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For Tim's sake she showed an avid interest as he repeated every single thing that the awe-inspiring maestro had said about his playing, both good and bad—there seemed to be a fairly even mix of both, and Clare detected in Tim a faint air of chagrin. Most people were so astounded by his virtuosity in relation to his age that they heaped praise upon him. Perhaps the experience would be of value after all.
'And he's going to send us some tickets to his next concert in Auckland. It's next week. Can we go, Mummy? Can we go and see him play? I've heard him on the radio and on tapes, but that's not the same as seeing him.'
Clare felt a pang at the sight of the shining adoration on the small face. David Deverenko had certainly made an impression on her son, for better or for worse. Tim was a fairly biddable boy, except where music was concerned. There he was quite fierce, and he was quite capable of making life a misery for a long time to come if she didn't grant this perfectly reasonable request.
'We'll see,' she temporised lamely, and he grinned hugely, showing the gap where a front tooth was coming through. He knew that resigned tone of voice… a little boy with perfect pitch could scarcely miss it. They would go to his concert!
She took him out for a walk in a nearby park during the evening. It was a struggle to get Tim to take any form of exercise—other than with his bowing arm!— but C
lare insisted on a certain amount of fresh air and tried to make it palatable for him by making it 'their' time of the day. In her job as receptionist-manager for a secluded hotel on the shores of Lake Rotama she was usually kept busy from dawn to dusk, and making time for her son was very important for both of them.
This evening, however, she curtailed the walk when every conversation worked itself around to the wonderful David Deverenko—how he was ten feet tall and had the face of a god and the voice of an angel and magical powers over everything musical… or that was how Tim's artless description sounded to Clare. She didn't mind Tim having heroes—and ever since he had been old enough to turn on the radio they had been musicians—but a super-hero was tough to compete with. Mere mums didn't stand a chance!
Fortunately Virginia knew when to hold her tongue, and didn't add her enthusiasm to Tim's over the dinner-table, or Clare might very well have made a tart observation about the earthly origins of the World's Greatest Living Violinist that would have shattered her credibility for some time to come in her son's hero-dazzled eyes.
Half-way through dessert, the telephone rang. The two women looked at each other across the table. Virginia half rose.
'I'd better get it,' she said reluctantly.
Clare sighed. 'No, I will.' She went out into the kitchen and picked up the phone. When she re-entered the dining-room her face was tight with annoyance.
'Who was it?' asked Virginia cautiously, glancing sideways at Tim's blond head, bent deliriously over his favourite pavlova.
'A newspaper. Wanting a photograph.' 'Oh.'
'Yes, oh.' Clare spoke calmly, so as not to alert Tim. 'Just the thing I wanted to avoid. Someone thought they'd be interested in a 'new phenomenon'. They even,' she added, voice quivering with annoyance despite her restraint, 'had some kind of comment from a certain prominent person in the field.' Her grim tone explicitly indicated who that prominent person was.
Virginia pursed her lips. She couldn't see what Clare's objection was. In her opinion, the more people who knew about Tim's talent, the better. It was almost criminal of Clare to try and hide it away as if it were something to be ashamed of. Wisely, however, she said nothing.
There were two more phone calls before Tim was finally tucked up in bed; it being Saturday night he was allowed to stay up later than usual. The first was from a rival newspaper, the second from a local television regional news reporter. By the time the third call came, Clare was fed up with people who wouldn't take no for an answer.
'Yes, who is this, please?' she demanded in an icy tone as she snatched up the offending instrument.
'Mrs Malcolm?' The voice of an angel. Clare fought the impulse to slam the receiver back down.
'Who is this?'
'David Deverenko. Virginia suggested I call.' Virginia? First-name terms already? It had taken Clare four months of 'Mrs Malcolm' and an engagement ring before she had been invited to use 'Virginia'.
'Mrs Malcolm?'
'Yes, I'm here,' said Clare reluctantly, staring at her reflection in the shiny kettle on the bench. Her face looked quite pale and, combined with the thick, wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and cream kitchen walls behind her, looked rather ghostly. She blinked. There was no room for ghosts in her life, real or imagined.
'It's about your son, Timothy. Did Virginia mention that I wanted to talk to you about his future?'
'His present, don't you mean?'
There was a slightly startled silence. 'If you mean the possibility of his studying at my school here, yes. That's where I'm ringing from, in fact. I know you're leaving the city tomorrow evening, but I thought that perhaps we could have some initial discussion—'
'I'm afraid that's not possible,' Clare cut in hastily, having drifted slightly in her fascination with that rich, dark, musical voice. He wasn't mesmerising her with his song! 'Virginia seems to have misled you—'
'You already have Tim accepted somewhere else?' The mellow voice sharpened critically.
'No, I—'
'I thought not. There is no other equivalent facility to the Deverenko School—not in this country, anyway. Are you considering taking him overseas?'
'No, I—'
