Secret of the Song

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Secret of the Song Page 1

by Cathie Hartigan




  Secret of the Song

  Copyright © 2015 Cathie Hartigan

  Published 2015 by CreativeWritingMatters

  www.creativewritingmatters.co.uk

  The rights of Cathie Hartigan have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or others, without the prior permission of Cathie Hartigan or a licence permitting restricted copying

  In the UK, such licenses are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6 – 10 Kirby Street, London, EC1N 8TS

  www.cla.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, huge thanks must go to my lovely friends, Margaret James, Sophie Duffy and Su Bristow, who have always championed my work and given me excellent guidance along the road to this novel.

  To Jane Eastgate for her wise editorial suggestions.

  To the members of Exeter Writers for their support and Dan Knibb of the Write Group, for his generous critiquing.

  To Nota Bene, a wonderful ensemble with whom it is a privilege to sing.

  To my dear sister and brother-in-law, Jane and Noel Skinner for their continual encouragement and exceedingly sharp eyes.

  I should also mention, that even if Don Carlo Gesualdo (1560 – 1613) wasn’t quite guilty of murder, he was clearly a deeply troubled individual. There is evidence that corroborates both the eccentric behaviour of his early life and the degenerate madness of his later years. A lot of research was undertaken early in the twentieth century by Messers Hesaltine and Gray in their book: Carlo Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa, Musician and Murderer. It was here that I first encountered the witness statements including that of the servant girl, Silvia Albana.

  Where I may have done Gesualdo a disservice however, is in the running down of his music. It certainly is neither an easy sing, nor an easy listen, being a little short of good tunes, but if you get the chance, listen to his music sung by I Fagiolini, under the direction of Robert Hollingworth. Nobody does it better.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Postscript

  Prologue

  Gesualdo, near Naples, 1584

  ‘Silvia!’ My mother’s voice knocked loudly at my thoughts. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’ I rose to my feet and hid my sewing behind me. I knew the temper in her only too well.

  ‘Show me,’ she said, advancing from the doorway.

  ‘But it is not yet finished.’

  ‘I want to see.’

  I placed the garment in her hand. A linen shift.

  ‘It’s too good,’ said my mother, pulling at the seam. ‘Don’t make your stitching so neat.’

  I protested, of course, having spent many hours trying to make my stitches as fine as I could, and so small they were almost invisible.

  ‘Someone will notice,’ she said, ‘and none of us want to be noticed.’ She threw my work into the basket we were taking to market and told me to go help my father with the olive pressing. ‘Be careful, child,’ she said, as I dragged my feet towards the door. ‘We’ve all got places in this world. There are no peacocks in the chicken house for a good reason.’

  In spite of her warning, I continued to watch the carriages going up the hill and I listened to the curious singing carried back down from the castle on the warm summer breezes. In those tall turrets there were plenty of peacocks. They liked their silks and satins and they liked them stitched well. But finding good needlewomen wasn’t easy. It was necessary to look in unlikely places. Even amongst the chickens.

  Chapter One

  Exeter, October 2014

  ‘Why don’t you marry Jon, mummy?’ Mollie, Queen of Barbie-land, and resplendent in her twinkly pyjamas, sat up in bed glaring at me. ‘Then he’d be here all the time, and you wouldn’t need so many minutes on your phone.’

  ‘That’s absolutely the worst reason to get married I’ve ever heard.’ I kissed my magenta monster goodnight. ‘Now, lie down and go to sleep.’

  ‘It would be nice though, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It might, but then again it might not. Besides,’ I said, turning the light right down, ‘aren’t we all happy now?’

  She was quiet for a nanosecond. ‘But we could be more happy.’

  ‘Shh … that’s enough.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to get married.’

  ‘Go to sleep!’

  Needless to say, I lay awake, staring into the darkness when I went to bed a couple of hours later. Would we be happier? In my mind’s eye I saw Jon at our rehearsal earlier that evening. We were all squashed round my kitchen table: Noteworthy: Robert and Sophie, Jon and me. Jon sat directly opposite me, his rangy body animated with enthusiasm when he showed us his new arrangement of Let It Be.

  ‘Lisa’s a proper alto,’ Sophie had said to Jon when she introduced me to him at her thirtieth birthday party. ‘Fabulous voice.’

  Then he held out his hand and said, ‘How do you do, fabulous Lisa?’

  Well, that was the first time my heart gave a little skip. It wasn’t every day a handsome man looked at me with such interest. We’d spent the rest of the evening together and I remember my jaw ached from smiling so much. The wine had something to do with it but he’d made me laugh too. He told one very old joke, and acted it flamboyantly, about altos not being able to change lightbulbs because they couldn’t get up that high. Cheek, I’d thought, smitten.

  It was at the same party that Noteworthy’s first rehearsal was arranged. We met the following week, but from then on the music came first. Good for weddings, parties and any other function that needed a bit of music but without all the rigmarole of dancing or a band.

  We offer pop, showtunes, light opera, part-songs of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and our particular favourite genre, Renaissance madrigals. Although to be honest, in the two years we’d been together, there hadn’t been any call for those.

