by K. M. Peyton
‘You want to be careful.’ He tried to make it sound like a joke. But miracles couldn’t be turned into jokes.
‘It is a miracle, isn’t it?’ Marion wanted to be sure.
‘If it isn’t, it’s the closest thing to a miracle I’ve come across.’
He guided her across to the kitchen table and pressed her into a chair. Then he sat down opposite her.
‘He was going to come and visit that church anyway, whether you’d prayed or not. You were in there, and he was coming. The fact that you prayed, and then he came—that was a coincidence. That’s my story, anyway. Don’t get worried about it, Marion.’
‘No, I’m not worried.’
After the first shock had worn off it was true. She smiled blissfully.
‘If it all happens, like he says, the church will be all right!’
‘They know a thing or two about fund-raising, those Americans. It could well happen.’
‘I must go and see Pat.’ She started to get off the chair but her father pressed her back.
‘Not now! Why’ve you got to see him?’
‘He left it to me, to tell him. He said he listened to his concert, and he was good, and I must tell him to contact his agent, and see if he wants to do it. Otherwise he’ll send home for his usual guy.’
‘I wonder what Pat’ll think of that?’
‘He told me to pray for a rich American. It’s all his fault really.’
Geoff grinned. ‘I’d like to see his face!’
‘Can we go in the morning, first thing? It’s terribly important.’
‘Yes, you’d better take the morning off school. I can’t come. I’ve got to go and see a bloke in Cambridge at ten. I’ll drop you at the bus-stop. They’re in that cottage at the far end of the beach, the one old Mr. Nipsell owns.’
‘I know.’
They both sat back in their chairs, awed by the day’s events. It was no good trying to pretend that what had happened was ordinary run-of-the-mill Sunday goings-on. Whichever way you looked at it, miracle or coincidence, the effect was likely to be stupendous. They sat for some time in complete silence.
Then, to be on the safe side, Geoff gave Marion two aspirins with a glass of water, and chivvied her off to bed.
Chapter Four
MARION WAS VERY nervous of going to see Pat in the morning. She had no idea what her reception would be, even whether he would believe her. But her instructions had been quite clear. The message must be delivered.
Geoff said, ‘He’ll be in a good mood if he’s read the papers. Look at this.’ He pointed out a passage amongst the reviews in the morning newspaper from which Marion gathered, for it was very technical, that his playing of the second Brahms piano concerto had been well received.
‘Lyrical, joyous playing. . . .’ He had seemed to her neither lyrical nor joyous when she had met him. Perhaps working up to being lyrical and joyous on the keyboard was very hard work. But possibly her prayers for him had been as successful as the prayer for the rich American.
‘It’s all his fault, after all, what’s happened. It’s him who said pray for a rich American.’
Geoff laughed. ‘Off you go then. He can hardly be displeased, if the best violinist in the world wants him as an accompanist.’
‘Who said he’s the best violinist in the world?’
‘I did. He must be, if I’ve heard of him.’
Marion decided not to go too early, in case Pat was having a long lie in bed after his ordeal. She caught the bus at half-past nine and walked slowly when she got to Oldbridge, looking in all the shop-windows. It was all health-food shops and crusty bread, and sailing clothes and funny coloured wool. The town was full of retired admirals and old, fit ladies with thick white hair and strong dogs on leads. Behind the shops the sea crashed on the steep, shingly beach. Oldbridge so far had not been taken by the sea like its one-time neighbour a few miles farther on, but the sea was very close. Hungry, Marion thought. Eating at the stones. It wasn’t a very good bathing beach, too steep and uncomfortable. But nice and scrunchy to walk on, and amiable dogs chased the seagulls and nosed out dead herrings from round the fishermen’s huts.
