T i m e O u t

The Symphony Part I

The Symphony

Part 1

The robust walls and thick carpet offered little solace. Whoever was listening to that music was making sure she wasn't spared one note. For almost a week now, at the stroke of ten each evening, strains of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, Ba-ba-ba-bam!, ba-ba-ba-bam!, blasted up into Margaret Anderson’s flat from the rooms downstairs.

The first night it hadn't annoyed her in the least. She’d just had a refreshing shower and remembered thinking how rare it was to hear any sound, much less music, from down below.

She recollected it startling her on the second night during a film and on the third it had intruded on a romantic coffee-and-cuddle that she and her too-absent, truck-driver boyfriend Paul, had long been orchestrating. She’d apologised to Paul for her inconsiderate neighbours.

The fourth night she'd arrived home just after ten intending to charge downstairs and bang on the connecting-door, hidden at the back of the hallway under the stairs, but the music had suddenly stopped and she didn’t bother.

Last night she’d been on duty and had briefly thought of the music. Now, as she gritted her teeth and sat through this latest rendering of the dreaded music, she saw a pattern. It started at ten o'clock sharp but, with each passing evening, went on for an ever-shortening length of time, then stopped, abruptly. Tonight at twelve minutes past.

In the year she'd been living there, she’d never seen the occupants downstairs. They had separate entrances and their comings and goings didn't coincide. She knew through the agency that it was occupied by the owner. She’d been told nothing more.. The house suited her. She paid the rent at the agency on time and had no interest in prying.

But that music! Tomorrow she would prepare her case and complain officially. Hadn’t the crackpot heard of earphones?

Was it intended as torture? Or a ploy to exasperate her into leaving?

The phone rang as the music resounded. Paul would be over in five minutes with a pizza. How nice! She plumped up the cushions. The violins and cellos stopped at 10.12 just as the doorbell rang.

"I hear Beethoven on the warpath again. Has that lunatic only got one record?”

"It’s over for tonight," she reassured him softly, taking his coat and sinking into his embrace.

The following night the music froze at 10.10. By now she was waiting and calculating, angry for having allowed herself to be caught up in this stupid battle of wits. Was there a timer or did somebody actually wait for the stroke of ten to switch on and then to switch off? Was it an experiment? Why, of course! Christmas! There were three days to Christmas! Some sad, lonely soul doing a countdown to Christmas! That was it! Now that she understood she could tolerate it.    

She made sure she missed the next interlude but, sipping a drink with friends, her eyes wandered to her watch and she hummed the masterpiece. Eight minutes past. It was over. Goodnight Beethoven Lover.

And they say Beethoven was mad! 

Another day’s nursing at the children’s hospital, rushing around, consoling little patients and comforting distraught parents.

Her own parents called to the flat and, unfortunately, were there for the now, very brief, musical rendering. That was their cue to protest. They protested about the din, about inconsiderate people, about high prices and unsuitable boyfriends and nurses working during Christmas. Presently they left and she passed out on the couch, exhaustion depriving her of even one moment to reflect on things.

And the next evening as the music blared for four minutes, she frolicked naked round her living-room, waving her hairbrush to an invisible orchestra. Three days till Christmas and shifts meant Christmas Day on the wards.

The house, a detached two-storey building, had its own large garden. Finding it so reasonably price last January had been quite miraculous. The street on the left and an unoccupied house on the right must be what made the music bearable for the neighbourhood which, she had to admit, was nothing if not discreet. But now she somehow knew Christmas was the deadline. Maybe they knew too. Perhaps it was an annual ritual, which was why nobody had come round to complain.

She remembered the local shopkeeper’s odd remark only the other day:

"Things will be back to normal after Christmas, dear, and you may well be out flat-hunting."

Christmas Eve. Only two minutes to endure, she thought. It was too bitterly cold to venture out even for a short walk and she would not be hounded into driving aimlessly around town so she sipped a glass of wine thinking that these minutes were somehow dedicated to her.

A quick call to Paul who was spending Christmas with his family, then back to the hospital for night duty and work all Christmas Day. And, with that, normality would hopefully be restored to her home life. 

Christmas Night rounds were routine and Margaret rushed home. She wanted to be there. She and this person had in some bizarre way ushered in Christmas together. Tonight she would knock on his door or maybe he would knock on hers. Was it a he? Somehow she or they didn’t fit.

Ten o'clock. Two bars Ba-ba-ba-bam, Can-you-come-down? at maximum volume. Then silence. She would go down. Not in anger though. She rehearsed her piece.

I can’t say I've enjoyed the music but I wanted to meet you. How about a drink and some hospital Christmas cake?

First, though, just two minutes on the couch.

The blaring startled her out of her sleep. It couldn’t be ten o’clock again. No! It was midnight and it was starting all over and louder than she'd ever heard it.

Windows crashed open, "Turn that off!" and banged shut. Dogs barked. Sheer bedlam in the neighbourhood.

That smell? She had to get out.

Go down! No, wait! A siren! Police!

She rushed down to the insistent ringing on the doorbell, pointing as she opened it to the communicating door under the stairs. Two officers rushed past her.

 "It's gas," one of them shouted over the din. They pushed and the door gave immediately. It hadn’t been locked!

 "Don't come in!" She knew better and waited.

Shuffling in the darkness, they disconnected the gas. Windows were thrown open, the stereo was located and switched off. The sudden silence startled her.

"He's gone, I'm afraid!" The officer’s tones were of one used to such discoveries, even on Christmas Night.

The policeman threw her a cloth as she stepped into the kitchen. The odour was pungent. An image she couldn’t pin down flickered on the silent television that, in the confusion, the officer hadn’t switched off.