by R. N. Morris
She heard her husband bark out a brusque greeting to Donald in a voice she could not recognize as having anything to do with her. Donald did not break off his playing to answer. Charles’s voice reverberated in the vaulted ceiling, as if it were a demand he were making of the empty hall rather than the pianist. ‘Is he here?’
It came to Ursula that what hope fears more than anything is resolution. There can be no room for hope when everything is settled.
She heard the door open behind her once more, followed by a burst of chatter as a group of singers came in together.
It was the push she needed to carry her forward.
FOURTEEN
Paul Seddon looked up at the plaster mouldings of the ceiling. All around him he could hear the clatter of chairs and music stands being distributed and arranged, the chatter of friends excitedly greeting one another and all the melodious hubbub of musicians getting ready to play.
Sir Aidan clapped his hands together to be heard over the din. ‘If we could all find our places as quickly as possible …’
Paul’s gaze settled appreciatively on one of the chandeliers. He couldn’t help noticing that it was positioned almost exactly over Sir Aidan’s podium. If that dropped on him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He allowed himself a small, secret smile.
‘Come on now!’
Paul could tell that Fonthill was in a bad mood. And so, it was unfortunate that the choir was particularly excitable.
It was without doubt thrilling to see the members of the orchestra take out their instruments and run through their warming-up exercises: a few quick trills on the trumpets, a louche glissando or two from the trombones, the strings effortlessly conjuring forth those swooping arpeggios, the ominous rumble of percussion.
The presence of the celebrated guests added to the general excitement. When, earlier, the striking couple in furs had strode in, their heads held high as they looked for the adoration that they evidently considered their due, the room had been momentarily silenced. The realization that these were the dancers from the Russian ballet company quickly spread, and the volume of noise soon exceeded what it had been before their entry. The man wore a silk turban pinned in place by a huge diamond brooch, his ankle-length coat of many pelts slung loosely over his shoulders. The woman wore a red bycocket hat decorated with an enormous drooping feather. She possessed a delicate but austere beauty. She was as unsmiling as her partner, as if they had both been placed under a fairy spell that would turn them into toads if they registered pleasure of any kind. Sir Aidan had not yet arrived and it had been left to Charles Cavendish to greet them. It was quite possible that they took this as a slight. The disdainful angle at which they held their heads suggested that they were prepared to take everything as a slight.
Fonthill had arrived uncharacteristically late to the rehearsal and was mobbed by a series of people with demands on him as soon as he got through the door. Inevitably, that only worsened his mood, to the point that he had been rather rude to one of the musicians, a man with glistening, watchful eyes set deep in their sockets. His chin was buried in an oversized tartan scarf and his nose was pinched and red around the nostrils. There was something fine and sensitive about his features, so that even if he had not been carrying a battered violin case, you might have suspected him of being a musician. As he approached Fonthill, one hand held out to be shaken, he turned his head sharply and sneezed. ‘No, no, no,’ Fonthill protested in horror. ‘Whatever you have, I don’t want it.’
The man’s eyes glared fiercely from the depths of their sockets, his rejected hand frozen in midair as Fonthill was led out of the hall by Charles Cavendish.
Outrage showed too in the suddenly bulbous eyes of the two Russian dancers, unceremoniously abandoned by Cavendish. They had the most wonderfully expressive faces, Paul decided. They danced as much with their eyes and lips and eyebrows as with the rest of their bodies. Every pout was a performance, every minute shift in posture, an expression of a profound emotional truth.
Soon after, Dame Elsie had arrived. Paul recognized her, having seen her sing La Traviata at Covent Garden, a role for which she was not physically well suited. Ah, but that voice! The voice made up for everything. All he had had to do was close his eyes and he could believe.
With Fonthill and Cavendish still missing, Paul had taken it upon himself to welcome the noted prima donna.
‘Dame Elsie, what a great honour it is—’
‘Sir Aidan?’
‘I’m afraid Sir Aidan is busy at the moment.’
Unimpressed by this information, Dame Elsie tilted her head back disdainfully. ‘Well, let’s get on with it, then. Where do you want me?’
