For Whom The Bell Tolls 2

Tags

B&Q, Brunelleschi, Caligula, Fighting Temeraire, Journal Science, migratory habits, Monteverdi, Panama hat, rhetorical question, Who would true valour see?, whooping cranes, Zoroastrian

Mr Snodbury opened his classroom door and permitted his class to make

their exit.

What on earth is that racket next door?  Milford-Haven should be on

top of that lot and should start as he means to go on, he fretted.

It was true: Snod never let up on discipline till his charges had

left university, married, sprogged and then bumped into him in B&Q,

usually with their current female in tow.  He would, as likely as not,

raise his hat to their enamorata and would greet his erstwhile pupil

with,  Ah, dear boy, how are you? 

This served to disguise the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to their

identity, but vaguely recognised their physiognomy and was making an

attempt at fraternity, if not egality.

The off-duty master would then feel trapped in the sugar soap and wire

wool aisle and would have to rehearse a charade of interrogating the poor

young man as to his career and its success, when all the grumpy old so-and-

so really wanted to do was to buy a sink plunger and beat a hasty retreat.

As to the unwitting victim, who had merely dropped by to purchase a bag of

charcoal for his barbecue, he immediately shrank to his pre-adolescent self

and was mesmerised by the silencing of his whining, trolley-transported

toddler by a Snodbury glare, perfected over decades and instantly recalled

by its father, who had suffered from a minor form of post-traumatic stress

disorder for a number of years, after having received the treatment himself.

How did he do that? he wondered, as he observed his muted offspring.  I’ve

been trying to shut him up all day.  I suppose it is because Snod is a

professional.

Yes, he was and still is an adept at manipulating youths.

Silence! he bellowed as the class next door made their chaotic way to

assembly. Titters and sniggers ceased and the smiles on their individual

faces appeared to have frozen instantly.  Their teacher emerged rather

sheepishly, carrying a plastic bag and stammered: I believe this is your hat,

Mr Snodbury, sir.  You left it at the Monteverdi concert and your-ah! Drusilla,

or should I say, Miss Fotheringay-Syylk?…

Here Gus interjected, Drusilla, you say..?

Er, yes, she asked me to deliver it to you.

Nigel Milford-Haven could not help but notice how red Snodbury’s

Brunelleschi dome of a head had become over the summer.  Was it

down to sunburn, or rising blood presure now that Snod was back in

harness?

Oh, thank you very much, Milford-Haven. (He almost said Caligula) Very

decent of you to bring it back.

No worries, Sir.  The minute Nigel uttered these words, he knew that

they were inappropriate regarding tenor and formality level.  His eyes

nervously followed his disappearing class.

You’d better run after that bunch and see that they get to Assembly

on time, Snod advised.

You’re right!

Nigel was just about to march down the corridor, trying to look

authoritative- and failing, as usual. He was actually very worried

indeed. He felt certain that Gus would notice that the label inside

the brim read seven and a quarter, when the original had been a

seven and five eighths.  Weak though Nigel was at Maths, he knew that

these were not the same measure. He could also see that Snod’s head

had not shrunk in the holidays. He felt semi-paralysed.

What is it , boy? snapped Gus.  Can’t you see that we are having a

conversation?  He adored rhetorical questions, though they could be

risky. Run along to Assembly!

Please, sir. I have a note from my mother which asks if I can be excused

Assembly as I am a Zoroastrian.

Indeed? Snod appraised the situation at lightning speed. Well, I’d get there

super quick, as Zoroastrians are known to be very keen on convocations and,

in fact, put those of their own kind who failed to attend to a rather grisly and

drawn out death. 

So saying, he tore the note into sixteen pieces, took the plastic bag from

Milford-Haven and frogmarched the unfortunate B-S down the corridor, by

the ear, while humming Who Would True Valour see…?

It was number 576, his favourite hymn and he hoped it would be the one

chosen by Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster, for the start of term.

Nigel scurried after him like a tug in the wake of The Fighting Temeraire.

Later, at break, he read a report from the journal, Science, that

revealed that whooping cranes found that the presence of older,

more experienced birds during migration, assisted and ameliorated

the performance of the more juvenile members of the flock.

He decided to look to the elder statesman for example and direction

in his personal pilgrimage through the Purgatory of the present

academic term.  He just hoped that the hat would fit and Snod would

wear it.

