Tracey

Object 32, Robert Carver’s Exercise Book, 1781

Robert stayed in the music room, drained, dejected – nobody around to applaud. Practise schedule to write up and mistakes to correct. ‘My Grandmother’s Cat’ was a ridiculous piece, with impossible chords. Why couldn’t he play the Bach Prelude in C Minor or Greensleeves; he knew them backwards, with his eyes closed. They were whispering outside – the Piano Pincher and Rotten Rossat; tutting, bemoaning their wasted talents on ‘the talentless boy’. He scribbled their outlines, scoring into the page, two hunched witches with their invisible brims touching, scowling into a cauldron.

“Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and caldron bubble,” he recited, while doodling the blacksmith to make up the third witch.

Heels hurried towards the door. He dived to the hearth and hid his book on the brick shelf an arm’s length up inside. The thick card cover was already dusty and inky, so a little soot wouldn’t betray its hiding place. He swiped at his fringe and dusted down his navy velvet school blazer, then slid and crouched behind the piano.

“Master Carver, you are late for Arithmetic. Your father expects you to have mastered trigonometry by now. And I am not accustomed to failure.”

He jumped and yelled “Surprise,” amused by the irritation he would cause. The hour until luncheon would crawl by, regardless of her demeanour. It was the governess’s duty to be dour and down; to oppress and oppose all attempts at levity. The best he could hope for was a mouse caught beneath her skirts, a dove misdirected into the room, another spontaneous explosion from the kitchen below.

He returned to his desk, opened the lid and slid out his Arithmetic ciphering book, the doodle inside the front cover the only welcome page – his favourite bird watching for worms in a plant pot. More perfectly copied tables of prices, in numbers and words, excruciatingly etched with this intransigent nib. He preferred geometry so he could draw paths to escape, posing as trajectories from an angle.

He craned his neck to the window to look for John or Young Bill, the gardener’s son and stable boy, his only true friends. Would they be playing in the haystacks again?

“Master Carver! What is ……..?

What is this afternoon’s lesson? He hoped for another instalment of Robinson Crusoe or more monstrous characters from the Aeneid. Rotten Rossat – the Harpy, eagle-nosed and straw hair, meanest of claws, primed to snatch his soul. They had to have a weakness. Old Clusters thought him so diligent, but he was too engrossed in his etymology and pipe smoke to spot the plotting behind Robert’s glee.

Gonngggg!

“Luncheon! I musn’t be late!” he tore from his chair, leaving the lid to crash and pen to roll to the floor. More for her to cackle with her covern about. He skidded along the corridor, made a quick check, then threw his leg over the handrail and slid backwards down with a “Whheee” to the centre of the hall.

Rabbit stew? Thyme, sage, rosemary, garlic? Mama must be coming down to eat.