compact discs, and the most expensive hi-fi console he had ever seen.
Fidgety, wanting to smoke, he stood up and walked to the shelves, leaving tracks in the lush carpet pile, and tilted his head to read the book titles. Many were biographies of Beethoven, in German and English, the others devoted to Mozart and Salieri, Dittersdorf and Gassmann, Handel, Spohr and Benda. He leafed through the yellowed pages of an arcane text on counterpoint, and wondered what delayed Elis. Perhaps he played with time, McKenna thought, hoping to subvert its momentum as these composers had done, and thus recreate the time-space in which Arwel Thomas still lived and no questions needed to be asked.
He looked again at the painting, troubled by the feelings it evoked, then made new tracks towards the other picture, a chalk portrait hung to catch the best light, sepia-toned like the pages of the text. He felt a draught as the door behind him opened.
‘Beethoven, at the age of fifty-one.’ The voice was cultured and soft. ‘A marvellous face, don’t you think? Of course, the original is still in Bonn.’ Elis smiled wryly. ‘All the money in the world can’t buy some things. Do sit down. Mari’s bringing coffee.’ Tall and muscular, he wore a heavy woollen jumper,riding breeches splashed with mud, long wool socks, and his wealth without ostentation.
The girl followed him into the room, and put coffee and a silver ashtray on a delicate painted table, offering no deference to Elis, but simply a beguiling smile as he thanked her.
‘I do apologize for keeping you waiting. I was grooming my horse.’ Pouring coffee into fine china cups, pushing McKenna’s within hand’s reach, he asked, ‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘Dislocated my shoulder.’
‘That must be painful. What happened?’
‘A tumble.’
‘We don’t bounce so well as we get older, do we?’ He stood by the fireplace, fumbling with cigarette and lighter.
‘That’s a fine painting,’ McKenna observed. ‘Who’s the artist?’
‘Caspar David Friedrich, who died a near madman. An excess of vision, I suppose, like his contemporary. They make you suffer with them, don’t they? Friedrich with his solitudes, Beethoven with his music.’
‘Perhaps we should accept suffering as one of the great structural lines of human life,’ McKenna commented. Elis sat opposite, frowning. ‘Perhaps,’ McKenna added, ‘we should find it sufficient to rejoice in their vision.’ He gazed at Elis, at the trembling hand holding the coffee cup. ‘And much as I would like to discuss music and art, Mr Elis, I didn’t come here to seek your opinions on either.’
‘I know.’ The cup clattered on the saucer, slopping liquid. Dabbing at the spill with a napkin, Elis said, ‘Arwel didn’t turn up as usual, so I called Blodwel. They said he’d absconded.’
‘And how often would he come here?’
‘Every weekend. Sometimes, he’d arrive without warning on a schoolday. I always let them know, and no one ever told me to send him back.’
‘We’ve been told the children aren’t allowed out unaccompanied.’
‘Have you?’ Elis said wearily. ‘You’ll no doubt hear other half-truths, as well as blatant untruths.’
‘How did you know him?’
‘I try to use my own good fortune for the benefit of others.’ Elis smiled bitterly. ‘Look what I managed to do for Arwel.’
‘Please keep to the point, Mr Elis.’
‘I take children out of care, as my predecessors hired fromthe workhouse. Mari came a couple of years ago, after spending childhood in so many foster homes everyone lost count. She was thrown out of care the day after her sixteenth birthday. Not what I call good parenting, but who am I to cast the first stone?’
‘Arwel, Mr Elis.’
‘Early in the summer, I asked Social Services if any of the Blodwel children might like to help with the horses. Doris brought Arwel.’
‘And you let him look after valuable bloodstock?’
‘Mari’s from
Fidgety, wanting to smoke, he stood up and walked to the shelves, leaving tracks in the lush carpet pile, and tilted his head to read the book titles. Many were biographies of Beethoven, in German and English, the others devoted to Mozart and Salieri, Dittersdorf and Gassmann, Handel, Spohr and Benda. He leafed through the yellowed pages of an arcane text on counterpoint, and wondered what delayed Elis. Perhaps he played with time, McKenna thought, hoping to subvert its momentum as these composers had done, and thus recreate the time-space in which Arwel Thomas still lived and no questions needed to be asked.
He looked again at the painting, troubled by the feelings it evoked, then made new tracks towards the other picture, a chalk portrait hung to catch the best light, sepia-toned like the pages of the text. He felt a draught as the door behind him opened.
‘Beethoven, at the age of fifty-one.’ The voice was cultured and soft. ‘A marvellous face, don’t you think? Of course, the original is still in Bonn.’ Elis smiled wryly. ‘All the money in the world can’t buy some things. Do sit down. Mari’s bringing coffee.’ Tall and muscular, he wore a heavy woollen jumper,riding breeches splashed with mud, long wool socks, and his wealth without ostentation.
The girl followed him into the room, and put coffee and a silver ashtray on a delicate painted table, offering no deference to Elis, but simply a beguiling smile as he thanked her.
‘I do apologize for keeping you waiting. I was grooming my horse.’ Pouring coffee into fine china cups, pushing McKenna’s within hand’s reach, he asked, ‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘Dislocated my shoulder.’
‘That must be painful. What happened?’
‘A tumble.’
‘We don’t bounce so well as we get older, do we?’ He stood by the fireplace, fumbling with cigarette and lighter.
‘That’s a fine painting,’ McKenna observed. ‘Who’s the artist?’
‘Caspar David Friedrich, who died a near madman. An excess of vision, I suppose, like his contemporary. They make you suffer with them, don’t they? Friedrich with his solitudes, Beethoven with his music.’
‘Perhaps we should accept suffering as one of the great structural lines of human life,’ McKenna commented. Elis sat opposite, frowning. ‘Perhaps,’ McKenna added, ‘we should find it sufficient to rejoice in their vision.’ He gazed at Elis, at the trembling hand holding the coffee cup. ‘And much as I would like to discuss music and art, Mr Elis, I didn’t come here to seek your opinions on either.’
‘I know.’ The cup clattered on the saucer, slopping liquid. Dabbing at the spill with a napkin, Elis said, ‘Arwel didn’t turn up as usual, so I called Blodwel. They said he’d absconded.’
‘And how often would he come here?’
‘Every weekend. Sometimes, he’d arrive without warning on a schoolday. I always let them know, and no one ever told me to send him back.’
‘We’ve been told the children aren’t allowed out unaccompanied.’
‘Have you?’ Elis said wearily. ‘You’ll no doubt hear other half-truths, as well as blatant untruths.’
‘How did you know him?’
‘I try to use my own good fortune for the benefit of others.’ Elis smiled bitterly. ‘Look what I managed to do for Arwel.’
‘Please keep to the point, Mr Elis.’
‘I take children out of care, as my predecessors hired fromthe workhouse. Mari came a couple of years ago, after spending childhood in so many foster homes everyone lost count. She was thrown out of care the day after her sixteenth birthday. Not what I call good parenting, but who am I to cast the first stone?’
‘Arwel, Mr Elis.’
‘Early in the summer, I asked Social Services if any of the Blodwel children might like to help with the horses. Doris brought Arwel.’
‘And you let him look after valuable bloodstock?’
‘Mari’s from
Similar Books
