‘Hoy! I haven’t finished yet. What about dinner with me beforehand at the Festival Hall?’
Delia considered. ‘I’m not sure that I shall want to eat very much before singing. And I shall be in evening dress, of course.’
There was a groan at the other end of the line.
‘Never mind. For you I will even dress. Seven o’clock in the restaurant, then. Goodbye.’
Delia flew for her bus, which deposited her at Waterloo at five to nine. She hurried anxiously to the hall, and the lift at the artists’ entrance flashed her upwards.
‘There’s a cloakroom down there,’ the man pointed and closed the doors before Delia could ask for any further information. She glanced at her watch and decided not to risk being late but to go straight to her seat. She turned hesitantly to the left and started to wander down a door-less passage. It led only to a flight of stairs, so she turned back and walked more quickly in the opposite direction. There was still no sign of the inside of the auditorium and several minutes had passed before she found someone who could direct her.
‘Down the stairs, left and right,’ he said concisely, leaving Delia to curse the lift which had brought her too high. ‘They haven’t started.’
As she approached, however, she thought she heard the sound of music and automatically she quickened her step. A trolley was trundled along the passage and she flattened herself in a doorway. The door opened slightly behind her and she heard Owen’s voice, speaking into a telephone.
‘Certainly I haven’t changed my mind,’ he was saying. ‘And it’s being broadcast, after all. Damn it all, don’t forget what you’re going to get out of it.’ There was a pause, and Owen spoke more testily. ‘Well, they’ll just have to accept it, won’t they?’
Delia passed on her way, idly curious but more anxious not to arrive after the Old Man had started to rehearse. She came into the hall at last. The orchestra was seated in full strength, playing bored little runs to itself. Higher up, the members of the choir circulated, most of them crowded round the secretary who, with both arms outstretched, held an enormous sheet of paper. There was no sign of Evan Tredegar.
Delia joined the crowd and found that her place was to be in the front row, between Shirley and Mrs Bainsbury.
‘I see the Committee will be well in evidence,’ she remarked jokingly to the secretary, for Mrs Cuthbertson, Robert Stanley and Mackenzie Mortimer had also been allocated front seats. ‘I’m not sure that it’s wise to put Mrs Cuthbertson there though, is it? She’s usually tucked away at the back.’
Mrs Bainsbury looked momentarily startled.
‘Well,’ she said defensively. ‘The Committee has to do a lot of hard work. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be rewarded at a time like this by having a good view. You haven’t seen Evan, have you? It isn’t like him to be late for a concert rehearsal.’
Delia shook her head and found her seat. The hall was cold and empty; a little group of men sitting alone at the back of the Terrace Stalls only emphasised its emptiness. Suddenly there was a flutter of applause from the contraltos; a large figure appeared from the artists’ door and walked heavily over to a seat in front of the sopranos. Delia craned her neck. So this was the great Cassati. She twitched her nose in instinctive dislike; the man was gross, his piggish eyes almost hidden in the pale fleshiness of his face. He wore woollen knitted gloves and a muffler with his black suit, and despite them he seemed cold and bad-temperedly impatient. Like Mrs Bainsbury, Delia wondered why the Old Man was late. The orchestra would certainly depart in a body on the first stroke of twelve, so every second lost was money wasted.
At that moment Owen appeared, almost at a run. To Delia’s surprise he stepped on to the rostrum and tapped sharply with his baton. The organ boomed an A; there was a moment’s scraping of violins and then silence.
‘I thought the Old Man always took the orchestra rehearsal himself,’ Delia whispered to Mrs Bainsbury, but before there was time for a reply Owen was making the explanation himself.
‘I am very sorry to have to tell you that Mr Tredegar is ill. I have just had a telephone message from him regretting that he will not be able to conduct today’s concert. He has asked me to do so in his place, since I am already completely familiar with the score and with the choir, and he has sent his best wishes for a good performance. I have no doubt that he will be listening to us on his wireless in bed tonight and I’m sure we shall all do our best to make him feel that he is hearing a great work worthily performed.’