Cabinet of Curiosities

Tags

cabinet of curiosities, Calypso Carol, Carmen, Daily Mail, Easter Island, Financial Times, Hawaiian shirt, huzun, Istanbul, Moai, Monteverdi, Nobel Prize, Orhan Pamuk, oxymoron, Panama hat, Rolls Royce, Royal Yacht, Simon Schama, Singer sewing machine, The Longs Arms, Weekend Magazine

I always feel guilty when I destroy the barista’s carefully created fern on the

top of my coffee, but, then, one has to drink the frothy arrangement.

Goodness knows, one has paid enough for it, especially at Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.   At least The Financial Times Weekend magazine can be

appropriated from the public wall rack, to compensate.  The Yummies always

go for The Daily Mail, I find.

Oh, the ecstasy of finding Simon Schama and Orhan Pamuk in the same article.

I loved the novel Istanbul and was fascinated by the concept of huzun, a state

of collective memory.

Pamuk has gathered a series of objects which he stores and displays in

cabinets and these items resonate with memory traces of significant moments

in his characters’ lives.  Once these memories are categorised, they can be

stored and owned.

I wondered if I could rent or purchase a building in Suttonford where I could

collect objects connected with the narrative of my characters’ lives?

Re-winding some of my posts, I could imagine the first vitrines exhibiting a

crystal ball which belonged to Sonia, the medium who lives in Royalist House.

An empty bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for the Discerning Grandmother would

represent Sonia’s neighbour, Ginevra.  The latter’s e-novel based on a meeting

of geriatric hearts and minds could be referred to by a mobility scooter, which,

of course, would take up a large glass box on its own- something like the one

which protected HM’s Rolls Royce on The Royal Yacht, Britannia.

Doomed romance would be conveyed by the original Valentine, complete with

its proposal of marriage (never received) which the youthful Augustus

Snodbury slid under the nubile lax mistress, Diana Fotheringay’s door all those

troubled years ago.  The diamond ring which fell down the cracks in the

floorboards at The Longs Arms, but which was recovered, though not without

embarrassment, would also speak volumes to the tender-hearted.

Perhaps there could be an unmade bed which still belongs to Tiger-Lily and a

string of knitted women bishops which was removed from the cathedral

railings in Wintoncester, having been yarn-bombed there by Juniper, the

increasingly famous, gender-fluid, street graffiti artist.

The town’s canine lovers might donate a diamante pug collar belonging to

Pooh-Bah and the ever-present risk of animal vandalism might be portrayed

by the photograph of the priceless Pre-Moai figure from Easter Island, which

Andy, the Border Terrier so thoroughly digested.

Academic life could be shown by the Hawaiian shirt which one of the

Willoughby twins wore when he played the solo marimba in The Calypso Carol

at the end of term concert at St Birinus, and which provoked a caution

regarding the upholding of school rules regarding uniform.

Staying on a musical theme, the programme notes for the Monteverdi concert

in Bath which so riveted Drusilla, Diana and Gus would be interesting to study

in future years, as the cast list so clearly displayed Geoffrey Poskett and Nigel

Milford- Haven, of whom much more has to be said in future posts.

Snod’s battered Panama hat, which he sat on inadvertently at the

aforementioned concert and which Nigel effectively ruined by wearing it

when painting his mother’s bathroom ceiling, should be juxtaposed to set

up a dialogue with the alternative headgear which Nigel’s mother fished out

of her black sack and gave to him to wear to the opera, Carmen.  Placed side

by side, the museum-goer should be able to detect that this hat which Nigel,

or Caligula as he is affectionately called by the children in his care, is going to

return duplicitously to his older colleague in lieu of the original- oh, drat, I’ve

given away the plot..- will be seen to be a size seven and a quarter, and not

the seven and three quarters which Snod has always sported on his rather

large dome of a head.

History, and family history at that, will be brought to life by the inclusion of a

Singer sewing machine which belonged to Jean Waddell, Carrie’s maternal

grandmother.

I am excited by the prospect of making the intangible tangible.  Oxymoron

creates such dynamic tension!

Thank you for the idea, Orhan.  I won’t expect a Nobel Prize for it as it would

be akin to plagiarism, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

(To understand the exophoric references and intertextuality of this entry,

please refer to previous posts!)

