trip out on a sunny weekend, buying her some chocolate on the way and then eating it in her room because, after all, she can’t eat it herself, can she? – but I absolutely refuse to be told by some dried-up matron when I should do so.
As I refuse to be told by anybody what I should do.
In any case, I have plans for this weekend and I expect to be particularly busy. So many of my research projects are about to come to fruition – glorious transformations, not to be missed.
Briarstone Chronicle
August
Death of Pianist ‘Tragic Waste’
The body of former concert pianist Noel Gardiner was discovered at the Catswood home he shared with his partner, vocalist Larry Scott, last Sunday. It is believed the body of Mr Gardiner had lain undiscovered for ‘some time’, according to police sources.
Mr Scott’s death from a heart attack at the age of 59 was reported by the Chronicle in May. Friends said yesterday that Mr Gardiner had become very withdrawn following the bereavement.
‘We tried to get him out and about,’ said a friend, who did not wish to be named. ‘But he missed Larry dreadfully. They were always together.’
Noel Gardiner was a talented musician who had performed with orchestras around the world. Tributes poured in following the announcement of his death and several bouquets have been laid outside the house in Lenton Lane.
Obituary: page 46.
Noel
The first time I saw him, I knew he was the one. Knew it the way they always said I would, even though I’d never believed in true love. I laughed at the people who did.
He was singing tenor in the choir and I was the last-minute replacement brought in when some old dear cried off. I played my little heart out that night, I can tell you. Looking at him when I dared to, which wasn’t often, and drinking him in like wine, letting him spread through my veins like the first taste of alcohol. I wasn’t brave enough to speak to him after the concert but luckily for me he’d noticed me looking at him and came strolling over to ask me to show him where the best place for a nightcap was.
I took him to the Black Bull, because I knew none of the others would be in there – I didn’t want to share him. I wanted him just for myself. If he was surprised by the pub – it was a bit grim, if I’m honest – he didn’t let on. He bought us a bottle of plonk to share and when we’d finished it they let us have another even though it was almost last orders. We had our heads together, gossiping and putting the world to rights as though we’d known each other our whole lives and not just for that one evening. By the time he walked me home, I was starting to panic that I’d misread the situation, that it was just another fling, another encounter that was going to be about the physical side of it and nothing else. Or maybe not even that. He was older than me, handsome, clever, and I didn’t think I could possibly be that lucky.
But I was wrong. I was the luckiest boy in the world.
After that we were together all the time. Every day. Every job we got, we either did together or else the other one would turn down any other performances to be in the audience. We simply couldn’t bear to be apart, not for more than a few hours. His voice electrified me; hearing him sing was sustenance enough for me to live on. And he would sit listening to me play, hour after hour; even when I’d practised enough he would make me carry on, sitting in the armchair behind me, his eyes half-closed, losing himself in the music.
I don’t think anyone really understood how deep it went. We both had friends, of course, family – his more loving, more supportive than mine – but what we had together was like solid rock compared to the shifting sands of all the other relationships, people who came and went in and out of our lives, passing us by.
I found him on the floor. He’d been there for some time, even though I’d only slipped out of the house to the shops to get something nice for dinner.
I called the ambulance and while I was waiting for them to arrive I tried everything I could for him, pounding his chest, my