asked.
Silence.
Ruth and Bridget were locked in that glance, fear meeting refusal. Neither could break it.
‘Girls?’ Mr Polgar repeated in that lost voice of his as if he weren’t sure if they were still there.
Neither of them moved.
‘Bridget?’
If he had said Ruth’s name, she might have relented. She might have volunteered the words that could have saved Bridget. Four little words. But no, it was Bridget, it would always be Bridget first. So it was really Mr Polgar who had decided.
‘I seem to remember asking a question, Bridget,’ Mr Polgar said in that sarcastic tone he used when he was uncomfortable. ‘Or is nobody bothering with the blind old teacher?’
He tinkered idly at the keys, playing the opening phrase of the melody.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Bridget? What’s the problem here?’
Bridget snuffled noisily, but that was nothing unusual. She seemed to suffer from a permanently running nose.
‘Ruth, we seem to have lost Miss Byrnes for the present. Why don’t you try it?’
Ruth sang as she never had before, strong and clear, the words perfectly enunciated. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Bridget standing there, vanquished. When she opened them again, Bridget had disappeared. She had fled, closing the door silently behind her. Mr Polgar didn’t even realise she was gone.
‘Lovely,’ Mr Polgar purred at the end. ‘Maybe we’ll give you the melody line this time. And why don’t you inform Miss Byrnes how this piece should be sung?’
‘Gracefully,’ Ruth read to the empty room, ‘not too fast.’
Ruth pads between the aisles passing out pieces of paper. On each sheet is the musical notation of ‘Three Blind Mice’.
‘To understand the plight of those who cannot read, we must first of all know what it feels like,’ she says, putting on her reading glasses. ‘Now, Miss Furlong, isn’t it?’
‘Marianne,’ the Swiss barometer girl says pleasantly.
‘Well, Marianne, you’ll notice some musical notation on the sheet in front of you. I’d like you to sing the piece of music. It’s quite a well-known tune, you probably sang it on your mother’s knee, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty.’
Marianne paws the paper timidly. There is an uneasy silence in the class coupled with relief that it is she who has been put on the spot.
‘I don’t read music, actually,’ Marianne says smoothly with a self-deprecating look. ‘You’ll have to ask someone else.’
‘But I’m asking you, Marianne.’
‘I told you, I don’t read music.’
‘Come on, Marianne, you must make an attempt.’
‘But how can I?’
‘Everybody’s waiting, Miss Furlong.’ Ruth takes off her glasses slowly and sets them down deliberately on the table in front of her.
‘You mustn’t badger me like this. I told you I can’t read music. Ask someone else.’
‘But I want you to do it.’
‘But I can’t …’ Marianne begins, her voice rising to a wail.
‘Exactly, Miss Furlong, my point exactly. Now, how does that feel?’
Bridget did not return. Mr Polgar was baffled.
‘I thought I was giving her an opportunity here. She has a real talent. I wanted her to make use of that, to better herself.’
He had taken to confiding in Ruth. He would reach for her hand, looking for consolation, reassurance. He was like a man scorned in love. Even Mimi was getting short shrift, pushed impatiently off his lap and sulking now in her basket. Mr Polgar rubbed Ruth’s fingers thoughtfully. He seemed to need her to make sense of it.
‘Have you any idea?’
Ruth shrugged, then remembered that Mr Polgar couldn’t see shrugs.
‘Maybe her parents couldn’t afford it?’
‘It wasn’t a case of money,’ he said sharply. ‘It was never a matter of money.’
The mother of two asks a question. Her name is Jean Fleming.
‘What should we use for materials? I’ve got primers at home from my own kids but that’d be insulting, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t like to be faced
Silence.
Ruth and Bridget were locked in that glance, fear meeting refusal. Neither could break it.
‘Girls?’ Mr Polgar repeated in that lost voice of his as if he weren’t sure if they were still there.
Neither of them moved.
‘Bridget?’
If he had said Ruth’s name, she might have relented. She might have volunteered the words that could have saved Bridget. Four little words. But no, it was Bridget, it would always be Bridget first. So it was really Mr Polgar who had decided.
‘I seem to remember asking a question, Bridget,’ Mr Polgar said in that sarcastic tone he used when he was uncomfortable. ‘Or is nobody bothering with the blind old teacher?’
He tinkered idly at the keys, playing the opening phrase of the melody.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Bridget? What’s the problem here?’
Bridget snuffled noisily, but that was nothing unusual. She seemed to suffer from a permanently running nose.
‘Ruth, we seem to have lost Miss Byrnes for the present. Why don’t you try it?’
Ruth sang as she never had before, strong and clear, the words perfectly enunciated. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Bridget standing there, vanquished. When she opened them again, Bridget had disappeared. She had fled, closing the door silently behind her. Mr Polgar didn’t even realise she was gone.
‘Lovely,’ Mr Polgar purred at the end. ‘Maybe we’ll give you the melody line this time. And why don’t you inform Miss Byrnes how this piece should be sung?’
‘Gracefully,’ Ruth read to the empty room, ‘not too fast.’
Ruth pads between the aisles passing out pieces of paper. On each sheet is the musical notation of ‘Three Blind Mice’.
‘To understand the plight of those who cannot read, we must first of all know what it feels like,’ she says, putting on her reading glasses. ‘Now, Miss Furlong, isn’t it?’
‘Marianne,’ the Swiss barometer girl says pleasantly.
‘Well, Marianne, you’ll notice some musical notation on the sheet in front of you. I’d like you to sing the piece of music. It’s quite a well-known tune, you probably sang it on your mother’s knee, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty.’
Marianne paws the paper timidly. There is an uneasy silence in the class coupled with relief that it is she who has been put on the spot.
‘I don’t read music, actually,’ Marianne says smoothly with a self-deprecating look. ‘You’ll have to ask someone else.’
‘But I’m asking you, Marianne.’
‘I told you, I don’t read music.’
‘Come on, Marianne, you must make an attempt.’
‘But how can I?’
‘Everybody’s waiting, Miss Furlong.’ Ruth takes off her glasses slowly and sets them down deliberately on the table in front of her.
‘You mustn’t badger me like this. I told you I can’t read music. Ask someone else.’
‘But I want you to do it.’
‘But I can’t …’ Marianne begins, her voice rising to a wail.
‘Exactly, Miss Furlong, my point exactly. Now, how does that feel?’
Bridget did not return. Mr Polgar was baffled.
‘I thought I was giving her an opportunity here. She has a real talent. I wanted her to make use of that, to better herself.’
He had taken to confiding in Ruth. He would reach for her hand, looking for consolation, reassurance. He was like a man scorned in love. Even Mimi was getting short shrift, pushed impatiently off his lap and sulking now in her basket. Mr Polgar rubbed Ruth’s fingers thoughtfully. He seemed to need her to make sense of it.
‘Have you any idea?’
Ruth shrugged, then remembered that Mr Polgar couldn’t see shrugs.
‘Maybe her parents couldn’t afford it?’
‘It wasn’t a case of money,’ he said sharply. ‘It was never a matter of money.’
The mother of two asks a question. Her name is Jean Fleming.
‘What should we use for materials? I’ve got primers at home from my own kids but that’d be insulting, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t like to be faced
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