T i m e O u t

The Symphony Part II

The Symphony

Part II

"Did you know him?"

The torch beam illuminated a frail, waxen-faced man slouched in the armchair with complicated breathing apparatus hitched up to his face from a gas cylinder. Despite her shock, the nurse in her prevailed and she touched his neck. It was indeed too late. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie, his grey hair groomed and his face shaven, he looked about sixty.

 "No, I’ve never met him."

 "Are you Margaret Anderson from upstairs?"

 "Yes, why?"

 "This letter is for you."

 "For me?"

 "Yes. It was here. Maybe you should read it upstairs."

 "No, I'm all right. Honestly.”

 The room was now quite chilly..

  “I think it’s ok to switch on the light. That’s better. Would you like a drink?"

 "No, I'm fine. I'm a nurse actually."

“Oh! Really?”

She read the letter.

Christmas Night 10 p.m.

Dear Margaret,

       The last notes have died and you haven't complained. Thank God and thank you for seeing me out. The music will finally bring you to me.

       Everything is going as planned and now I must proceed to the next phase. I owe you an explanation and, with it, I will have realised my dearest wish.

       Congratulations on winning the bet! I've been trying to put this plan into operation for years. I have come to know people and their limits so well. You have outshone them all. Maybe it was the choice of music. I rather think it was the choice of person. Bach only got four days! Verdi got five. Wagner and Strauss and Schubert I can't remember. If Beethoven hadn't worked, next year it was to be Mozart!

You see, my exit was programmed for the Christmas Night after someone had endured my music for twelve nights without complaining. It was a secret promise, my little gamble with life and death and I've won at last. Every year they unwittingly  broke my pact and put me back another year. So little endurance! I never answered their knocking or banging. One after the other, always gone by Christmas, without ever meeting me! How I've wanted to go! How I've hated the waiting!

       But not you. You've made me keep my promise. To myself and to my Emily. My darling Emily who loved music. The only person who ever meant anything to me.

       And because you have shown such resolve and because, like my Emily, you are a good and thoughtful woman, I want to repay you by leaving you this house and the one next door (Have you ever wondered why it’s empty?) to do with as you please. My solicitor will contact you about the details. He has also been instructed that, if you agree, you and your young man are the only people to be present at my funeral. You will both be amply recompensed. I think he will make you a good husband. He has a strong, sincere face and a sense of humour, a rare and precious gift. Having a home to start with will make things easier for you. The rent you so promptly paid has all been put aside for you, too.  Maybe,  with a little more financial security,  you won’t have to be away from each other so much. You will be pleased to know that all my other assets have been donated to research.

 I haven't left this house in the ten years since Emily died so I have no friends or family. I've organised my life by phone and letter.

       I wish you both as happy an existence as I had with my Emily. This past year she has been with me through you. I wish you’d come sooner.

There is silence upstairs. I'm glad you’re sleeping. I wish I could tuck that rug round you and hug you. I won't wake you until the last moment.

       One last thing. Have the sockets over all the doors upstairs removed. They hide my little cameras and microphones. Nobody else, and you, least of all, would have the time or interest to spend as long as I have in front of a television set watching the little lives upstairs unveil in their carefree and imaginary privacy. Their lives, and yours, above all, became mine. That was all there was left as I waited,  year after year.

       And now, dearest Margaret, I must go. I promised Emily that, just as she did for me once when her pain became too much for us to bear, I, too, would go on Christmas Night. I tried to wade through the layers of pain searching for the person I loved but it had engulfed her. She was no longer there. We couldn’t go on. Now, because you’ve been stronger than me, I must join her. I'm glad it's you who’ll see me out. I’m not at all afraid. Really!

The final arrangements will only take a while as everything has long been ready. I hope the spectacle isn’t too much for you.  Again thank you and farewell.

Yours very respectfully,

William Weston m. d.

Margaret had barely time to focus again on the television set opposite the armchair and take in the image of the couch in her living room where she'd earlier dozed off before collapsing in a very unprofessional faint.