‘Perhaps if you would care to take a seat for now. I’m sure I could arrange for a cup of tea—’
‘Tea? No, no, no. I don’t drink tea. It dries the throat.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps a glass of water then?’
‘Why do you insist on forcing liquids on me? Do I appear particularly desiccated to you?’
‘No, no, not at all. I shall tell Sir Aidan that you’re here.’
‘Do.’
And with that he was dismissed.
Seddon couldn’t help smiling to himself as he hurried away to look for Fonthill. No doubt she was a prickly customer, but he rather enjoyed that about her, and indeed would have been disappointed if she had been anything else.
There was a practice room near the hall which Sir Aidan often used as his unofficial office. The door to it was slightly ajar and he could hear voices within. He glanced back quickly over his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to be caught eavesdropping, and yet some puckish spirit inspired him to lean in, his ear close to the door.
The two men’s voices overlapped but it seemed that Cavendish was dominating the exchange. ‘The question is, what do you intend to do about it?’
‘Nothing. Of course.’
‘You won’t talk to her?’
‘Why should I?’
‘To set her straight.’
‘Well, as she’s got herself all twisted around, I hardly think it’s my job to straighten her out. You tell her. You’re her husband.’
‘She won’t take it from me.’
‘That’s hardly my fault, old man. Is this why you won’t …’ But just at that moment, one of them scraped a chair across the floor so that Paul couldn’t make out whatever it was that Cavendish wouldn’t do.
People were still arriving. It was probably time he knocked once and went in. The interval between the knock and the entry was so short that the two men were frozen in the last moment of their argument, both their faces indignant at the intrusion as they turned towards him. The room was littered with bits and pieces of musical detritus, some of them broken, like the aftermath of a fight between music stands and orchestral instruments. Seeing Paul, Fonthill averted his eyes with a flinch of embarrassment. Cavendish’s expression was impatient and resentful.
‘Dame Elsie is here, Sir Aidan.’
Fonthill nodded tersely and bustled out.
Paul’s questioning glance was met with a dismissive shake of the head from the treasurer. Paul turned and chased the choirmaster back into the Great Hall.
They had not gone far when one of the basses, a professional singer whom Sir Aidan occasionally called in to make up the dwindling numbers, stepped out to buttonhole Fonthill as he hurried towards the stage.
‘Not now, Farthing!’ Fonthill kept his head down and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder to push him out of the way.
But Farthing held his ground, his feet planted firmly apart, his chest thrust out. ‘I want my money.’
‘Speak to Cavendish. He’s the treasurer.’
‘I did. Apparently, I am expected to perform pro gratis.’
‘Yes! It’s a benefit concert. That is generally how it is with benefit concerts.’
‘Those were not the terms upon which I was engaged.’
‘Nonsense! We didn’t agree any terms.’
‘No, no, no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. I assumed, naturally, that I was engaged on the usual terms. If it wasn’t the usual terms, you had an obligation to make that clear, which you did not.’
‘Take this up with Cavendish. I don’t have time for it now.’
‘If the choir won’t pay me, you must pay me yourself out of your own pocket.’
Paul Seddon cut in. ‘Perhaps we can settle this later. For now, let’s just get on with the rehearsal, shall we?’
‘No fee, no me.’ Farthing was clearly pleased with his little jingle. He jutted his chin out proudly.
Fonthill shook his head disparagingly.
‘Dame Elsie, Sir Aidan,’ reminded Paul gently. He felt himself blush at his habitual deference. Despite all that he knew about Fonthill, he could not help himself, it seemed.
Farthing’s brows came together in a petulant frown. ‘Ah, I see, the famous Dame Elsie Tatton awaits. More important than me, is she?’
‘Yes!’ cried Paul and Fonthill in unison.
‘And what’s more,’ added Fonthill, ‘she’s performing without a fee.’
‘That’s as may be. Perhaps she can afford to give up her time for nothing. I, however, am a struggling musician. If I don’t get paid, I don’t eat.’
‘You don’t look exactly starving, Farthing.’ Paul regretted the comment as soon as he made it. Not least because he hated being cast in the role of Fonthill’s defender. And, also, it was an asinine thing to say.
