Exasperated, Daniel shut down the terminal, snatched up his bag and stalked out, letting the door bang behind him. What a waste of time! What was the point of having whole banks of new computers if you were going to censor every site? Even though he generally spent a sizeable part of each day kicking around trying to find ways to pass the time, Daniel was suddenly furious about a precious hour wasted. He was still fuming when he reached the music room. The door had been left open, thousands of pounds’ worth of instruments there for the taking. There was a rack of electric guitars, a couple of saxophones and a whole percussion section including a drum kit. Taking out his frustration on the grand piano he banged out the handful of pieces he knew by heart, his foot pumping at the loud pedal. Gradually, the quality of the piano won him over and he began to calm down. It was a beautiful instrument and made him sound a thousand times better than he really was. He closed his eyes and imagined himself on stage at the Albert Hall or somewhere equally unrealistic. The stillness around him was the audience holding its breath. He hammered out a Rachmaninov prelude, blundering in places, but feeling the music with every fibre of his being. When he opened his eyes he was startled to find that he was no longer alone. A youngish woman had come into the room and was standing listening. She had long bushy hair tied up in a loose ponytail, and looked vaguely familiar, but Daniel was too surprised to recall where he’d seen her.
“Very good,” she said, taking her hands out of her pockets and applauding softly. “How come we haven’t met before? Whose class are you in?”
“I don’t go to school here,” Daniel replied, embarrassed. “Mrs Ivory said I could come in and use the piano and stuff.”
“I should have guessed you weren’t a pupil. No one here plays like that.”
“I know. It was rubbish. I haven’t played it for ages.” He stood up to go.
“It wasn’t rubbish.”
“It was full of mistakes. I can’t play it without the music.”
“I can get the music for you, if you like. Anyway, mistakes are OK. You played with real feeling – that’s the main thing. I haven’t heard anyone do that since I came here. I’m the music teacher by the way, Helen Swift.” She held out a dry chapped hand to be shaken.
“Oh. I’m Daniel. Milman,” he replied, giving her hand a reluctant tug.
“Who’s your piano teacher? Mr Reid?”
“I don’t have lessons. I quit ages ago.”
“And yet here you are, practising.”
“Yeah. Now I don’t have to, I want to.” What he couldn’t tell her was that the urge to play had come back during those endless months at Lissmore, when there was no possibility of playing a piano, when it would in fact have been positively dangerous.
“Didn’t I see you on the ferry coming over?” she asked. “Are you not from round here?”
He remembered her now, sitting in the bar, reading. “No. London.”
“Me too.” It was like a bond between them – fellow strangers in a foreign land. Helen Swift made herself comfortable in the teacher’s swivel chair and seemed in no hurry to bring the conversation to an end. “I thought it was almost impossible for outsiders to get a residency permit. I only got one because they couldn’t get a music teacher. What brought you here?”
“My great-granddad lived here. He left my mum his cottage when he died. So we’re living here for six months. Get away from London and stuff.”
“And do you like it? Wragge, I mean?”
“It’s OK,” said Daniel guardedly. He had learnt that it was generally safer not to reveal too much of your own opinions. “It’s a bit kind of… dead.”
Helen nodded. “I still can’t get used to the fact that the shops all shut at lunchtime on Saturday. Mind you, there’s not a lot to buy when they’re open.”
“You can’t even get a Coke,” Daniel complained.
“That’s true, now you mention it,” said Helen, suddenly attentive. “The students love that disgusting bitter lemon stuff. Of course they drink mostly water at school – there are water coolers in the classrooms – and the sixth formers all drink black coffee. But I’ve never seen anyone drinking Coke.”
Daniel felt the conversation had gone on long enough. There were still things he wanted to do before the school closed, so he asked the teacher if she knew where the pool was, and she offered to take him there.
On their way they passed Mrs Ivory going in the opposite direction. She seemed pleased to see that Daniel had taken up her invitation and stopped to chat. “Oh, you’ve met Miss Swift already. She’ll be able to show you around.”
“It’s a case of the blind leading the blind, I’m afraid,” Helen replied. “I still get lost several times a day.” Daniel noticed that in the head’s presence her voice had immediately become more formal and ‘proper’.
“It is a bit of a labyrinth,” said Mrs Ivory, cheerfully. “Are you going to try our pool?”
“I was going to,” said Daniel, patting his swimming bag to show he’d come prepared.
Mrs Ivory’s manner changed, as if something important had distracted her. She seemed about to say something, but then thought better of it and walked briskly on.
The music teacher took Daniel all the way to the sports block which housed the pool. “Come and use the piano any time,” she said as they parted. “I’ll try and dig out that Rachmaninov music for you next time.”
There was no one in the reception area, but he could hear the sounds of a basketball game coming from the gym. In the changing room, which smelled powerfully of feet, there were uniforms and kitbags on the benches. He changed quickly into his trunks and stuffed his clothes, towel and wallet into the drawstring bag, which he hung on a peg. He wished he’d thought to bring a drink with him, and then noticed a water cooler in the corner. The clear bluish plastic of the canister made the water look cool and inviting, but there weren’t any cups. The dispenser was empty and the bin below was full of used paper cones, but Daniel decided he wasn’t thirsty enough to make a habit of fishing stuff out of bins.
The pool was a decent size for a school one – twenty-five metres, with a springboard at the deep end and an area roped off for lane swimming. It looked fairly new too; the chrome handrails were shiny and unscratched and the grouting had that bright whiteness that doesn’t last. A group of eleven- or twelve-year-old girls was playing on giant floats in the shallow end, their shouts of laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Perched on a tall chair and clutching a long pole which ended in a wire loop as though in readiness for an imminent drowning, sat the lifeguard, Kenny-next-door. He gave a grunt of recognition as Daniel approached. It was the first time they had met since he had brought the eggs round. Occasionally Daniel had seen him from his bedroom window, weeding the vegetable patch or picking runner beans, but they hadn’t spoken. His mum had decided, in that way she had of instantly judging and labelling people, that he was retarded.
“Hello,” said Daniel, hoping to engage Kenny in conversation. It would give him great satisfaction to be able to demolish his mum’s prejudice by reporting back that Kenny was completely normal.
“Hello,” said Kenny, without making eye contact.
Not retarded, just a bit shy, Daniel thought. He could relate to that. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he said.
“I’m the assistant caretaker,” Kenny replied, with a hint of self-importance.