Pat’s house, a cottage called Fair Winds, was out beyond the end of the sea-walk, where the sand dunes took over and the shingle gave way to a sort of grit, half-way to sand. It was very exposed, and bleak in bad weather, but a very desirable spot in the sunshine. It was almost sunshine now, a pearly, pale day with the sea and the sky merging. Marion walked where the sea licked at her sandals; beyond the town the beach was less steep and the sea farther away. She was spinning out the walk, nervous, trying to make sense of yesterday. Today nothing seemed less likely than a miracle. Today was excessively ordinary; you could look round the whole horizon, land and sea, and spot nothing even faintly unusual. There seemed to be several people sitting in deckchairs on the beach outside Fair Winds, more than just Pat and Ruth: but even that could hardly be considered unusual, considering it was Festival week and musicians, presumably, liked to get together and talk. However, it was a little off-putting. Marion walked more and more slowly.
There were four people, in fact, three men and Ruth. None of the men were Pat. Marion had come to a complete halt, taking in the scene, when Ruth saw her and got up with a cheerful wave.
‘Marion! Are you looking for us?’
She came towards her, brown legs under a red towelling coat. Marion did not move. Ruth was laughing.
‘Come on. They don’t bite.’
Marion had to advance, there being no alternative, and was introduced to the three men.
‘This is Mr. Crocker, who used to teach Pat when he was at school.’
Marion bent down to shake hands, Mr. Crocker being rather old and fragile-looking, like a gnome, with a lot of untidy white hair and a wrinkled smile.
‘Pleased to meet you, my dear.’
‘And this is Professor Hampton, who used to teach Pat when he had left school.’
Professor Hampton, not quite so elderly, was a bit frightening, smooth and elegant, his smile charming but without warmth. He did not get up, but offered up a white, bony hand. Marion could feel herself blushing, wishing she hadn’t got her jeans all wet.
‘And this is Mick, Pat’s agent.’
Mick had been sitting on the sand but got up and took her hand as if he had been waiting for her, making her feel like a queen. He was young and striking, with hair like a lion’s mane, and very beautiful but untidy clothes.
‘You’re the girl with a whole church to herself?’ he said. His voice was foreign, but the accent wasn’t recognizable to Marion. She hadn’t imagined that agents looked anything like this; she had imagined them hard-faced and cigar-smoking, sitting at a desk making tough deals on the telephone. She was a bit thrown about his knowing about the church, then remembered that it was he who had arranged the concert; Pat had said so, in despair, when he had discovered he was playing for charity. This was the man who would have to go and see Mr. Voigt.
But she wasn’t going to tell anyone else first.
‘I’ve come to see Pat,’ she said.
‘Oh. He’s out there somewhere.’ Mick waved an arm out to sea, and everyone turned round to look.
‘He’s been gone a long time,’ the Professor said. ‘You aren’t very diligent in keeping an eye on your valuable property.’
‘He’s always a long time,’ Ruth said.
‘Swimming—we don’t worry about him swimming, even when it’s rough,’ Mick said. ‘That fast car now—that’s another matter.’
Ruth grinned. ‘Your car is just as fast, and you don’t drive it as well.’
‘Ah, but I’m expendable,’ Mick said.
There was a swimmer, Marion could see now, quite far out. So far out that her heart sank slightly, wondering how ever she could keep her end up with these smart people until Pat came. But Ruth saved her by saying, ‘Come with me, Marion, and we’ll make coffee and bring it out on the beach. Pat will be back by then.’
> They scrambled back over the dunes towards the cottage, collecting Lud on the way, who was covered in sand, looking furry and gold like a teddy-bear.
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Ruth asked. ‘You look worried.’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
This reply baffled Ruth, but she didn’t nose, measuring coffee into a large percolator. The cottage was very untidy but comfortable-looking—rather in the same way as Marion’s own home—and the living-room was largely taken up with an enormous piano, so that the bit left for living in was very small.
‘It’s nice here,’ Marion said. At the back there was a creek, winding through spongy grass, cutting the cottage off from the coast road, keeping it private.
‘Yes, I like it. Better than London. I want to stay, but it’s a bit awkward for Pat, travelling. It’s so far away from anywhere really. He likes driving, luckily.’
Lud sat at the table, eating a biscuit, staring at Marion with stern, impassive eyes. He looked like Pat.
