Losing My Identity Page 2

  Rehearsals are held weekly (summer excepted) in a central Glasgow location.

  Prospective members must be able to read music, although formal vocal training is not a prerequisite. Membership is via audition, and we advertise from time to time in the local press when fresh members are sought.

  The conductor is Phyllida Logan. There was a picture of the said Phyllida in elaborate evening dress, looking extremely full of her own importance. It was an excellent likeness, though Leila reckoned it had clearly been taken several years ago.

  She was late. She’d left the house with plenty of time to spare, but as always underestimated how long it would take to find a space in the parking purgatory that was central Glasgow, even on a Thursday evening. She spent more than twenty minutes driving round in ever-increasing circles and ever-increasing desperation, so she was last to arrive at the practice room the choir used in the old Athenaeum building (she obviously had considerable pull with the people who counted, the Logan creature!). She had a horror of being late, making an entrance, making people stare.

  ‘Ah,’ trilled Phyllida as Leila finally slunk through a door that creaked like leaky bellows. ‘I thought perhaps you’d lost your way.’ She tapped the lectern in front of her with a small wooden baton. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is our new recruit to the contralto section, Dr Leila Ghazali.’

  ‘Just Leila.’ Damn, don’t sound so apologetic, Ghazali! ‘Vets don’t get to call themselves “doctor”.’ Although we go through a training every bit as comprehensive. More so, in fact. We need to be able to deal with anything from a gerbil to an alligator. How many doctors have to treat varied species? The RCVS had made application, to whomever they needed to apply, for permission for vets to call themselves ‘Doctor’. But Leila didn’t imagine Phyllida wanted to know that. In any case, she’d never wanted to be referred to as ‘Doctor’, and have strangers telling her about their bad backs and peculiar rashes.

  Phyllida bared her perfect teeth. ‘Oh.’ Capped, thought Leila. She’s not so much younger than me, and no one our age has teeth that perfect. ‘Dr… Leila sang madrigals when she was at Cambridge.’ That was what had swayed it at the audition. Leila had picked up on the other woman’s distaste for her from the start, although the grey-haired men who formed the other two-thirds of the audition panel had been much more welcoming. But when she’d mentioned her previous experience (her only previous experience) of choral singing, Phyllida’s ears had pricked up like a Jack Russell’s at the mention of Cambridge. Ah, one of them, Leila had concluded. A snob in every way.

  ‘Let’s all say welcome to Leila.’

  There was a chorus of muttered welcomes. One voice seemed to stand out as sincere. She looked up into warm, molasses-coloured eyes with plenty of laughter-lines at the corners. They belonged to a very tall man. She was used to looking men straight in the eye, rather than having to look up. He was not at all fat, but strongly-built and broad-chested. Bald/shaved head. Whatever: shiny. Not what the world calls handsome (nose too big for that, ears a tad too prominent). But oozing self-confidence. An air of being happy in his own skin. Someone who’d drawn the good cards in life.

  She had one of those buckling-at-the-knees moments she thought she’d left behind in her teens. It reminded her of getting a mild electric shock (she knew what that felt like, after a fair share of chance encounters with electric fences). And it was unexpected.

  As she glanced at him again – she couldn’t help herself – he gave an eyebrow-flash of greeting; that universal signal that not only humans but apes and horses and dogs and cats and probably gerbils recognise. He had the most amazing eyebrows. Dark and lush, and superbly mobile. Elegantly curved, with a small down-flick at each side.

  Leila cast an eye over the rest of the assembly and smiled to herself. Mr Molasses-Eyes and she were going to find they had at least one thing in common. They exchanged the conspiratorial smirk of outsiders.

  ‘Dr Gha.. Leila, I think it’s best if you take the place in front of Professor Gill,’ said Phyllida. ‘Since we are not a large assemblage, I prefer the layered STBA format. My sopranos in front of my tenors, and my altos in front of my basses,’ she added in response to Leila’s blank look.