If The Hat Fits

Tags

Augustus Snodbury, avocado bathroom suite, Bradford on Avon, Carmen, Drusilla, Katherine Jenkins, Kathleen Ferrier, Monteverdi, Nigel, Panama, papier mache, Shanks, Sully sur Loire, Toreador song, UVA, UVB

Nigel Milford-Haven sighed as he painted the bathroom ceiling of his mother’s

Cornish bungalow.  He supposed that White With a Hint of Asparagus

complemented her Seventies avocado bath ensemble. Probably retro lovers

would die for a suite like that, but he preferred a clean white Shanks.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes as he used the roller, so he had utilised

the battered Panama which Augustus Snodbury had carelessly left behind

at the seemingly interminable Monteverdi concert he had attended the

previous week.

Nigel intended to produce it with a flourish to the ageing schoolmaster on

their return to St Birinus Middle School at the start of term, but now he had

managed to decorate it with a few paint drips and he wasn’t sure whether

turps would remove them, or would turn the whole item of headgear into a

sort of mushy papier mache mould, redolent of some rare rainforest bird’s

nest.

His wretched mother came in from time to time to inspect the progress.  She

gave him a running commentary on how well other members of their family

were doing and subjected him to lengthy panegyrics concerning the academic

success of his nieces and nephews.  He counted the seconds until she would

commence on her eternal theme as to why he did not have a girlfriend.

This focussed his thoughts on Drusilla.  He wondered if she was

experiencing a similar trial, in that she had been burdened with two parents

this summer.  Would Snod still be hanging around, or would he have moved

on? Not in any transcendental fashion, he corrected himself.  For indeed, Mr

Augustus Snodbury had never been concerned by the vagaries of style and

la mode.  Some men would sport a Panama with a degree of loucheness,

affecting the pose of a lounge lizard who finds himself inadvertently thrust

like a mad dog into the midday sun. But Gus merely donned his particular

straw hat as a shade against contracting any of these nasty scabs which

seemed to irritate his pate and which his GP said were caused by too much

exposure to UVB rays- or was it UVA?  In any case, he wasn’t taking the risk.

Nigel climbed down the ladder, anticipating a cup of tea.  As he stepped off the

final rung, he noticed that the post had arrived and stooped to pick up one or

two letters-mostly junk mail.  To his surprise, he recognised the handwriting of

the school secretary, who had re-directed a postcard which had been

addressed to him. His heart leapt when he saw that it was from Drusilla.  It

featured a chateau- Sully-sur-Loire- and in French was printed the phrase:

Jumelee Avec Bradford-on-Avon, which might explain why they were there.

Dear Nigel,

Having a wonderful time and the parents both in good form.  Something to do

with the house wines?!

Unfortunately Daddy- (!)-has had some sort of sunstroke, so wondered if you

could retrieve his favourite hat and bring it back to school?  He was so

absorbed in the lovely music that he left it on his seat at the interval and,

as you know, we had to rush off as we had left something in the oven.

Thank you so much,

Drusilla Fotheringay.

Hmm, analysed Nigel.  No ‘wish you were here’.

Then he took off the hat and panicked.  How could he return it in that state?

I told you to wear my shower cap, Nige.  Oh, who sent you the postcard?

I do hope it is from a girlfriend..and his mother handed him a china mug, while

simultaneously inspecting his day’s oeuvre.

I doubt it, said Nigel ruefully.  How all things do conspire against me.

Nonsense, retorted his mother.  It’s just a matter of making a bit more effort.

That’s what your school reports always used to say, didn’t they? You just

need to get out and about a bit more.  I’ve got us two tickets for that opera

you were banging on about.  You might meet a nice girl like that Katherine

Jenkins there.

What-Carmen? Nigel was really surprised.  But I’ve got nothing to wear!

He wasn’t entirely sure that Katherine Jenkins was all that his mother

supposed.  Sometimes the mater was not such a good judge of character

as she thought.  Probably she was getting the singer mixed up with

Kathleen Ferrier. More her era.

As to character analysis, Snod usually nailed a miscreant in one damning

report.

Nigel tried to rein in his wandering thoughts.

