Grace Notes

Catherine knew that, given her luck, she would get her period on the first day of rehearsal

Working was a way of getting rid of time. Once she became absorbed correcting, improving, adding texture, exploring new sequences of notes, time disappeared. Stravinsky once described it as ‘like an animal grubbing around’. But for her it was more of a refinement of the original idea, a focusing of what she’d aspired to or heard in the first place but had not managed to achieve. Notes in their perfect places.

– actually writing the notes down. She knew she had embarked on a huge work – by far the biggest thing she’d ever attempted. It took a hell of a lot of notes to keep an orchestra playing for that length of time. The skills gained in past work were of little use in solving the problems of the present. She had to begin to learn all over again for the new thing she was setting out to make. So she felt always a beginner. Getting down to new work was hard for her but this piece was in the final stages. In it she had found a voice of her own

For two months now she had written every day at this table beneath the window, looking up at people’s feet as they passed by. Raiding her own bank was how she thought of it. Going down into herself, into the strong-room and seeing what she could come up with. A method of employing the mind, without the effort of thinking was what Dr Johnson said. One thing leads to another – was how she characterised it herself. Music was what happened next. Sculpting in sound

A paleness was coming into the sky to the east over the mountain. Taglied. Day song. Like Schumann’s Gesänge der Frühe which she had played many times at College. In English there were very few examples of morning songs. Anglo-Saxon guilt prevented any kind of celebration, tuneful or otherwise, after a night spent with a lover.

She made an arpeggio of the same chord, spreading the notes across her fingers, and answered it with her right hand.

doing it to someone he loved.
But he did it again. And again. It was as if, having broken the taboo once, he could do it any time – when he’d come in from the pub at midnight or whenever. It became the way he settled arguments, particularly if they were arguments about his drinking. And sober, when he saw the evidence of what he’d done, he’d apologise. Once he wept. The

as a biscuit tin’ – and McGovern, ‘The only reason he has that long beard is because he can’t afford a tie

came round.
She began to cry. She had no idea how long she cried – it could have been a couple of minutes or an hour. Her chin was on her chest and the tears wet her face. Her nose bubbled. At some point she looked up and saw herself in a mirror propped against the drop-leaf table. It reflected a woman clutching her knees to her chest. A woman dressed in a nightie and overcoat, and in such a position she looked ridiculous

Thoughts of murder had kept her awake many nights – no, it was wrong to say that – imagining the scene of his death was more accurate. Some of Dave’s cronies or the sergeant maybe, would come to the door and be unable to meet her eye. Trying to tell her that he had been injured in a shooting accident.