  A handful of choir members shuffled sideways and Molasses-Eyes grinned, gesturing to the space created in front of him, at the end of the row. As Leila scuttled into place, Phyllida leant her chin on her hand and contemplated the effect. ‘Hmmm. Perhaps not… No, that’s best. Stay there.’

  Leila could sense, rather than hear, him start to giggle silently. She wanted to giggle too. All it needed was a taller-than-average mixed-race tenor and soprano for balance and the Kelvin Chorale would have looked like a badger’s snout. But as well as arranging her singers by vocal range, Phyllida apparently liked to arrange them by height. So there was no option.

  She felt a warm hand touch her shoulder; the briefest of gestures. ‘Hello, Leila,’ he said softly. ‘I’m Harry.’ She was momentarily taken aback by the fact his accent was as solidly Glaswegian as hers would have been had she not taken pre-emptive action. She was even more taken aback by how that fleeting contact made her feel.

  This wasn’t what she’d joined a choir for. Feeling men’s eyes on her when she entered a room was a burden she’d been happy to shed. But still… In spite of all her resolutions, she felt her spirits rise.

  The practice session was focused on the two set pieces for the Choir of the Year competition. Mozart’s Ave Verum was easy-peasy. Everyone knew that one. But John Farmer’s Fair Phyllis I Saw was a whole different proposition. Leila felt she made a decent fist of it. Phyllida didn’t agree. Three times she halted proceedings and glared in Leila’s direction. Finally, she knocked the sheets of music on the floor in her agitation.

  ‘You’re all over the place, Leila. You need to concentrate. I thought you said you were accustomed to singing madrigals? This is, believe it or not, a madrigal.’

  Leila wilted.

  She heard a sharp intake of breath behind her, followed by a good-natured chortle. ‘Come on, Phyll, you’ll put the poor girl off!’ His speaking voice was remarkably similar to his singing voice: dark chocolate velvet. She felt, once again, a soft, reassuring pressure on her shoulder. She felt her head fill with fantasies of what it’d be like to feel that touch often. She started to blush uncontrollably.

  But Madame wasn’t done yet. ‘Professor Gill. You know it’s just over a month until the competition. This is the main piece upon which we shall be judged.’

  ‘And you know that we’ve been short of a really fine contralto for more than a year.’ Now the voice was like a scalpel. ‘What’s the point of frightening away the best one we’ve ever had? Since I’ve been a member anyway.’

  Phyllida puffed out her feathers. ‘Well, try harder to concentrate, Leila. Right.’ She picked up her music and clapped her hands. ‘Coffee time.’

  Leila almost fled but was waylaid by one of the men who’d been on the audition panel. Andrew someone-or-other. ‘Take no notice of Phyllida,’ he said, steering her towards a table where cups were laid out. ‘Her bark’s infinitely sharper than her teeth. She always gets nervous before the competition.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of Phyllida!’ Have to deal with ill-tempered cows on a regular basis. And I have my ways of dealing with them. She smiled grimly at the thought of shoving Phyllida into a crush-crate and slamming the gate on her.

  She paid perfunctory attention to Andrew’s attempts to engage her in conversation, but couldn’t resist being rude enough to keep scanning the rest of the room over his shoulder. As everyone started to drift back towards the choir format, Molasses-Eyes was still missing.

  ‘Harry’s probably had to slip away,’ said Andrew. ‘Occasionally happens, if he gets called out in an emergency.’

  What the hell kind of emergency does a professor have – emergency essay marking? Leila felt disproportionately disappointed.

  ‘What’s he a professor of?’ She was relieved to hear her voic
e sound as casual as she’d intended.

  Andrew guffawed. ‘That’s just Phyllida. She’s besotted with anyone who has a title. Harry’s a professor right enough, but that’s not his main job. He’s a pathologist.’

  Leila was so keen to get home quickly when the session finished that she positively sprinted to the car.

