E L Faull
E L Faull grew up in a Quaker family in North Cornwall. She worked as a waitress, chef, and bookseller before spending twenty years in urban regeneration in Liverpool and Manchester. She has an MA in Creative Writing and writes literary fiction. She lives in Exeter with her husband, two teenagers, and Pan, a Bengal cat.
Spider was shortlisted for the Margery Allingham Short Mystery Competition.
'Toil and Trouble' and 'The Last Song of Sylvie Costa' have both been selected as finalists in the Next Generation Short Story Awards.
All the Ends of the Earth
A Novel
Set in rural England against the fractured summer of 1981, this is an atmospheric coming-of-age novel told through the voice of fourteen-year-old Kit Harper.
Urban Parables: Twelve Stories from a Winter CityTwelve characters who never meet are linked by the city they inhabit and by the consequences of what they choose, give away, or take. Contemporary parables of mercy, judgement, kindness and betrayal.
The Bassoonist
‘What on earth…?’ said Timothy. He felt his face redden.
He had come home early from orchestra practice, intending to surprise his wife and take her out to dinner. What he was not expecting was to find her in bed with the bassoonist.
Miles hopped around the bedroom, his legs tangled in his trousers, while Helen ran shrieking into the bathroom. Timothy stood in the bedroom doorway with his violin case, trying to take it all in.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said, feeling a little like a headmaster, as Miles, shoes in hand, stood looking like the wretched bassoon player he was at the top of the stairs.
‘Get out,’ said Timothy.
Miles didn’t move, and for a moment Timothy considered throwing him down the stairs, but in the long run that would have just garnered sympathy for Miles.
‘My bassoon?’ Miles said pathetically. ‘It’s in the bedroom.’
‘OUT!’ said Timothy.
Timothy waited to hear the front door close and then looked out of the landing window. Miles was walking down the avenue. He must have parked his ridiculous VW Beetle in another street. How typical of a bassoon player, Timothy thought.
Timothy’s wife, Helen, was still in the bathroom. He went downstairs into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He briefly considered the Chardonnay simply because he and Helen had opened it the night before. But instead, he pulled the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the back. It was a screw top. How he hated them. He poured himself a glass and sat at the breakfast bar, contemplating his next move.
He checked his phone. There was a message from Francine Moralis, the conductor: notes for the performance tomorrow evening. Francine had been appointed conductor of the City Orchestra last year. A woman — Timothy had been surprised — but at least she was strings, not wind; she would understand things from his point of view.
From upstairs, Timothy heard the bathroom door open and the pad of Helen’s feet across the landing and into the bedroom. He raced upstairs and flew into the room. Helen was bent over the bassoon case and in the process of lifting it onto a chair.
‘Stop,’ he ordered.
‘Stop right there.’
He moved to the door and stood with his hands either side of the doorframe, blocking her way.
‘Timothy, I would say I am sorry, but I’m not.’ Helen’s tear-streaked face looked defiant.
‘You’re not sorry?’ said Timothy in disbelief, taking a step forward into the room.
‘The only thing I’m sorry about is that you found out like this,’ she said, picking up the bassoon case and walking towards him.
'Where do you think you're going?' he said, wondering whether he should simply snatch the bassoon case from her. Helen had often accused him of being rather weak, but as he had never snatched anything from anyone, this was not the time to start.
‘I am going to Miles’s house. I am leaving you,’ she said.
‘What, you’re leaving me for a bassoonist?’ he cried, incredulous and outraged.
‘Let me pass,’ she said.
‘You need to explain,’ Timothy said, almost adding ‘young lady’, but deciding she didn’t deserve to be flattered.
‘Oh really, do I need to? Isn’t it obvious? All you do is play that violin; all you ever do is talk about the violin or listen to other people playing it,’ she said.
‘That is utter rot, and you know it,’ he said. ‘I listen to the cello and the viola frequently.’
She raised her eyebrows and went to move past him.
‘Stop,’ he ordered again. ‘You can leave. But that is staying right here,’ he said, tapping the bassoon case with his toe.
Helen dropped the bassoon case on the bed and, pushing past him, stormed downstairs, collected her bag and coat, took the car keys, slammed the door, and left.
Suddenly the house was quiet.
Timothy stood for a moment looking at the landing, then at the bassoon case, and then at the bed. He asked Alexa to play Beethoven’s String Quintet in C major and pressed his face into Helen’s pillow. He could still smell the shampoo she used. Crying to Beethoven was the right thing to do, and by the end of the first movement he felt much better. Beethoven had seen him through some tough times. When the dog died, it was only Beethoven that stopped him from cracking up completely.
He wiped his eyes, paused Beethoven, and stood up.
In the middle of the floor lay the bassoon case. It had a sticker on it: a smiley face. Timothy grimaced. Walking up to the case, he picked it up and placed it on the bed. It was surprisingly heavy.
