Chapter 8

In the morning, though, when I was looking forward to making love again, Dora rolled out of bed in a hurry. “Come on – I want to go to church.”

Okay. We dressed, hurriedly, and trotted the half-mile to the village, where the church notice board informed us of an early communion at eight (it was half past by the time we got there) and a family service at eleven. Dora’s shoulders slumped and she turned away. “We’re expected for lunch at your parents,” she reminded me, unnecessarily. “I suppose we need to leave at half-ten?”

“About that. But we can have some breakfast first.” We made our way, more slowly, back to the van where Dora insisted on cooking up a substantial breakfast, and I wasn’t arguing. I showered while she was cooking, and she did so after we’d eaten. By that time, of course, it was about time to get on Oscar and go.

We made an arc around Sheffield, crossing the moors by the Strines road with its steep hills and hairpin bends and were at my parents’ just after midday. Dora was immediately swept off into the kitchen with Mum and Zsófia, and Dad thrust a glass into my hand.

“You’ll like this one,” he said, in the tone of voice which meant, ‘you’d better like it if you know what’s good for you’, “Glen Grant. A friend brought this back from Scotland last week. It’s cask strength, but I’ve added a little more water than usual.”

I sipped. It was smooth, with only a hint of the smoky, pungent flavour of the more distinctive malts. “Very nice,” I said.

“It seems that Panna’s father is not reconciled to her choices, sadly. But Zsófia is determined to come to the wedding, with or without him.”

Sunday lunch is almost a ritual in my parents’ home. A roast – beef in that case – Yorkshire pudding, roast and mashed potatoes, seasonal vegetables, gravy, sometimes a sauce with the veg. There was little opportunity for chatter as we set to, nor, after that, for the rhubarb and apple crumble and ice-cream to follow. A smooth Merlot with the beef and Port after the meal left us all pretty mellow as we adjourned to the lounge. As Dora was sitting, however, Dad produced a wooden case from behind the sofa.

“Dora, this is for you to use, on indefinite loan,” and laid it on the coffee table in front of her. “It’s by Stefano Scarampella, who I’m told is one of the best makers of our era.”

I had thought she’d handled the flute with reverence – and she had – but she gasped as she opened the case and saw what it contained. So did I, come to that. The wood seemed to glow; it was one of the most beautiful man-made objects I have ever seen. She lifted it out, her entire attention fixed on it, and we all watched as she plucked the strings, fiddled (I didn’t mean to make that pun) with the tuning knobs, added the shoulder rest and finally lifted the bow to finish tuning.

She stood to play, and I’m sure she was oblivious to anything except the instrument under her chin. As when she first played my recorders, then the flute, it was obvious that she hadn’t handled a violin for some time, but even so the melodies flowed from them – Dora and the violin were clearly a couple, not one human handling an inanimate object – Bach partitas and sonatas, some of which she’d played on the flute, Hindemith, Kreisler, others I didn’t recognise even when she told me the names of the composers afterwards.

Mum and Dad were enthralled, their expressions beatific, but Zsófia was in floods of tears.

Dora ended with a Paganini caprice and gently laid the instrument back in its case, only to be wrapped in her mother’s arms, Zsófia still weeping copiously. Dora embraced her mother and held her gently until Zsófia calmed enough to speak. “Darling, I’m so sorry! I knew you were good, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? And I did not support you!”

And Dora stood there, holding her, stroking her back and crooning to her. Then, she kissed her mother on the cheek, whispered something in her ear, and released her.

Dora and her mother sat together on a sofa, but I didn’t mind too much. Mum and Dad asked her if she missed her friends and, after a few moments, she responded that she’d never had close friends. Other than the school orchestra and music classes, she’d been too restricted to build close relationships with the other students and, of course, the music was too demanding in itself. Her mother sniffed, clearly upset about her daughter’s upbringing, but Dora just hugged her. “I didn’t really mind, actually,” she said. “The music was what was important. It was only in my final year that I became unhappy, when it was obvious that Dad wasn’t going to even consider my going to college. And I wasn’t ready to marry and settle down; certainly not with any of the young men in our circle of acquaintances. None of them cared about anything except sports and booze.”

“Oh, darling...”

“Nnnno, Mum. Water under the bridge. I’ve got my Steve, and I may be off to College.”

A light, early tea, and Dora and Zsófia were loaded in the car to take the latter to the train which would get her home to Edinburgh. Mum and Dad didn’t try to park, and left Dora and me to see her mother off on the train. Then it was back to Hope, with that precious violin in a special case which fitted on Dora’s back like a rucksack; to cuddle, make love languorously, and sleep wrapped together in the cosy double bunk over the cab of the van.

The next day Dora insisted on accompanying me to Sheffield. It wasn’t really necessary, but she wanted to shop for fresh vegetables and whatever meat might be available. I also arranged to meet her at lunch-time. At Icomsec, I was greeted by Franz and a good-looking, if stern, woman, the head of Human Resources.

“Welcome, Steve,” Franz smiled. “Let me introduce you to Emily Manton? She’s head of HR.”

“Thank you, um, Franz.” I held out a hand to the woman. “Good to meet you, Ms. Manton.”

