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Staunton
1852–1924
Composer – Organist – Conductor
Professor of Music
Cambridge University
Lived here 1884–1893
    ‘This used to be our great uncle’s house,’ Eden said. ‘My parents seem to think we got our musical genes from him, but I prefer to think I’m less predictable than all that. I play his stuff sometimes at the chapel, though. You ever hear the King’s choir sing
Night Motets
?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, you should. The man had a gift for choral music.’
    In the hallway, Oscar took off his shoes and stacked them on the pile with the others. There was a giant mahogany coat-stand behind the door, laden with damp umbrellas and waxed jackets that smelled of upturned soil. The party was already underway, beating in the room beside them. He could hear the steady thump of the stereo behind the wall.
    ‘Everything you see here—the skirting boards, the dado rails—they’re all the original fixtures,’ Eden said, lifting his voice slightly over the din. ‘J. M. Keynes lived in the house over the road. It’s not as fancy a neighbourhood as Iris likes to tell people, but I suppose it’s better than being in some dingy little room in the college.’ He waved an arm at his sister. ‘Better if she gives you the tour. She cares more about the history than I do.’
    ‘There’s not much to tell,’ Iris said. She got to the foot of the stairs, leaned her cello case on the balustrade, and threw her coat on top of it. ‘Our mother used to live here, when she was at Emmanuel. She used to rent the top floor to some postgrad who was seeing my father at the time—that’s how they ended up meeting each other. Now they own the building and the ones on either side. Funny how life works.’
    ‘Don’t worry about the noise levels,’ Eden added, pointing to the air. ‘The neighbours wouldn’t dare complain.’
    As soon as he said it, the sounds of the party became more present in the hallway. Oscar could hear splinters of deep male voices, girlish laughter, the clink of glasses. A ska record came on the stereo: an eager, bouncing rhythm. ‘Sounds like Yin’s got his LPs out for the occasion,’ Eden said. ‘God save us all.’ He gestured towards the living room with an open palm, urging his sister forwards. ‘Lead on, maestra, lead on. Everybody’s waiting.’
    There were twenty or so people maundering in the living room: girls perched on the arms of chesterfields, boys slumped in leather wingbacks by the gleaming fireplace, couples dancing half-heartedly, others standing by the stereo speakers, browsing through records. What looked like an antique harpsichord was pushed against the far wall, a lace tablecloth and a vase of roses set upon the shiny teak lid. The room had its own bouquet, a mix of drying denim, firewood, and the musky odour of bodies. Oscar had never seen a party quite like it.
    When they came through the door, everybody turned. Three girls rushed over to greet Iris in a pincer movement, wrappingtheir arms around her, screeching: ‘Oh my God, Iggy, you were am-a-zing!’ ‘I nearly cried at the end!’ ‘I just
love
your dress, by the way!’ The rest of the crowd hung back, waiting for their moment. Then a stocky, acne-scarred man in a cream linen jacket came over and took her by the palm. ‘I hear you nailed the Fauré,’ he said. ‘Good for you.’ He was a short, pear-shaped thing, about twenty, with razored sideburns and teeth like a dry-stone wall. His words were pronounced in a measured way, as if to conceal his slight German accent.
    ‘Thanks, Marcus,’ Iris said, hitting him on the stomach skittishly.
    ‘If you play some Bach next time, I promise I’ll come and listen.’
    ‘All you ever want to hear is Bach,’ Eden said. ‘You’re so obvious.’
    Marcus tilted his hands in the air, spilling wine from his glass. He trampled it into the rug. ‘Why bother yourself with hobbyists like Fauré when you can perform the music of a master? That’s all I’m saying.’ He