So here was Ruth, at six o’clock on a dismal February Tuesday, filling in forms that should have been the responsibility of any half-brained clerk. I was sorry to have to add to her concerns. “It’s the Brown girl,” I said, taking a chair on the other side of the desk.
“Alice Brown, a credit to the standing of Spurfield High and a royal pain in the backside.” Ruth screwed up her nose. “In a few months we’ll be rid of her, thank the Lord. But what now?”
“She and Carole Thomas were supposed to stay on for rehearsal,” I said, “but Carole is apparently unwell. Apparently - because we only have Alice’s word for it.”
“With you in mind?”
“I can’t prove it, but you’ve seen her. Skirt an inch or two shorter than school rules, but not enough to make an issue of it. Until she picks up her cello and hikes the skirt up round her thighs. Well, she can invite you to look but when Carole is there, too, that’s all it is.”
“But today, no Carole.”
“No Carole.”
“So perhaps she wanted you to do more than look.”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“This is all to do with that orchestra - the Italy trip?”
“The Anglo-Italian Youth Orchestra, yes. Three weeks in Livorno during the Easter break. This will be Alice’s third year and she’s due to audition for the first desk. She’ll walk it. But today they were supposed to be working on their audition piece, the Kodaly Sonata. The one that starts right down in the cello’s lowest register. When Carole didn’t turn up, Alice said she wanted to try some unaccompanied Bach.”
“Was that a problem?”
“Not until she asked me to help her with the fingering. As soon as I stood behind her, she complained it was hot in the studio and undid the top button on her blouse.”
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