Ellie and the Harpmaker by Hazel Prior

Author:Hazel Prior
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2019-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

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The night is raw, starlit and frosty. The roads are covered in a thin film of white. They haven’t been salted so I drive with utmost care until I reached the edge of Christina’s village, where they are a bit clearer. She comes out to meet me, swathed head to toe in pashminas, scarves and boots. She looks colorful and stylish. She makes me wish I’d made more of an effort. Still, my agenda tonight isn’t to try and impress anyone, just meet a couple of people if I can.

Slow traffic crawls around the outskirts of Taunton. We’re running late and it takes me some time to find the church, then there’s nowhere to park nearby. I eventually leave the car four streets away and Christina and I end up running. We arrive at the church, panting, just as the concert is about to start.

We slip into a pew near the back. I take a brief look around. There are plenty of elderly couples, but I can’t see any small boys at all.

Rhoda’s harp is placed at the front. The lighting glistens on its strings and sweeps over its frame with glowing amber brushstrokes.

“Wow!” cries Christina. “Is yours like that?”

“Smaller. But similar, yes,” I boast.

When Rhoda steps onto the stage the audience lets out a gasp. She is svelte and stunning in a golden dress that hugs the curve of her hips then drops in shimmering layers to the floor. Her hair hangs in a single perfect coil over one shoulder. Her slinky black gloves reach up to her elbows. She smiles graciously and makes a show of sliding them off finger by finger before she sits down at the harp.

From the moment she begins playing we are all transported. Notes call to each other, flutter and echo across the arches of the old building. Arrangements of folk melodies, classical pieces and familiar carols ring out, each enhanced by the fey quality of the harp. We drink them all down with relish.

“God, I think I’m in love with her!” whispers Christina in my ear.

“Shut up and listen,” I hiss.

The intermission arrives in no time. The audience moves en masse to the back of the church, where mulled wine is being served.

Rhoda is some time joining the throng, but when she does I aim myself straight at her. She’s already deep in conversation with a small, sharp-nosed man. Her guitarist friend hasn’t come for reasons I can only guess.

I butt in. “Rhoda, that was fantastic, fabulous! Really moving!”

She inclines her head. “Thank you, Ellie.”

“May I introduce my friend Christina, who is a great fan of yours.” Christina darts an arch look at me but shakes Rhoda’s hand, her bangles jingling.

“And this is Pete.” Rhoda indicates the diminutive man. “He plays the cello.” I shake his hand, then let him talk to Christina for a minute while I ask Rhoda if her parents have come to support her this evening.

“Yes, of course. That’s Mum over there in the navy skirt and jacket, and Dad with her, with the bald head.

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