‘You can carry the sugar,’ Ruth said to him. Very trusting, Marion thought, for such a difficult journey over dunes. ‘Don’t get sand in it. The Professor won’t like it. They came for the concert yesterday,’ she added to Marion. ‘They like taking the credit, when he’s good, you see. Quite understandable really. Will you carry the percolator? I’ll take the tray.’
Marion picked it up.
‘He was good—the paper said so. Daddy showed me.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got a message for him. I had to come.’
‘Take Marion’s hand, Lud,’ Ruth said.
His hand was soft and gritty and trusting. Marion liked it, matching her pace to his, watching the sugar tightly clutched. They mounted the dunes, and saw Pat coming up the beach.
‘Daddy!’ Lud shouted, pulling suddenly. Marion rescued the sugar just in time. It was demerara, and the sand didn’t show. Lud raced down the beach and Pat caught him and lifted him on to his shoulders. It was odd, seeing him in his father role, not screwed-up and serious any more, but laughing. ‘It’s Marion!’ he said.
Marion felt herself going scarlet again, because he seemed genuinely pleased to see her, and she was so frightened about her message. He only had to say no, if he didn’t want to; she didn’t know why she was frightened. Only because of the whole thing, the miracle . . . you would be stupid, really, not to be nervous of miracles.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got a message for you. I had to come.’
‘Good. Who from?’ He came up and sat down next to Mick, tumbling Lud into his lap. He looked up at her. ‘God?’
Ruth threw a towel at him. ‘Sit down, Marion. I’m sorry there are no more chairs. Put the percolator on the tray.’
Marion did as she was told, and muttered to Pat, ‘It’s from a man called Ephraim Voigt.’
Pat put Lud down rather suddenly and looked at her closely.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
He picked up the towel and rubbed at his face, regarding her over the top of it, only the eyes showing. They were very intent.
‘Have you met him?’
‘He came into the church, yesterday.’
Marion knew that Pat realized what she was saying, what she hadn’t said, in fact, although the others had overheard the American’s name and obviously, like her father, had no trouble in recognizing it.
‘After I left you?’
‘Yes.’
‘After you had prayed?’ He said it in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ she whispered back.
‘Jesus,’ he said into the towel. His eyes disappeared as he started to rub his hair.
‘Voigt’s here for the Festival,’ the Professor said. ‘I saw him in Oldbridge yesterday.’
‘He was at the concert,’ Mick said. He leaned across to look at Marion and said, ‘You say he had a message for Pat?’
‘He wants him to contact him—or you, that is. His agent. To contact his agent.’
‘Why?’
‘He wants Pat to play with him.’
She was telling it all wrong. She should have said it to Pat privately, how it had come about. They were all staring at her in astonishment, poised over the coffee-cups.
‘Why?’ Mick asked. ‘What for? Why Pat?’
Pat said, coming out of the towel, ‘It’s for the church, isn’t it? You told him. He came in and you told him?’
‘Yes.’
The others didn’t understand, but she could see that Pat knew exactly what had happened without being told. It was part of the old thing, that she felt she knew Pat very well indeed, that she had always known him, and now it was reciprocal. She didn’t have to explain all the details to him, because he already knew.
Mick was asking, ‘Why did he want Pat?’
‘Because Marion told him,’ Pat said.
‘He was on his way to the concert anyway,’ Marion said, not wanting to be responsible for everything. ‘I only told him that you liked the church too, and had already played a concert to raise money.’
‘And he said, “I’ll go and listen and see if he’s any good, and if he is he can accompany me.”’
‘Instead of his usual guy.’
‘Instead of his usual guy,’ Pat repeated.
‘And last night, late, he rang up and said—’ She paused.
‘Go on. What did he say?’
‘He said—’ She looked up from the sand, saw they were all hanging on her words, and felt the blushes flooding her yet again. ‘“Real nice playing for—”’
‘For what?’
‘“For such a kid.”’
Pat’s face was expressionless, but all the others laughed. She could see that they were amazed, and excited. The miracle was real, rubbed off on these know-alls too.
