Page 88 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I did. It’s shockingly easy to make. I’m more impressed by the wine. I got this in Carrickfergus! It’s from the Medoc. You can get actually get good plonk now.”

“Oh, yeah? Not much of a wine drinker, to be honest.”

“You’re quite the man, though, aren’t you? Fixing sinks, scaring ruffians off my lawn.”

“That impressed you?” I said self-mockingly. But she appeared to actuallybeimpressed by my seeing off those two-bit skinhead hoods.

“You must have some bad qualities,” she said.

“Oh, yes! I’ve recently begun writing verse in my free time,” I said.

“Yikes! Me too. Let’s avoid that whole minefield, shall we?” she said with a laugh. “I hear you’re a music buff,” she said.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Mrs. Campbell says you have the biggest record collection in Carrickfergus.”

“She’s exaggerating. And most of it is in Scotland anyway,” I replied, secretly pleased by this.

“She says someone can play you any record in the world and you’ll know what it is.”

“That’s a complete fabrication.”

“Go on, then. What’s that on the radio in the living room?”

I put down my fork and cocked an ear to Radio 3 coming from the feeble speakers of her ancient stereo.

Shostakovich.

Unmistakable. But which symphony?

She was looking at me, a lovely smile creasing her lips. She was really something. Gray-eyed and long-haired and doughy and feminine, the antithesis of Beth, short-haired, slender.

I took another sip of wine and refilled both our glasses.

The symphony soared and stamped in that way that only Shostakovich can carry off without obvious bombast.

“So, do you know who the composer is? Bear in mind, you could say anything and I wouldn’t know if you were bulshitting me or not.”

I listened to a few more bars. Yeah, of course, it was his tenth symphony. The one Shostakovich wrote after Stalin’s death, or, rather, the one he claimed he’d written after Stalin’s death, although in fact most of it was done by 1951, according to his pupil who became his mistress.

Disappointment flitted across her face as she assumed that I, in fact, didn’t know. It’s a weakness of men—this desire to show off for attractive young women.

You don’t need to do it, Duffy. This is just a nice dinner with the next door neighbor. Eat your food and go, mate. Don’t give in to the bloody weakness. Wise the bap...

She looked glumly down at her plate. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony number Ten, the third movement—the movement where he’s kind of homaging Mahler. And I believe it’s the Berlin Philharmonic with Herbert von Karajan conducting.”

She looked up and grinned. “For real, or are you yanking me?”

The third movement ended, and breaking the between-movements protocol of silence, the Radio 3 continuity announcer reminded listeners what channel they were on and what they were listening to: “It’s just after six-thirty, this is BBC Radio Three, you are listening to the 1981 recording of Shostakovich’s Symphony number Ten, with the Berlin Philharmonic conducted by Herbert von Karajan.”

She put down her fork and grinned. “Fuck me!” she said.

This was a parlous moment. She was beautiful, and we’d nearly finished the bottle of wine.

“I know you’re brave, I know you’re handy, and now I know you’re clever too!” she said, delighted.

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