Gingerly, he unclipped and opened the case. The strap fell to the floor as he lifted the bocal and looked at it. An uglier contraption he couldn’t imagine.
He looked at it for a moment before closing the case and placing it back in the middle of the room.
His phone pinged — Helen? Miles? — but it was, in fact, Francine, reminding everyone to get a good night’s sleep before the Gala performance tomorrow.
The programme was varied, nothing challenging, music to keep the punters happy and the concert hall full. The first half was Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor. Timothy knew it well, and it always got a rapturous response from the audience. The piece that followed he considered a very poor choice — Vivaldi’s Bassoon Concerto in D minor.
Timothy had emailed Francine at the time, saying he felt it was not in keeping with the evening. She had emailed back saying it would bring energy into the concert hall.
That Vivaldi had written over thirty concertos for bassoon confirmed to Timothy that Vivaldi was, at best, a populist, second-rate composer. The bassoon was, in his opinion, a ridiculous-sounding instrument — possibly only rivalled by the kazoo or slide whistle. Classical music was a serious business, not a game, not a joke. Not a smiley face sticker.
He chuckled to himself as he remembered how absurd Miles had looked hopping around on one leg —
At that moment, his phone rang.
It was Helen.
‘Yes?’ he said, fully expecting tears or an apology, but instead she asked if he might bring Miles’s bassoon round.
‘You have taken the car, darling,’ he said, in what he hoped was a withering tone.
‘I’ll come and get it then,’ she said, and hung up before he could reply.
Rushing back to the bedroom, he picked up the bassoon case, giving the strap a good kick until it flew out onto the landing. Timothy went downstairs into the kitchen. He felt a checkmate was required, or at least an elegant play. He considered throwing all Helen’s clothes out on the lawn, but the neighbours would see. Pouring her favourite perfume down the sink seemed somehow pointless now.
Unclipping the bassoon case, he stared at the pieces of the instrument. Such an absurd shape, he thought, lightly stroking the bell joint. Then it came to him.
Chuckling, he carefully removed each section of the instrument and, one by one, placed them on the table until the case was empty. Opening the fridge, he stared at the food. He pulled out courgettes, carrots, and an aubergine. First the aubergine, then the carrots into the spaces where the bassoon had been.
The doorbell rang.
His palms were sweating; he clipped the case back up and, hastily smoothing down his hair, walked, with as much calm as he could muster, to the door.
‘We can at least be adult about this,’ said Helen, who still had traces of mascara on her cheek. ‘Darling, I — we — never meant for this to happen.’
But Timothy was barely listening.
‘Yes, yes, go and enjoy the rest of your life with your bassoonist,’ he said, his voice stammering a little on the name of the instrument. He held out the bassoon case, and as soon as she took it, slammed the door.
Timothy went to bed listening to Beethoven’s late string quartets and considered that all the greatest musicians had known tragedy, and that tragedy was perhaps what inspired greatness. Consoling himself with such thoughts, he fell asleep.
He slept like a log and woke feeling surprisingly cheerful. He made himself a breakfast of coffee and a croissant and listened to Radio 3 until Petroc played Vivaldi, glancing now and again at the pieces of bassoon which still lay on the kitchen counter. Then he went for a run.
He had no doubt Miles had more than one bassoon, but he would still have liked to see his face when he opened the case. ‘Game, set and match to Timothy,’ he said out loud, swiping the air with an imaginary racket, bowing to the airing cupboard.
The concert that evening was to be held at the City Hall in aid of the Lord Mayor’s charity appeal. It would start at 7.30; all musicians were to be there for 6 p.m.
Timothy found his black dress suit, checked the strings on his violin, played a few scales, and suddenly remembered he had no car. No matter — he would call a taxi, and even better, it meant he could go to the Red Lion afterwards for a drink with the string section.
He was in the process of calling a cab when he heard a car pull up outside. Looking out of the bedroom window, he saw Miles’s ludicrous VW Beetle pull up in the drive.
Timothy straightened his bow tie. No doubt Miles had come to have words, no doubt to demand his wretched bassoon back. He rather relished the thought of a row, although secretly he hoped there might be a faint chance that Miles had come to grovel.
Grabbing his violin case, he raced towards the stairs.
In his haste, Timothy failed to see the strap from the bassoon case on the landing. It lay across the Turkish rug they had bought last year, right on the threshold of the stairs. His foot became caught in it. His face creased in confusion as he felt his balance go. There was a moment where he teetered on the top step and then toppled headfirst down the stairs onto the tiles below.
There was a dull crack and a moment of silence. Alexa was still playing Beethoven. Timothy’s head rested next to the violin case which, in the tumble, had sprung open, and the violin lay near his feet, the bassoon strap still wrapped round his ankle.
Alexa played the final notes of the last Beethoven quartet.