You can wear your father’s linen jacket.  It was a bit crumpled when you

brought it down from the attic in that old suitcase I asked you to carry, but I

ironed it and the smell of mothballs is not too bad now that I’ve aired it. You

can throw that old thing out, she said, snatching the flattened mess on his

head and putting it in the kitchen bin.  Dismissing his protestation, as if it

was an irritating boy who had finished a rather late detention, she added:

There’s a practically unused hat of your father’s, identical to that one, in the

black sack.  I was going to give it to the charity shop, but you might as well

have it.

And no one was more surprised than Mrs Milford-Haven when her somewhat

reserved son hugged her and danced her round the ladder, humming the

Toreador song.

 

Who’s That Girl?

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, countertenor, HB pencil, John Eliot Gardiner, Monteverdi, Panama hat, St Endellion Festival

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School and Nigel-Milford

Haven, Junior Master, had thoroughly enjoyed the Summer Music Workshop

and its final concert in Bath.  They launched themselves into the next section

of their holidays, humming Monterverdi.

It was true that they had shared a score in the concert, a fact not

unobserved by the keen-eyed Drusilla Fotheringay.  Her vision was more

acute than her discernment, however.  She had left the concert with

a misapprehension, after the interval, which, incidentally, has been

thought by some to be the highlight of such entertainments.

Her interpretation of social relationships had been skewed by her minute

observation of the close interaction of the two singers.  In fact, their

perceived intimacy had been owing to Geoffrey’s pencil having been blunt

and therefore his having to borrow Nigel’s obsessively sharpened HB, to

reduce a semibreve by one beat, as firmly instructed.

Nigel had forgotten his score in his haste to get a position on the front row of

the male participants, where there was some jockeying between the tenors

and countertenors as to precedence.

Divas are found in both sexes, he reflected.

And so the two teachers had shared and halved their logistical problems.

Geoffrey’s heart had skipped a beat when he had spotted that very nice

Housemistress from St Vitus’ School for the Academically Gifted Girl in the

audience.  He had been so discomfited that he had whispered an enquiry to

Nigel and had been glared at by the conductor, who, by-the-by, was NOT

John Eliot Gardiner, nor was meant to be.

Geoffrey then forgot to reduce the semibreve, earning himself a raised

eyebrow which was the equivalent of a bad order mark.

What was she doing in Bath?

He was surprised to see Nigel delivering some glasses of over-priced

rose to the Housemistress and her friends at the intermission.

No, surely not!

There was that old duffer, Augustus Snodbury, the Senior Master.  He was the

bane of Geoffrey’s life, as he was prone to correct the spelling on the

Choirmaster’s End of Term reports, quibbling over the orthographical

differences between practice as a noun and practise as a verb.

Snodbury had also made it his peculiar habit to snaffle the last Bourbon biscuit

in the staffroom, when he ought to have known that Geoffrey was especially

fond of them and looked forward to a couple with his coffee at break.

The weird thing was that the Housemistress seemed to share the same jawline

as the reprehensible old…Geoffrey restrained himself at this point.  He would

ask Nigel about her later on in the pub.  (They were permitted to have some

post-concert refreshments in the local hostelry, as they had had to deny

themselves the fruit of the vine for the sake of musical accuracy.)  But they

were expected to be tucked up in their bunks by eleven thirty, as if they were

still at school- which, in a way, they were.

Being institutionalised, they hardly noticed the restriction to their civil liberties.

So, no rioting in the town square for them.

Yes, I seem to have blown it, Nigel said to himself as he drove down to

Cornwall to check on his peevish mother.

Drusilla hadn’t waited for the second half of the programme. Mind you, she may

very well have left something in the oven..  And so he ruminated over the

events.

Maybe he could earn some Brownie points as he had rescued Snod’s rather

flattened Panama hat, which he had left behind at the ill-fated concert.  He

would return it with a flourish.  If its true owner didn’t mind, the abandoned

headgear might come in useful to screen Nigel’s only just noticed balding area

from the intense rays of the Cornish sun.

He hoped his mother would enjoy The St Endellion Festival.  He hoped to meet

up with Geoffrey there in a few days’ time.