Fonthill chuckled. ‘Ha! That’s true!’ He dispensed a look of appreciation and complicity that once, not so long ago, Paul would have lapped up, but now it goaded him to oppose his former hero.
‘Although perhaps Mr Farthing does have a point.’
Disappointment showed in the choirmaster’s face. ‘You think I should give this Shylock what he wants?’
Farthing took objection to the reference. ‘I’m not a bloody Jew!’
‘Stop acting like one then.’ To Seddon, Fonthill added, ‘Perhaps if you feel so strongly about it, you should pay him.’ With that, he sidestepped Farthing and hurtled on towards where Dame Elsie was impatiently pacing the floor at the back of the hall.
Farthing turned his attention to Paul. ‘So?’
‘What?’
‘Will you pay me?’
‘No!’
‘Right, I’m off.’
Paul held up a restraining hand. ‘Look, I’ll see what can be done. I’ll talk to Mr Cavendish. Find out what’s happened to your money. Please, for now, let’s just get through this rehearsal and we’ll sort it out afterwards.’ Paul knew how weak the basses were without Farthing to boost them.
‘Usual terms are I get paid upfront. In cash.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand that. But there has obviously been a mix-up.’
‘Mix-up? There’s no mix-up. I know what’s going on here. This is deliberate. You lot are hoping I’ll cave in. You’re exploiting my generous nature.’
Paul bowed his head sharply to hide the smirk he was not able to suppress.
‘I see you laughing at me. It’s all very well for you Hampstead types.’
‘I live in Highgate, actually.’ Paul knew very well that he was splitting hairs.
‘You’re still a bloody Hampstead type as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Please, can you just take your place? I’m sure Sir Aidan will want to make a start soon.’
‘He’s the worst of the lot, if you ask me. It’s all very well for him, with his fancy house and his rich wife. Well, just you listen to me, if he thinks he can cheat me out of what’s mine, he’s got another think coming. Sir Aidan Fonthill, indeed. I thought knights were supposed to be men of honour. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Shameful it is, the way he carries on.’
Paul narrowed his brows. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on. We all know what he gets up to. You tell him from me, if he doesn’t want his affairs getting into the newspapers, he’d better make sure I get what’s due to me.’
‘I don’t see why I should get dragged into this.’
‘She’s your sister, isn’t she? The mother of his lovechild.’
Paul found he did not have the will to deny it. Nor the inclination. ‘How did you know?’
‘Anna told me.’
‘She told you?’ Paul could not keep the wounded tone from his voice.
‘Of course. Anna and I are good friends.’
Paul doubted that. ‘It hardly seems the action of a friend to use something shared in confidence as the lever for blackmail.’
‘It’s not blackmail. I’m only trying to get what I am owed.’
‘Anna would not want the intimate details of her life to find their way into a newspaper.’
‘Then it is in all our interests that I get my money.’ Farthing’s face was flushed and glistened with an overheated patina. He gave off an odour of stress.
Paul felt queasy as he looked into his eyes. He had the sense that the world was crumbling around him. If he stepped outside the school there would be nothing left, only ruins and chaos. And the source of the power that was destroying everything was located behind the eyes of this squalid, shameless, grasping man.
Farthing must have read Paul’s gaze as a challenge. He drew himself up, bristling. ‘This will be the last time he tries to get one over on me.’
It had sounded like a threat. And Paul had felt curiously elated to hear it.
Paul lowered his gaze from the ceiling and turned to look at Fonthill, like a hunter bringing a target into his sights.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much. That will do.’
Fonthill turned to face the front pew where the Russian dancers were seated next to Dame Elsie. He gave a steep bow. Evidently he had succeeded in soothing the ruffled feathers of the eminent personages: Dame Elsie dipped her head condescendingly, managing even a magnanimous smile; the two Russians remained unsmiling, but they appeared at least gratified.