He smiled at the choir and Delia thought with surprise that she did not ever remember having noticed him smile before. Even this attempt was made more with the teeth than with the eyes, although there was a glint in the latter which disquieted her. She turned to speak to Mrs Bainsbury, but the older woman was staring ahead of her with a look almost of hopelessness on her face.
The rustle of sympathetic whispering which Owen’s announcement had caused died away and the baton tapped sharply once more.
‘We’ll leave the orchestral introduction for the moment. Chorus stand, please. Number Two.’
A single violin, pure and plaintive, broke the silence and, very softly, the voices of the singers stole into the Kyrie. They rose to a crescendo and then died away suddenly as they had been taught to do. Above them one single voice rose and flowed, so clear and liquid that Delia almost ceased to sing in her admiration of its beauty. Was it possible that such a gross creature could make so perfect a sound? Delia had never before heard a voice like this; Caruso, Gigli, Cassati himself she had heard on gramophone records, but those sounds could not compare with these, which seemed to ride so lightly on the clear sunbeams of the air. The choir’s part ended, but the voice of the tenor rose effortlessly; it seemed to hold in its smooth notes a man’s broken heart. The melody fell, whispering sadly away, and from the other side of the platform the voice of a boy, clear, yet trembling a little with nervousness, answered the plea of the man. As these notes too died away, leaving once more only a single violin, Delia felt tears pricking her eyes. She pulled her chin inwards until the silence which followed the last note was broken by a cacophony of re-tuning. Then she turned to Shirley, her eyes shining.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be like that,’ she said. ‘He makes it all sound as if he meant it, too.’
They turned their heads together to watch the tenor as he settled himself on his chair, a thick roll of fat appearing round his collar as he huddled his short neck into the warmth of his scarf and coat. But they had no time to study him, for Owen was already preparing to start the next chorus.
It was eleven o’clock before they were allowed a break. Delia slipped out thankfully, making for the box office. As she did so, she recognised one of the group of listeners as Roger Bainsbury and stopped for a word with him.
‘Hello, Roger. Can’t you wait till tonight?’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t come tonight. We’re playing an away match at Oxford this afternoon. It would be quite a scramble to get back anyway, and this particular match usually turns into a bit of a party. If I were really musical, no doubt I’d manage it somehow, but, as it is, I thought I could probably get enough from a rehearsal to answer Mother’s questions.’
‘And what do you make of it?’ she asked. ‘You look as if you’re finding it quite an experience.’ He was trying to smile at her, but his face was pale and Delia, a little emotional herself from the impact of music which seemed quite different from what she had practised in the bleak rehearsal-room, sympathised with him.
‘Experience is the word,’ he said quietly. ‘I hadn’t expected anything like this. There doesn’t seem to be much relationship between music and the ordinary world, does there?’
‘That’s a question which requires several days to answer,’ Delia laughed, ‘and I’ve only got about two minutes to get to the box office and back. Hope you win your match. Goodbye for now.’
She hurried down, using the stairways provided for the audience this time instead of facin
g again the back-stage labyrinth. All seats had been sold for the evening, she was told except for a few beside the organ and behind the choir; but there was luckily one returned ticket, a seat in one of the lower front boxes on the left-hand side of the auditorium. Simon would be sitting almost above her there; he could hardly ask for anything better. She pocketed the ticket and returned to her seat.
The last hour of the practice did not go so smoothly. The contralto soloist, a petite, dark-haired young woman clearly suffering from nerves, came in a bar too soon in her last solo; Owen promptly swore at the leader of the orchestra and only a hasty apology prevented the tired players from walking out in a body. Then came the last chorus, which was introduced by five bars which the contraltos were to sing unaccompanied by the orchestra. They began quietly enough but, as Owen pulled at them to increase the volume, a vibrato of a peculiarly grating character appeared. Shirley giggled slightly as Owen tapped his baton, made a sarcastic comment and began once more at the beginning.
‘Bet I know who it is,’ she whispered to Delia. ‘Mrs Bainsbury really ought to have put her in the back row; it mightn’t sound so bad there.’