Just Good Friends

Tags

Acis and Galatea, Beatus Vir, Fourth Book of Madrigals, Full Monteverdi, I Fagiolini, Iford Manor, John La Bouchardière, Lower Wraxall, Monteverdi, Panama hat, Peto Gardens, The Full Monty, The Longs Arms

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ School, near Suttonford,

shuffled his fundament in the uncomfortable chairs of the music school

concert.  Actually there was nothing unergonomic about the seating; he had

regrettably sat down on his Panama hat.

Monteverdi wasn’t really his milieu, but Drusilla, his daughter, had been

very keen to attend the Saturday night, end-of-course, culminatory

celebration of this weekly workshop, ever since she had discovered the

crumpled flyer in her handbag.  You will recall, Dear Reader, that Nigel

Milford-haven had given it to her when he had assisted with her luggage,

when they had left the school grounds at the end of term.

Gus’ surprise visit to the mother of his child had been a sudden whim of

Drusilla’s and, over all, the shock hadn’t killed Diana.  She had arranged a

mattress on the floor in her spare room and the disastrous previous

planned reconciliation in Lower Wraxall had been largely forgotten.  In fact,

Snod had treated both females to some rather tasty lunches in The Longs

Arms, in recompence for hospitality received.  They had enjoyed visiting the

Peto gardens at Iford Manor, but Snod’s holiday budget did not run to three

al fresco tickets for Acis and Galatea at £81 a throw.  Anyway, Diana would

have been more interested in a musical on aphids, followed by a cup of tea.

At the interval, a somewhat refreshed-looking Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior

Master, bounced up to the party of three and asked if they had enjoyed the

Beatus Vir. 

His tutelary cobwebs had been blown away in the rehearsals throughout the

week and he had forged a deeper association with Geoffrey Poskett, the school

choirmaster,who had picked up some very useful tips on conducting during the

workshops.

Nigel was so glad that Geoffrey had invited him to take part.  It prevented

him from having to devote too much of his precious school holidays to visiting

his elderly and rather demanding mother in Cornwall.

Nigel was keen to impress Drusilla, so he solicitously brought her a rather

dispiriting glass of unchilled rose and left her mother to the ministrations

of her erstwhile lover.

You are going to adore the second half of the evening, he enthused.  We

have managed to erect-he blushed slightly and flushed a slightly darker

tone than the wine he had just produced –a screen.  We can show part of The

Full Monteverdi film by John La Bouchardiere.

Oh, Drusilla brightened.  Is that the jolly one where the hunky guys strip off?

Eh, no.. I think you are confusing it with a rather more downmarket

production.

He could read her disappointment.  No, it is based on the Fourth Book of

Madrigals.  It is sung by I Fagiolini..

I might have known, thought Dru. He seems over-friendly with that Geoffrey

chap.  She had spotted them sharing a score.  Her Italian wasn’t up to much,

but she could hazard an educated guess as to the meaning of the group’s title

and she didn’t think it had anything to do with beef olives, or a type of haricot.

Each singer is paired with an actor, Nigel explained, and the film reveals their

intense failing relationships.  At the end, all they can do is to contemplate

their lonely lives. He felt that the entire teaching profession would be able to

relate to this juxtaposition of high art and real life.

A pity, decided Drusilla.  He isn’t too bad-looking.  It’s always the same.

Excuse me, she said, handing Nigel the empty glass. I must find my mother.  I

think we may have left something in the oven.

It was one of the least creative excuses he had heard and, believe me, he

had heard quite a few over the years-mostly over non-produced prep.  He took

it that his own non-existent love life was set to continue.

Can I take that glass for you? Suddenly Poskett was at his side.  The film is

about to start.

The three empty chairs-empty except for a battered Panama- hinted at a

failed courtship ritual.  The singers began to weave the mournful agonies of

their complicated webs of interaction.

 

Surprised By Joy

Tags

agape, Bradford on Avon, C S Lewis, centaur, Cubist painting, Evac chair, Galahad, Inkling, James May, Jeremy Clarkson, jousting, Lancelot, Lothario, Monteverdi, Mr Tumnus, petrol head, Stannah stairlift, Surprised By Joy, The Four Loves, Thora Hird, Top Gear

Nigel Milford-Haven was rushing down the stairs which led to the school

vestibule when he almost bumped into Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master,

who was struggling with two suitcases on the landing.  Nigel was just about

to volunteer to sherpa at least one of them, since Old Snod seemed to be

moving in a curiously painful fashion, but then the erstwhile boy scout noticed

the damsel in distress and offered to take her arm and hold her crutch while

she zoomed down the flight on one of those institutional Evac chairs, like a

marginally more attractive Thora Hird going in the opposite direction to her

usual demonstration of a Stannah Stairlift.