  But discipline was important. After parking in her usual space at her gate (possibly a mark of being held in some esteem: it was a rare day indeed when she found that space occupied by anyone else’s car), she remembered to take a moment to admire the snowdrops still in bloom in the tiny strip of front garden that stretched on either side of the path. Under the street lights, they had no sparkle, but they were alive. She must remember to buy some cheerful annuals for the late spring and summer. Busy Lizzies and begonias, to cheer the place up. The sorts of flowers her grannie had loved but Greer had despised as ‘garish’.

  Her home was on the ground floor and had its own front entrance – what they called a ‘main door’ flat, one of only four in the whole of Roseisle Drive. There were just two steps up to the door. She was grateful for that. After all, plenty of women her age were trapped on the twenty-sixth floor of someplace like Red Road, unable to get out because the lifts were permanently broken. Stairs: good for the heart, murder for the knees.

  It had been her home ever since Greer had brought her back from Rottenrow Maternity Hospital in 1950. Well – she had left it when she went to university and hadn’t lived there again permanently until within the last five years, since her mother had died. But it had always been home.

  It suited her. Dennistoun was an area that had experienced ups and downs over the years, though the streets of red sandstone tenements known as the Drives had always considered themselves a cut above the rest.

  She locked the front door carefully and went through to the kitchen – her second favourite room in the house. While the kettle boiled, she fired up the laptop and googled Harry Gill’s name. Not just ‘a’ pathologist. As far as high-level forensic work in a sizeable chunk of Scotland was concerned, he was the pathologist. A very private person, it would seem. He had left as little of a trail as she had herself. No social media presence – unless he used an alias. The Glasgow University website had a picture of him (looking somewhat dour), and a sizeable list of papers he’d published. An expert in stab wounds, apparently. He’d taken his degrees in Glasgow. Local boy makes good.

  Presumably that meant he worked in the creepy old police mortuary, down by Glasgow Green?

  Man of mystery! But after all, she was aware that when she googled her own name, the only results were links to a handful of co-authored papers on bovine mastitis…

  To her annoyance, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way Gill had looked at her. Bugger! What did it matter? She wouldn’t go back to the Kelvin Chorale. Phyllida could find another contralto. It was never pleasant to have one’s equilibrium disturbed. As bad as trying to relax in a quiet swimming pool and being joined by a crawl fanatic who created tidal waves. Irritating beyond words.

  I don’t need this. Too much effort.

  She was about to slam the laptop shut when, through force of habit, she googled Beatrice’s name again.

  Still just that single hit – well, of course it was. What else was ever going to be written about her friend, unless she wrote it?

  Beatrice Rosemary Atkins (deceased)

  Pursuant to the Trustee Act (1925) any persons having a claim against the Estate of the aforementioned deceased, late of Flat 2/1, Ryvoan, Highbury Road, Lyme Regis, who died on or about 5th March 2013, are requested to send particulars of such claim or interest, in writing, to the undersigned on or before 6th June 2013, after which date the Estate will be distributed having regard only to the claims and interests of which they have had notice.

  Barclay, Jones and Stevens, Solicitors, Old Bank House, Syme Street, Dorchester.

  Two

  But of course, Leila found herself making her way to the Athenaeum again the following week. She had thought about it – or, more accurately, about Harry Gill’s eyes, and his superlative eyebrows – all week as she drove around the highways and byways of south-west Scotland in mucky, dark, late winter weather. She hummed the contralto part of Fair Phyllis until it was locked into her brain.

  She was flattered by his attention. There: she’d admitted it. Although her comparatively exotic colouring, and the fact she’d kept her figure trim and her skin well-cared-for meant the cloak of invisibility hadn’t descended so quickly as it does for some women, descend it had. It was enervating but exhilarating to know a man saw her. And not an elderly no-hoper like Andrew. A sexy, attractive man.

  She decided not to take the car, so that she had greater control over the timing of her arrival. There was an excellent bus service from Duke Street to George Square, and Leila had never minded buses.

  Phyllida had obviously thought better of her attitude over the intervening days. She went out of her way to praise Leila’s singing; so sickly-sweet as to be nauseating.

