We gathered every day at eleven. Sheila was three minutes early, as always, because her watch was three minutes fast. I knew that it shouldn't, but it annoyed me. I didn't dare say anything. The others arrived punctually. By the time we were all settled in our seats it was five past. Every day, at five past eleven, we would start playing.
We began with the Mozart. Balance, poise, control. A deep, sonorous pedal lay beneath the treble interplay, until the resolution brought perfect symmetry. Every day, at half past eleven, the cadence resolved in perfect symmetry.
We would then move on to Beethoven. Dissonances handled with masterful skill, to establish a drama and emotional relationship between the four of us and our instruments. We felt the vibrations resonate throughout the spruce chambers, their bodies close to ours.
We continued on with Schuhbert's dark, sparse quartets, and then explored Britten.
"I like this." I told the others, after a losing myself in the romantic harmony we had been playing. "I like this a lot."
Sheila nodded, with a half smile, and turned to look out of the window.
"But who'll hear us?" she asked.
Brought out of my trance, I looked across at her, blankly.
We continued to play, every day at five past eleven. Mozart, Beethoven, Schuhbert, Britten. The sonorous pedal seemed duller than usual. Perhaps it was the cold weather.
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