he, she, or it loves
amamus: we love
amatis: you love (plural)
amant: they love
He turned and surveyed the students with a grim but not entirely unfriendly smile. ‘Okay, repeat after me . . .’
The lesson seemed to go on for an eternity. The longer it went on, the more the teacher reminded Richard of his uncle, whom he hadn’t seen for many years now. The smells of the countryside filtered through to him from beyond the wall of boredom. He could almost smell tangy pine mixing with the sweet scent of sodden grass underfoot. He could almost hear the stream trickling beneath the wind-filled trees. He smiled at the thoughts of the happier times at Mum’s cottage in Devon, where he felt at home. Free. He saw Dad and Uncle—what was his name again?—whispering to each other in a way that reminded him of how he and James used to plot in ways that annoyed Mum.
He shook himself from his daydream and checked the clock. Only two minutes had passed. Two minutes of glorious freedom. How did teachers do that, make forty minutes last forever?
Finally the bell rang.
Deo gratias.
He stood up and pulled out his schedule: music in the main music room. The Latin teacher was already cleaning the blackboard.
‘Excuse me, sir?’ he asked.
‘Mm?’
‘Can you tell me where the main music room is, please?’
A hand landed softly on his elbow. ‘Come with me,’ Fi said. ‘I’m going there now.’
‘Great, thanks.’ He hoped his expression looked more like a casual smile than a panicked rictus.
She led him down the stairs, out of one of the many doors along the side of the school, and across the playground.
‘That’s the music block.’ She pointed at the building directly in front of them.
They marched towards it under an awkward silence.
‘So you know my brother?’ he finally asked.
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘He’s just, I don’t know . . . Funny? Handsome? He’s Turner.’
‘If you say so.’ One for James.
‘You definitely follow in his footsteps,’ she added.
‘You think so?’
‘Of course.’
Their eyes met briefly.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.
They arrived at the music rooms, which were on the top floor of a two-storey block separated from the main school. The teaching room desks were arranged in a semicircle like an amphitheatre; in the centre, a small stage area, and in one corner, a grand piano.
Richard liked music all right, but he loved the piano, perhaps because there was one at home, which Mum had taught him to play from an early age, or perhaps because he’d listened to Mum and James playing so beautifully so many times. He loved the start of Mike Oldfield’s ‘Tubular Bells’ and Ludovico Einaudi’s ‘Nuvole Bianche’, which Dad loved to listen to again and again. Sometimes Dad even teared up, much to the amusement of his sons.
‘What a sap,’ James would say. ‘Seriously though, he’s such a girl, isn’t he?’
Richard chuckled, then snapped back to the present as the teacher walked in.
‘So, music. Let’s learn some notes.’ The teacher’s manner was fast-paced and almost theatrical. ‘Well then, there’s A, B, C, D, E, F, and G.’
The class sat in compliant silence.
‘No?’ The teacher raised his eyebrows. ‘The best way to learn music—or indeed anything, in my opinion—is to do it. So whilst we will learn more about the theory and history of music in these classes, it’s important that you actually play, preferably with an instrument.’
‘Does a recorder count?’ someone asked.
A quiet laugh fluttered through the air.
‘Yes, Billy. In fact, the recorder can be a very charming instrument. Just ask the Pied Piper.’
Another nervous chuckle echoed around the room.
The teacher handed out a list of musical instruments they could learn to play. It seemed too good to be true: the school would provide specialist lessons for whichever instrument each student picked and even loan the instruments, if necessary.
‘I don’t even know what some of these things sound like,’ chortled the boy next to Richard, leaning close and flapping his paper. ‘Who’d want to spend time tootling around on a horn when we could be out on the practice fields?’
But Richard already knew what he wanted to learn. He imagined his fingers flying over the black-and-white keys, a prodigy leading the orchestra—a hero, even, painting a symphony of darkness and light. He bent over the selection sheet with a flush of pleasure and ticked the last box on the list: Piano.
Chapter 3
Richard
That evening, Richard settled in the kitchen as usual to cook the family dinner. Tonight, it was chicken with sage and onion seasoning, a good, satisfying meal to end a good, satisfying day. It used to take him forever to make something from scratch, but after Mum left, Mrs Smith had come over many times to show him how to do it. She loved to talk about her two daughters and how much she enjoyed looking after them—she never tired of that topic— but she never spoke of Mr Smith.
Very odd.
Whenever she helped out, she stayed over and had dinner with them all. She was always very enthusiastic talking with Dad, and James watched her with an intensity that Richard rarely saw in him for anything else.
Hero heard the scratch of a key at the front door. It must be James; he always did that. The door swung open, and heavy footsteps made their way down the hall. Richard heard a gym bag collapsing to the floor en route like a miner after a hard day’s work at the coalface.
‘Wow, that smells delish,’ James called.
‘Thanks. It’s nice to get some appreciation after slaving over a hot stove all evening.’
‘All evening,’ James echoed with a chuckle, sitting down at the table.
Richard presented him with a plate organised in almost psychotic order, all separated into little portions. The contrast of colours was stunning.
‘I think you’ve outdone yourself this time. Good day at school, bruv?’ James shovelled a bite of chicken into his mouth along with an assortment of sweet peppers. His cheeks bulged like a pet gerbil’s.