He thankfully failed to observe Augustus’ clutching of his own bruised

and battered crotch as he descended the stairwell like a Cubist painting

in motion.

You know, I think we’ve met, the Junior Master said thoughtfully when he

reached the bottom and unstrapped Dru from the safety belt, in a curiously

intimate gesture of assistance.

Yes, it was at the joint schools’ evensong, Drusilla replied, holding onto

the polished banister with both hands, now that they were free. I teach

at St Vitus’.

Mr Milford-Haven, my daughter, Drusilla.

Nigel nearly lost his footing on the last step.  Daughter!  He hadn’t known

that Snod was a married man.  Oh, maybe he wasn’t!  Nigel knew that he,

himself, was rather conventional when it came to that sort of thing.  But who

would have guessed that Old Snod had hidden fires.  Maybe he was a

widower?

Nigel had always viewed Gus as a kind of non-Christian Inkling, if that wasn’t

an oxymoron.  He would ask Matron, Fount of All Information, if she had any

inkling about it. (He was rather pleased with that joke.)

Hmm, Snod as Lothario! Mind you, he was a law unto himself. He had been

known to skip Assembly and Hymn Practices when the Spirit did not move him,

so any level of debauchery was theoretically possible.

Now that he was able to glimpse the woman, she did bear a resemblance

around the jawline.  Did women have jowls?  Would it have mattered to C S

Lewis if they did?  He would probably have still married anyone who needed

a British passport, out of sheer agape.

But it was one of the stronger Four Loves than agape that struck the youthful

form teacher.  He felt Surprised By Joy.

Enchante, he said in his best Franglais. You do seem to have been in the

wars somewhat. I trust that the injury is not too severe?  He shook her hand

vigorously, forgetting that her equilibrium was not yet steady.

He glanced at Snod, but decided to say nothing about the old boy’s

wounded expression.

Let me carry your cases out to your car, sir, he offered in his new-found role

as Sir Galahad.  You look as if someone has kicked you in the..

Yes, all right, Milford-Haven, Snod interrupted, nodding towards Dru, to remind

Nigel that he was in the presence of a female.  Sir Galahad and Lancelot

would not have been employing such non-courtly language, so Snod wasn’t

about to award his daughter as jousting prize to a Knight with No Garter of

Gentilesse.

Having safely stowed Snod behind his own steering-wheel, like Polonius behind

an arras, Nigel carefully took Dru’s crutches from her and placed them in the

boot.

Going anywhere nice then? he enquired, according to the textbook of chat-up

lines.

We are going to my mother’s house in Bradford-upon-Avon, she volunteered.

It’s to be a nice surprise.

Well, that is a surprise indeed, said Nigel, who was completely on the ball

now that the term was over.  You see, I’m going to Bath with Mr Poskett,

the choirmaster, to take part in a Monteverdi workshop for countertenors.

Perhaps you could all come to the final concert on the Saturday?  He felt in

his pocket and took out a crumpled flyer.

Drusilla accepted it and couldn’t help thinking that her father should join

the class as his voice had been elevated by a couple of octaves after the

attack on his crown jewels.  However, she suppressed this amusing thought.

Can’t say it’s my cup of tea, said Gus, winding down the car window and

signalling his eagerness to depart.

Having helped Dru to swivel her fairly attractive legs into the small car, Nigel

mimed a telephone call as Gus reversed.

Call me, he shouted enthusiastically.  The number of the music school is on

the back of the leaflet.

He leapt out of reach of a spray of gravel as Snod pretended to be James May,

or Jeremy Clarkson.  He was showing off to his daughter, who actually

detested Top Gear and all it stood for.  She preferred centaurs to petrol

heads.

I’m surprised that he’s lasted more than a term here, said Snod, a shade

ungraciously, given the logistical assistance that they had just been given.

But Dru had always found the counter tenor voice very alluring.

What is he called? she asked airily.  I didn’t catch his name.

Secretly he reminded her of Mr Tumnus.  Bless!