‘Please extend the traditional Hampstead Voices welcome to the prima ballerina assoluta and the premier danseur noble of the great Ballets Modernes of St Petersburg, whose bold yet graceful movements have taken the citadel of ballet by storm, opening the eyes of the world to new and startling possibilities of an art form many had considered passé. I give you Ekaterina Volkova and Andrei Kuznetsov.’ The dancers, whose English was not as good as their French, pricked up their ears at that ‘passé’. But they were soon mollified by the applause of the choir and orchestra. ‘You have opened our eyes, you really have,’ continued Fonthill. Perhaps his gaze was rather too expressive of this sentiment as it lingered appreciatively on Ekaterina Volkova. It did not go unnoticed by her partner, who breathed sharply through magnificent nostrils, like a stallion snorting at restraint. Was he more than simply her dance partner? Paul wondered. If so, judging by the seething gaze he was fixing on Fonthill, the choirmaster was skating on thin ice. But Fonthill pressed on. ‘Let me tell you, I have had the great privilege of seeing Mademoiselle Volkova dance the part of Salome in Paris, in a costume which, if I may say so, left very little to the imagination! Gentlemen, believe me, it was quite revealing of her extraordinary … talents!’ There was nervous laughter from the men of the choir and some scandalized noises from the women. Certainly, Kuznetsov did not appreciate Fonthill’s observations. ‘Ah, dear me, I see that I may have offended Monsieur Kuznetsov. Forgive me, sir, I had assumed that like most of your fellow male ballet dancers you would be blind to such attractions.’ Kuznetsov’s scowl became dangerous. Fonthill hurriedly tried to dig himself out of the hole he had excavated. ‘Being married as you all are to your art!’ He was sweating now, Paul observed with a smile. ‘At any rate, I thank you both sincerely, and heartily, for your participation in our little concert.’ He bowed slightly as if he believed this to have made amends for what he had said. It was by no means certain from the Russian’s expression that it had.
‘And what can one say about our other
guest?’ Fonthill’s smile was strained and nervous now. ‘She is without doubt a huge presence—’ Fatally, he broke off, closing his eyes as he regretted his choice of words. There was some tittering from the stage. Sir Aidan raised his voice over the disturbance, frowning in confusion. ‘Her immeasurable talent has graced the boards of La Scala, Covent Garden and the Met in New York. And now she joins us here in the University College School, Hampstead, where we are honoured to be her chorus for a very special performance. Ladies and gentlemen, please, again, show your appreciation for Dame Elsie Tatton.’
Dame Elsie acknowledged the applause with a sour expression.
Paul had to admit, it wasn’t like Fonthill. He was usually in his element when dealing with celebrities. Charming, confident, never putting a foot wrong.
Not this time, however. Something must have thrown him off his stride.
Paul watched as he mopped the sweat from his brow. ‘I believe we are still awaiting the arrival of Émile Boland, but perhaps we should press on? We do have a lot to get through.’
‘Non!’ The man was sitting in the front row of the audience seating, unseen by Sir Aidan, who had his back to him. He had a battered violin case in one hand, a bowler hat on his head, a bristling handlebar moustache, a glowering brow, a red nose, and his chin swaddled in a large scarf. He stood up with a terse nod. ‘Je suis Boland.’
Paul watched Fonthill closely. He could see the gears whirring behind the man’s eyes as confusion gave way to recognition, recognition to panic, and a mechanical grimace of a smile was cranked into place.
FIFTEEN
Emma had never seen Aidan so flustered. He was having trouble looking between his music and the singers. He lost his place more than once.
She saw the Russian dancers roll their eyes. This was obviously not what they were used to.
The orchestra was more or less ignoring his baton, and she had to say they sounded all the better for it. But unfortunately, orchestra and choir were rarely in time with each other.
There was an unpleasant spat with a trombonist, who was engaging in some obviously facetious banter with his neighbour. They were rehearsing the Elgar at the time, the accompaniment to which was scored for two violins and piano, and so did not call for the full orchestra. The brass section therefore sat idle, and this particular musician had evidently grown bored with Aidan’s frequent stopping and starting. The prospect of Elgar himself being in the audience had clearly put the wind up him and he was desperate to bring off the delicate effect of the refrain. It was proving more difficult than he might have hoped and Aidan had already reduced Gladys Caldwell to tears by singling her out for criticism.