General Pause

Back home, there had been a heavy fall of snow, turning the field beyond the stone wall into a Christmas card. A proper Christmas, she thought, not this hot, off the clock, barbeque and strawberries antipodean version.

Charlotte paused, one score left to clean. Outside her window, a builder in a Santa hat was packing up his tools, whistling tunefully. He caught her eye, and waved.

“Merry Christmas!”

You too, she mouthed, returning the wave.

She opened the cover of the clarinet part for the Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on Christmas Carols, and began to erase the spidery pencil marks. Everyone else was at the garden bar, one last gathering before they scattered for a month. I’ll just finish these, she had said. Won’t be long.

The clarinettist was new to the orchestra, still conscientiously noting every one of the conductor’s directions in her tiny hieroglyphics. Every beat of a complex rhythm numbered, moments of featured melody underscored, a General Pause circled multiple times with pencilled coils.

Charlotte leaned back in her seat. At home her mother would rise in a few hours, a twelve-hour day in the kitchen ahead. She would be singing carols as she cooked - Deck the Halls, I Saw Three Ships, Ding Dong Merrily on High - producing mince pies, delicate hors d’oeuvres, a pre-stuffed turkey and prepared vegetables ready for the oven, Christmas pudding and bread sauce. There would be eighteen for Christmas Day, arriving in waves after hours snarled on the M25 in unforgiving weather. The children would be irritable, babies hard to settle again. Only a long weekend away from work for some or a short hiatus in the school year. Her brothers would have projects parked until after the festivities, and tensions would mount if work phone calls intruded.

Charlotte closed the score and added it to the pile. She swept the erasing curls into the rubbish bin. The builder had long gone, and the office was so quiet she could hear the hum of the lights. In the late afternoon sun, the others would be on to their second glass, toasting another successful concert season, breathing into the slower rhythm of the summer ahead - camping on sunburnt lakesides, beach cottages with no clocks, a cycling tour with grandchildren.

Charlotte shelved the scores, and gave her empty desk one last glance. Next year they would begin again, a clean page, a fresh start.

For now, the General Pause. Halls were holly-decked. Three ships had sailed in and found safe harbour. Shepherds enjoyed a beer in the silent star-lit high country. The baby slept.


Rosemary McBryde