  Damn Harry Gill! Leila had seen him whisper something in Phyllida’s ear before the rehearsal started. Not needed! She could fight her own battles. Always had. But still, when he did the eyebrow-flash thing and smiled at her, she decided that she could forgive him for the interference.

  Andrew commandeered her again at the tea-break, but Harry Gill was there for the duration. As she headed slowly for the exit at the end, Harry caught up with her.

  ‘So you’re glad you decided not to flee after last week – you reckon you’ll stick with it?’

  He reached up to hold the heavy outer door open. Hell’s teeth! He has a Rolex. Sam always made do with Patek Philippe. Leila smirked to herself. He had beautiful hands all the same: long-fingered, elegant, perfectly-groomed nails. And on the ring finger of that left hand: a wedding ring. She recoiled. Hard pass, brother. I don’t do married men.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she snapped. ‘I enjoy singing.’

  ‘I’m glad. We desperately needed someone as good as you. I hoped Phyll hadn’t scared you off. Sorry I had to rush away last time.’

  ‘Yes, Andrew said you often get called away.’

  He fell into step alongside her. ‘Where are you parked?’

  ‘I never bring the car into town in the evenings.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Do you have far to go?’

  ‘Not too far. There are plenty of buses.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Can I offer you a lift?’ He held out his right hand, palm up. ‘It’s starting to spit.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll be fine. Got to dash. See you next week.’

  And Leila cantered off into what was now appreciably rain. She was so angry that she didn’t wait for a bus. She’d walk all the way home, even if she got soaked in the process.

  Stupid, stupid bitch, Leila. At your age! Just forget it. If you still enjoy the music part after next week, keep going. If not, tell the Phyllida creature you’ve changed your mind. Or become a soprano and get to stand at the other side. Or join some other choir. Whatever.

  As soon as she was round the corner and well out of his sight, she hailed a cab.

  She immersed herself in work all the following week. It was easier when she had some travelling to do. Not that the journey to Thurso in February could be described as pleasant; but she always stayed at the same hotels and B&Bs; the tried and tested ones with log-burners in the sitting room, and comfortable beds.

  Before she’d had time to take stock of what to do about the choir, it was Thursday again.

  At the start of every practice, Phyllida set the Kelvin Chorale to singing the Hallelujah Chorus, to ‘get everyone into a positive mind-set, and warm up those vocal chords’. As they belted out the Hallelujahs, Leila was more than ever conscious of Harry Gill’s voice behind her.

  While the singers gathered their breath and their thoughts, she felt his fingers brush the back of her hair. She turned sharply.

  ‘Spider,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think
you’d want it down the back of your neck.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of spiders! What have you done with it? Don’t hurt it!’

  He opened a large paw, to display the creature snug and lively in his palm. It was one of those house spiders with superfluously long legs. Leila was actually none too keen on them. Still grinning, he walked to the nearest window, opened it slightly and carefully decanted the spider onto the sill outside. Everyone laughed. Leila could imagine the others telling one another, ‘Oh, he is a card, that Harry Gill.’

  He was there for the entire session that week. He made a point of following her to the coffee table.

  ‘You’re in good voice tonight.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’

  He reached forward ostentatiously with his left hand. ‘Milk?’

  She did in fact take milk in coffee – she found it too bitter without – but she wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. No ring, although the mark where it had been was glaringly obvious.

  ‘No thanks.’

  She spun on her heel, managing to spill scalding liquid over her hand, and made a beeline for the group Andrew was standing with.

  Honestly, married men! That one must think I came up the Clyde on a banana boat. Probably I shouldn’t even think that phrase nowadays. Sounds pretty racist, though you’d hear Glaswegians say it all the time when I was young…

  She avoided Harry’s eye and his company for the rest of the evening as far as she could, since for the next hour he was so close behind her she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. When the practice ended, she grabbed her coat and sprinted for the door. She thought she might manage to get round the corner onto George Street before he emerged, but he caught up with her.

  ‘No car tonight either?’

  ‘I’ll get the bus. Or walk.’

  ‘You live in town?’

  ‘Not too far. Dennistoun.’