“It’s mutual, Mister Thompson.”

“I’m hoping,” Franz inserted, “that we can have lunch together?”

“I’m expecting to meet my fiancée,” I prevaricated.

“Well, in no way would I interfere with that, but perhaps she could join us?”

“I’ve failed to get her a new phone, and her old one isn’t usable...” I sighed. “I’d have liked to at least warn her of this, but she’s to meet me at reception at twelve-thirty. I hope that fits with your arrangements?”

“Certainly! And Emily will be joining us, too, if you have no objections?”

“Not at all.” I suppressed another sigh. Their arrangements were certainly perfectly reasonable.

Ms. Manton whisked me off to HR, where I ploughed through a mountain of paperwork. To my surprise, we actually finished in time for our lunch, though all the arrangements, such as reinstating my pension, would occupy HR for several weeks in all probability. She accompanied me to reception, where Dora was waiting, perched on one of their chairs. I say perched, because while they were quite comfortable, Dora was clearly nervous and sitting on the edge of one, rather than relaxing. She saw me coming and stood abruptly. I greeted her with the warmest hug I thought I could get away with in the realm of propriety.

“Dora, I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Emily Manton, who is head of HR here. We’ve been invited to eat with Mister Franz van Walters, the Executive Director and Ms. Manton will be joining us. Ms. Manton, my fiancée, Panna Bock.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bock. Welcome to Icomsec.”

“Thank you, Ms Manton. How do you do?”

“I do very well, now that Mister Thompson has agreed to join the team. Mister van Walters has been desperate to claim your fiancé’s abilities. I understand that you are responsible in part for Mister Thompson’s agreement.”

Dora looked at me and I nodded. “I might have accepted anyway, but I needed to settle in order to provide you with a suitable place to live. Icomsec have offered me a deal which would have been hard to refuse anyway.”

She gave me a look which said, ‘we’ll be discussing this in full later’, and tucked her arm in mine just as Franz appeared.

“Ah, Franz – my fiancée, Panna Bock.”

He smiled. “Indeed. It’s good to meet you, Miss Bock. I hope you don’t mind my hijacking your lunch with Steve?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good. Shall we go?”

The company provided two catering outlets; one, while offering a wide range of decent food and beverages, concentrating on rapid service with a cafeteria arrangement, while the other offered a ‘silver service’ environment. It would not be the place I would normally eat, as I prefer to get my food, eat it, and digest for a few minutes, rather than wait to be served, eat slowly, then leave. But there’s no doubt it was quieter, gave us more opportunity to chat, and a more interesting menu, too.

By the end of the meal, we’d explained ‘Dora’ and we were ‘Dora and Steve’, and they were ‘Emily and Franz’. We were given a tour. The company had moved since I worked for them before and the premises were new to me. Dora, well, she was polite and I expect she enjoyed seeing where I was going to work but for the most part none of it was particularly interesting to her, other than my office which she examined with an audible sniff.

“I know,” Franz laughed, “but he can decorate it how he likes once he moves in.”

We left Oscar in the basement car park and walked into town. I wasn’t too impressed with the mobile phone contract offers, and ended up collecting Oscar and paying a call on Tesco’s. A new smart phone, some paperwork and money and Dora was the proud possessor of the ability to contact me – and vice versa.

For the rest of the week, I began to get to know my colleagues and find my place in the organisation. I don’t want to get into that, not that it might not interest others of a similar bent, but it’s not really relevant to the development of my relationship with Dora.

Sometimes, inevitably, I didn’t get to knock off work as early as I’d like and if Dora had come to town with me she had to wait for me. Happily, she was allowed to use one of our conference rooms to study or practice. During the main part of the day she was at the University, making use of their facilities to blow the rust off her keyboard technique. She met and impressed some of the Music Department faculty. And they were impressed.

The big day came round. Dora spent the night before with my parents and her mother; her father, as predicted, was ‘otherwise occupied’. I arrived at the Town Hall in my one good suit. Dora, in a daffodil-yellow dress that went perfectly with her shiny, dark brown hair, came to stand beside me on my father’s arm. A few of my colleagues who had known me previously, Franz van Walters, Emily Manton and a couple of University staff I knew by sight, joined Dora’s and my mother to watch us become legally one. I hadn’t expected an audience, at least, not more than immediate family, but Mum and Dora had colluded over the arrangements. A meal at an adjacent hotel, mercifully short and to the point speeches, and Dora and I rode the train out to Hope.

Our honeymoon consisted mainly of looking at houses, but we did spend a few days on Oscar, though we returned to Hope each night. I was tempted by a large Victorian edifice in a leafy area less than half a mile from the University, but the price tag of just under half a million, combined with the cost of running the place, made it prohibitive. Not too far away, though, we found a large terrace which had been extensively modernised. Now Sheffield terraces range from ‘two up, two down, with an off-shot kitchen’ to what we found, which had lounge, dining room and kitchen, plus entrance hall, on the ground floor, three bedrooms and bathroom on the first floor and a large, but well insulated attic, lit by dormer windows facing north and south. Dora fell in love with the attic room immediately.