.’

‘I think we should each have a shower – separately – and be in our own rooms when she gets back.’

‘You’re scared of her.’

‘I respect her. She’s my landlady.’

‘Get real, Mel. She must have guessed about us in – how long? Six weeks? My Mum’s not daft. It’s not as if I’m under age.’

‘Agreed, but she hasn’t seen us at it. Let’s show respect and leave her guessing.’

‘You’re terrified she’ll kick you out. You prefer her cooked breakfasts to making love to me.’

‘Tippi, I want both to continue.’

‘Honest? Prove it, then.’

‘Not right now.’ He kissed her forehead, eased away, rolled over, emerged from under the quilt and started gathering his clothes.

Tippi watched him. ‘Tosser.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘You must be joking.’

He padded back to his room, closed the door and took that shower. It doesn’t get better than this, he thought. A regular income, nice lodgings, a friendly landlady with a dreamboat daughter who can’t get enough, and any amount of music. I’ve hit the jackpot here in Bath.

Two months into the residency, the quartet remained an eccentric bunch, but by mutual consent they stayed apart from each other except when rehearsing and performing. The accommodations office at the university had first offered them a large Victorian house on Lansdown Road to share, and Ivan had behaved as if he was being sent to Siberia. ‘That’s out of the question, wholly unsuitable,’ he’d said. ‘Can’t you give us separate lodgings?’ The others had felt the same way – nothing is more calculated to disturb than overhearing a fellow artist at practice – and said so in unison. Four addresses spread across the city were found. The quartet would need to meet only when music-making. And Douglas, having set up the residency, scarpered back to London.

Part of Mel’s contract was giving solo classes for third-year BA music students and postgraduates. The standard was high, the teaching a joy. Little different in method, though, from the lessons he had given at Fingis Road. He had five talented violists not far short of professional standard. In addition, three mornings each week the quartet drove out to the Newton Park campus and attended the Michael Tippett Centre, the university’s pride and joy, one of the best locations in the country for ensemble playing. Rehearsals were private at this stage. Later they would allow some undergraduates in.

The first of the “soirées” Doug had negotiated as part of the deal had been held in a beautifully panelled room at Dyrham House, high in the Cotswolds north of the city. In consideration for Mel the ensemble played the Beethoven Quartet in C sharp minor he’d learned for his audition and they delivered its subtle mood changes and breathtaking extravagance with finesse. The audience of thirty or so, including a number of final-year students, received it with shouts of appreciation out of keeping with the surroundings. They seemed to feel mere clapping was not enough.

Everyone agreed that these musical evenings were a good thing. In later concerts, they moved on to Haydn and Mozart. Tickets were hugely in demand. Ivan was annoyed to hear that one had been sold on eBay for £250. ‘Doug is hopeless. He should have cut us in on the deal. I could have bought my own Strad with the money we’re losing over this.’

‘Misery-guts,’ Cat said. ‘This is the best time we’ve had since Harry left. Don’t knock it.’

At the Michael Tippett Centre, Ivan and Cat gave regular master classes in front of audiences, an ordeal Mel was spared on the grounds that he was still bedding in (as Cat expressed it with a wink); and Anthony because of his poor communication skills (‘and he’s no fool,’ Cat said).


Mrs. Carlyle came home just before nine and knocked on Mel’s door with an offer of tea and biscuits. ‘You can’t spend all evening on your own,’ she said. ‘Come and watch telly in the lounge with Tippi and me. You’ll have to excuse her bathrobe. That girl is always showering.’

When Mel entered, Tippi was on the sofa with her legs curled under her. She didn’t look away from the TV screen.

‘I lost five pounds today,’ Mrs. Carlyle said to Mel.

‘Too bad. Where was that?’

‘Pounds in weight, silly. I’m not saying where from, but I hope you notice. How was your day?’

‘Fine.’

‘Giving lessons as usual?’

‘Mainly.’

‘When’s the next concert with the others?’