Again the volume increased, and with it the vibrato. Owen hammered the score with his hand until the contraltos became guiltily silent.
‘I cannot put up with this atrocious noise any longer,’ he said furiously, tossing back the black lock of hair which had fallen forward over his eyes. ‘If it is uncontrollable, then it must go. Mrs Cuthbertson, I must ask you to leave the choir now and not sing with it tonight. Miss Green, will you come forward and take her place in the front row, please.’
There was a gasp of dismay from the choir. With great dignity Mrs Cuthbertson picked up her handbag and walked across in front of the choir and out of the hall. She did not speak, but Delia noticed that her hands were trembling, while tears of humiliation quivered on her cheeks.
‘Poor old girl,’ said Shirley. ‘She’ll never be able to come back into the choir now. It will be a blow to her, even if it does make our committee meetings run more smoothly. Still, it really was rather an awful noise.’
‘He needn’t have done it so publicly, though,’ protested Delia. ‘It must have been a frightful slap in the face. He could have told her quietly afterwards. I think it’s very hard. I’d be furious in her place.’
There was no time to say anything more; for the third time the contraltos made their lone entry, to be joined first by the other voices and then by the full orchestra. But the choir had been upset by the incident; it sang lifelessly and a little flat. Owen glanced at his watch and dismissed them; it was ten to twelve.
‘We’ll just run through the introduction and epilogue,’ he told the orchestra.
Delia picked up her things and looked at Shirley.
‘Coming?’ she asked.
The blonde shook her head.
‘I’ll stay here to the end. I expect I’ll be having lunch with Owen. See you tonight.’
Delia hurried lightly down the steps. As the door closed behind her the sounds of an eager, lyrical marching movement were abruptly cut off; she tried to imagine, as she ran, what would come after it.
Chapter Five
Delia looked at herself in the mirror and patted her hair approvingly; the pale blue blouse and midnight blue skirt and sash which formed the concert uniform of the Metro singers were becoming to her. She smiled happily. The restaurant had been packed with diners expensively dressed as for a great occasion and, in the hall, the Press photographers were still flashing at new arrivals. There was a general atmosphere of excitement which made it impossible that the evening should be a failure.
For Delia herself, it was already a success. Simon, intoxicated by the prospect of being actually able to enjoy the free time to which he was in theory entitled, had turned their dinner together into a feast of happiness. He had seemed almost a boy again as he smiled across the table and Delia was convinced that very soon now—perhaps as he drove her home after the concert—he would ask her to marry him. She had been too wise to hurry him, even though she had known both his wishes and her own for some time, but she was glad, deeply glad, that he had at last arrived at the point of decision.
She hummed a few bars of the Mass as she looked at herself, her eyes shining. All around her the other women of the choir were jostling; some nervous, some expectant, most concerned chiefly with the colour of their lips. Over her shoulder she caught sight of Shirley, and her eyebrows rose in appreciation. Although the blonde librarian wore the same dress as every other singer, on her it was cut to seem more seductive than demure, tight enough to show a warm roundness that even Delia could appreciate. Above the neat blue blouse she wore a tight circle of glittering diamanté and her hair seemed to glitter too, as if it had been sprinkled with silver dust.
Probably it has, thought Delia to herself and turned round to confront this vision in the flesh.
‘Shirley, you look wonderful,’ she began, but Shirley walked straight past her, her mouth hard and her eyes flashing like her necklace, but with anger.
Delia stared after her in surprise, then raised an eyebrow in enquiry at Mrs Bainsbury, who was standing nearby.
‘What’s bitten Shirley? Has she missed her dinner?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I think perhaps she has. I can guess what’s wrong, I think—but I ought not to mention it. After all, I was not really supposed to hear.’
‘Oh come, Mrs Bainsbury, you can’t throw out a dark hint like that and then stop, it’s too tantalising. I want to know all the scandal.’
