Open Writing

Peregrine Nightingale brushed a crumb from his tie, flexed his long white fingers, and picking up his paper, rose from the breakfast table.

His wife, buried in the social pages, took no more notice than had he been a shifting shadow.

'Er er um, bbest be off then.' Peregrine stammered when uneasy.

Without taking her eyes from the paper his wife replied. 'Don't forget we are dining with the Hamiltons. Make sure you are home in time to change.'

The latest girl held his coat in readiness. He could never remember their names, these girls Fenella hired. The period of their employment was short. Sometimes he wondered what exactly Fenella did all day. Once, when asked, she had replied tartly, 'Apart from managing your career you mean? You have no idea do you of the important contact-making commitments I have? Do you think I want to have lunch with Mrs Williamson or worse still play bridge with that awful Lady Enning? Then all the shopping trips into London, to ensure that we are dressed in the manner expected of us, for those boring recitals of yours.'

But she didn't find those recitals boring nor did she find the receptions afterwards boring. It was as though a switch had been turned on, She sparkled, she gushed... Taking his arm she acted as though her life circulated around him, her famous husband. She graciously accepted compliments that were his, as though she were responsible, while smiling and murmuring that she was so lucky to be able to contribute in some small way.

He knew better than to query her management. She was the one with the money and without her to promote him he'd be nowhere, just one more frustrated and penniless music teacher. She'd told him so often enough. And strangely he'd believed her, until now.

'You must be due for some coffee Perry,' said a soft voice from behind him.

At first he appeared not to have heard but played on until the final arpeggio.

Marie stood perfectly still. She loved The Waltz of the Flowers. She loved Peregrine Nightingale.

Handing him his coffee and a biscuit she asked, 'Are you playing Tchaikovsky this afternoon for the children's recital?'

Smiling he replied, 'Yes, I thought it would be a good note to finish on. Don't you?'

She hesitated. 'Perry, perhaps we should wait until after Saturday's performance. So much has been made of it in the press and so many people will be inconvenienced.'

He cut her off. 'No,' he said. 'No, I have played in endless concerts while you have waited for me. WE leave as planned.'

She tried again, although she knew the answer. 'But Perry your career.'

He took her hand and kissed it. 'Get your things, my darling, we leave at 5 o'clock. There was no stammer now.

As Peregrine Nightingale turned once more to the piano he brushed a crumb from his tie, hesitated a moment, then pulling his tie off he threw it on the floor.

The music he made was wondrous.

© Colleen McMillan

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Colleen writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au