Twelve Drummers Drumming by C. C. Benison Page A

second album and were around when Sybella was a baby. Happened I went to sixth-form college with Delroy Francis, who founded the choir and is still with it. We’ve always stayed in touch.”
    “Perhaps it’s just as well Colonel Northmore is in hospital.”
    A sly smile lit Colm’s face. “No chance of quick recovery?”
    Tom returned the smile but shook his head. He had another thought: “Was Sybella particularly fond of gospel music? Mightn’t she have wanted something else?”
    “I’m afraid neither of my children share my taste in music, but then I didn’t share my parents’ taste—at least at the time. Sybella seemed fond of a group called Demon Sexgang, I recall.”
    Tom frowned. “I don’t detect a Christian attitude.”
    “I didn’t detect a musical sensibility, but then I’m well past it. Besides, Sybella was growing out of this Goth nonsense. It was just a teenage thing. You know, being rebellious and so on and so forth just to get up your parents’ nose. We all did it. We just all did it in different ways. Celia says Sybella has an Electra complex—you know, hates Mummy so she acts up—though I can’t see how, since Oona seemed to
encourage
her bad behaviour. Revelation Choir and Sybella’s first months are linked in my mind in a happy way, so gospel it shall be.” Colm reached for his hat and rose abruptly from the bench. “Anyway, come up and see Sybella’s artworks. I think they’re quite good. You can leave your bike here.”
    “I didn’t know she painted … or drew,” Tom remarked, catching up to Colm, who was striding purposefully across the new grass.
    “It’s Mitsuko’s doing. She’d really taken Sybella under her wing. Saw a talent there.”

    “It used to be the nursery,” Colm told him when they’d reached the top floor by the back staircase. “See, the light’s quite good. North light for drawing and painting. My music studio’s across the hall. That’s where I compose our anthems or scores for film or whatever comes along. I thought Declan might take an interest—you know, what with all the technical gear and such …”
    “He evidently likes drumming,” Tom remarked, noting thebroad drawing table, the shelves of art books, and the bank of large, flat drawers with sheets of drawing paper—surely a wealthy father’s overindulgent response to a child’s latest enthusiasm.
    “I think Declan just likes bashing things, really.” Colm gestured to a scattering of papers and open sketchpads on the table. “What do you think? I was looking at them last night.”
    Tom studied the artwork. The earliest drawings were faithful and somewhat fussy renderings of unremarkable objects—fruit, flowers—but soon the thick pencil or charcoal strokes became simpler and bolder, more confident. The subject matter shifted, too—the human face and form took primacy. He was surprised. He could make no claims to an understanding of art, but he felt he was capable of at least detecting if something was childishly amateur. This was not, and what a relief: He hadn’t relished soothing a grieving father by telling him that his dead daughter’s doodlings were Tate-worthy. He glanced at some more that were sellotaped to the wall and then a few that had landed atop the bank of drawers. He noted a certain recurring male figure.
    “Yes,” Colm said, as if reading his mind, “Sybella had taken a fancy to sketching Sebastian—but then he’s here almost every day working with me in the garden, so …” He shrugged. “Even my wife finds opportunities to meander into the garden when Sebastian’s about, though she denies it. I suppose I should hire an ugly dwarf in his place, but he’s very good at what he does, and he’s oddly companionable.”
    “Really.” Tom reflected that he didn’t find Sebastian
un
companionable, but the man had certainly honed circumspection to a fine degree. “Does he ever talk about himself?”
    Colm shook his head. “That’s what makes him