‘Well, I do think she’s had rather a—a severe quarrel with Owen this morning. I happened to be passing his room soon after the rehearsal ended and they were speaking so loudly—shouting, really—that I couldn’t help—oh, good gracious, it’s nearly five to eight. Excuse me; I must get everyone into line.’ She bustled off, shouting above the general noise, ‘Front row sopranos please, quickly.’
Delia smiled to herself as she moved through the crowd to take her place in the line. She was so pleased with the state of her own affairs that she could not spare very much thought for Shirley’s.
A little self-consciously they filed into the hall. There was not an empty seat to be seen, nor even any unused standing room. Delia’s eyes went first to the box where Simon sat. He saw that she was looking and raised his hand to his lips. Her heart bounded; this was going to be a wonderful evening. All around her the singers were exchanging the names of those members of the aristocracy whom they had been able to recognise in the audience. Mrs Bainsbury leaned across and whispered in her ear.
‘Isn’t it a shame about Mrs Cuthbertson. All the seats were sold, so she’s having to sit behind us—that row is only for sale on the day of the performance, and even this morning she only managed to get the end seat. She won’t be able to hear the contraltos properly at all, poor thing.’
Delia twisted sideways and saw Mrs Cuthbertson sitting stiffly at the end of the row which curved round behind the sopranos. She looked uncomfortably out of place, for all her neighbours appeared to be students.
‘Yes, it’s horrid for her, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘By the way, Mrs Bainsbury, what is it that’s wrong with the Old Man? Do you know?’
The secretary’s face froze for a second. Then she said slowly: ‘I did phone him up this afternoon to find out. I think it’s something he’ll soon be able to throw off.’
She obviously did not intend to elaborate, and at this moment they were distracted by the entry of the soloists. Owen came last, he bowed to the audience and repeated to them the apology for Evan Tredegar’s absence. There was an unmistakable wave of disappointment, but it did not discourage the young conductor. As he turned to the orchestra, his arms outstretched, his expression was one of triumph and he was breathing fast with excitement. But his fingertips were steady and as the introduction started everyone in the hall—players, singers and listeners alike—came under his control. Delia allowed the music to sweep over her for a few
minutes; she lost herself in its surge and only when the rest of the choir rose to its feet did she shake her shoulders a little and turn her concentration on to her score.
The performance went well. Only one incident marred the first part, before the interval, and that, Delia decided, was unnecessarily created by Owen himself. John Southerley, looking even younger than usual at the piano, had a difficult passage to play supported by the drums, all the other instruments being silent. He played it superlatively well, in Delia’s opinion, but the drummer was slow and there was a moment of raggedness. Owen tried hard with his hands to bring the two together; then suddenly, while still beating time as vigorously as was necessary, he leaned slightly towards John and said, ‘Slower, damn you, slower.’
The words were not shouted, but in the perfect acoustics of the Festival Hall they were heard clearly by every member of the choir and orchestra—and probably by the broadcasting microphones as well, thought Delia, with a surge of pity for John. Perhaps the same idea had occurred to the pianist, for he flushed with anger and rose slightly in his seat for a moment, as if he were going to stand. But his fingers continued the hectic runs and he settled down again, playing more furiously than before, his head down; there was no longer any pretence that he was watching the movements of the conductor.
As the first part of the work ended, Delia whispered across to Shirley, ‘I fancy Owen will be getting a visit from John in the interval, don’t you?’
‘Serve him right,’ muttered Shirley. ‘Let’s get out of here and have a drink.’
They made their way to the bar and sipped their long, cool drinks appreciatively.
‘Tell me about the Mass,’ said Delia, searching for a subject to take Shirley away from her sulkiness. ‘What do you think of it? What are the critics going to say about it tomorrow, quite apart from the way we perform it?’
‘Looked at just as a musical work, I think it’s a masterpiece,’ Shirley said simply. ‘It’s the best thing the Old Man’s ever produced—perhaps the greatest work of the century, so far. But if you look at the theology of the music, that’s all wrong—or at least, very questionable. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we didn’t raise a few letters of protest from musical clergymen.’
Murder to Music Page 4