‘The publicity would be fantastic,’ Mick said.
‘Exactly how would it help the church?’ Ruth asked. ‘One or two concerts, even with him, don’t make, seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
‘He said, “You do a few concerts. You get your publicity right. You make your appeal. The concerts just start things rolling.” He said his agent knows the job backwards.’
‘He’s got the name and the influence to do it,’ Mick said. ‘When he plays over here, there’s never an empty seat. Even with charity concert prices, it will be the same. And then, if he makes the appeal, and his publicity machine gets to work, and the church people do some of the spadework, I reckon you’d raise your money.’
‘You’d better start rubbing up your Kreutzer sonata, Pat, and your César Franck,’ the Professor said drily. ‘I seem to remember your doing the Spring quite adequately with Clarissa in the old days. But Mr. Voigt, I imagine, will be a good deal more demanding than Miss Cargill-Smith.’
‘A wonderful opportunity, working with a man of that calibre,’ Mr. Crocker said, beaming. ‘Extraordinary!’
‘You were going to take a few weeks off after this Festival,’ Ruth said to Pat flatly.
Pat stood up, the towel round his neck. ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ he said.
He looked down at Marion. ‘Come with me. I want to talk to you.’
Marion followed him over the dunes, chastened. ‘Are you cross?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t got to. He can’t make you.’
‘Mick will. I have got to.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean—’
‘No, idiot. There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s the other business—your praying, and him coming. Was it just like that? You prayed—’
‘Yes. I prayed at the altar the minute you’d gone, and when I turned round, there he was. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘And you told him—?’
‘Yes. I told him everything. He asked me first, he asked me about the angels, so of course I told him. I had to tell him. That’s what he was there for.’
‘You believe that? I told you miracles happen.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did Geoff say?’
‘He said it was a coincidence. But getting on for a miracle.’
‘I’ll say! Did you pray for me too?’
‘Yes.’
‘You could go into business, Marion. That worked as well. Everything went right.’
‘You’re not cross then?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t mind playing with Mr. Voigt?’
‘You don’t exactly mind, being invited to play with a person like that. That’s not the feeling at all.’
‘What is it then?’
‘The feeling? At the moment, doubt, horror, panic, amazement . . . incredulity. Gloom. The work involved—’
‘That’s minding, I would have said.’
‘Oh, no. That’s normal. Later on, I shall feel better about it. If it looks like coming true—well then, I might start feeling a bit excited.’
Marion was infinitely relieved. ‘I felt so awful, coming here, to tell you.’
‘You really are a nut,’ he said.
They went into the kitchen, and he perched on the table and ate a biscuit out of a packet Ruth had left open. He was brown and hefty in his nakedness, and wore a gold medallion round his neck on a chain. Haying got her ordeal over, Marion realized she was once more blissfully happy.
‘You are pleased? Really, underneath?’
‘You might say, not displeased. Flattered. Frightened.’
‘He seemed very nice to me.’
‘No doubt. I only know him by reputation.’
‘What’s his reputation?’
‘Fierce. Great. God’s not doing this thing by halves, sending Mr. Voigt in answer to your prayers.’ He took another biscuit. ‘It’s a very queer thing. Does anybody else know?’
‘Daddy said not to say anything. He said to you, it didn’t matter, but not anybody else.’
‘No. You’ll get burnt for a witch.’
‘Not for having prayers answered!’
‘No. Sorry. Made into a saint. I’ve got it the wrong way round. Saint Marion. Sounds funny. I’ll go and get dressed.’
He slipped off the table and went upstairs and the ceiling creaked as he moved about the bedroom. Marion went into the living-room, where the watery, greenish sun washed over the ebony Steinway. Dog-eared sheets of music stood in piles, mixed up with Lud’s toy cars and bricks, and some knitting and a bowl of oranges. It was a very nice room, Marion thought, as if everyone did their own thing in amicable companionship. At home, with only her and Geoff, there weren’t enough of them to get this feeling.