  Don’t try an’ fix what ain’t broke, I thought, turning over and pulling the duvet around my ears. It’s a special thing singing together in a small group and rare to find both voices and personalities that match. Jon and I were good singers and good friends. Locally, we were in demand, in spite of our rather niche expertise, and it would be crazy to change the dynamic of the group. In my experience, love brought entanglements and all manner of difficultie
s not conducive to a professional relationship. Besides, and it was a big besides, the question hadn’t arisen. We’d been out, but mostly with Mollie or Noteworthy, never on what you’d call a date.

  Concentrate on the music, I told myself, snuggling further under the duvet in an effort to get comfortable. That’s the important thing.

  I drifted away thinking about our rehearsal. We were about to sing the first madrigal. It was that moment when everything had settled and we were all focusing our attention into the silent space before us. I’d thought then that we were like synchronised swimmers poised to dive into the water. We weren’t about to get wet, but all four of us were launching ourselves away from the safety of solid ground. The music in our hands was a map, that’s all, and the crotchets and quavers laced together on lines were symbols, just like a tiny square with a cross on top was a church. It was up to us to make the whole thing real.

  Madrigals can be jolly fa la la and hey nonny no type songs about raunchy love but the one we were about to sing, John Bennet’s Weep, O mine eyes, celebrated the lovesick drowning in tears. The landscape would only reveal itself if each of us sang our part perfectly. There was no margin of error. As I’d taken a breath, I’d wondered what happened when synchronised swimmers went wrong. Had anybody ever drowned?

  Nearly a week went by before I had cause to think about what our next gig might be. It was a Wednesday and my turn to open up the shop. Although it was only part-time, Robert’s job offer had saved my life when I’d been at my most desperate. Mollie was small and still launching food missiles around the kitchen when her father rediscovered his libido and took it on a little tour to show anyone who was interested. He was slow to appreciate that my interest in him might be affected by his actions, but he realised soon enough the day he returned to find no Mollie and no me at home.

  The phone began ringing as soon as I got inside the shop.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, trying to sound measured, even though I still had one arm in the sleeve of my coat. ‘Robert’s Classical Music, can I help you?’

  ‘Hello? Are you Noteworthy as well?’

  The voice was clipped. My old headmistress came to mind and I decided against a smart response. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Excellent. In that case, can you come and see me? Today would be best.’

  ‘Err …’

  ‘We have something of interest.’

  ‘We?’ Was this the Queen?

  ‘It’s the museum here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Not quite the present Queen, but still, there was some sort of association. I assumed the voice was referring to Exeter’s principal museum: the Royal Albert Memorial Museum, otherwise known as RAMM.

  ‘We’ve come across a music manuscript. Italian Renaissance apparently,’ she went on, ‘which is why I’m calling you. Our initial research suggests it might be previously unknown. Can you come and have a look?’

  Yes, most definitely. Exeter is an old city so the chances of finding Roman artefacts are high, but turning up something from the Italian Renaissance was much more intriguing.

  When Robert took over manning the shop at lunchtime, I headed off for my meeting with the headmistress/curator.

  It seemed to me that Barbie herself might have had a hand in painting the foyer of the museum, and I wondered what Prince Albert, whose statue looked down on every visitor, would have thought of the bright pink décor.

  ‘We’re terribly excited,’ the curator said, staring at a very unexciting volume, somewhat smaller than A4, covered in brown paper.

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Yes, but prepare yourself, Mrs Barr, the frontispiece engraving is not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised. What could possibly be worrying about a four-hundred-year-old Italian song? Gruesome images were everywhere and, in spite of my best efforts to keep the worst web horrors from her, even Mollie, at only ten, had developed a certain resistance to shock.

  But when I lifted the cover, I saw exactly what she meant.

  ‘I have absolutely brilliant news,’ I said to the others, when we met that evening at Sophie’s. Carefully, I slid the precious piece from my case, but somehow it slipped from my fingers and landed next to the roses on the table with a slap. The vase shivered and a few petals fell from the heavy-headed blooms that leant over the brim. Two of the four wine glasses tinged together and I shuddered, the timbre of the sound reminding me of music festivals and exams when the little bell announced you’re next.

  ‘The museum wants us to sing this.’ I went on, nodding at the music, while I fastened my case and leant it against the leg of my chair. ‘It’s the only copy, so we’d best be careful with it.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Robert, shaking his head and clearly shocked. ‘And they let you take it away?’

  ‘Yes, I know. Amazing isn’t it? She was quite cavalier about it too. Practically thrust it into my hand.’

  He frowned, and muttered something about disgraceful behaviour.

  ‘They’re having a big do in December,’ I went on. ‘It’s to open the Renaissance exhibition. It’ll be a fantastic opportunity for us, although—’

  ‘Although?’ Sophie raised an eyebrow as she gathered up the petals. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  Jon was quickest. He reached across and picked up the madrigal. Scribbled on the paper cover in a casual diagonal was:

  Composer: Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa

  Title: Ite Sospiri Ardenti (Burning Sighs)

  ‘What’s he doing in Exeter Museum?’ He flipped it open, took one look, then reared back and blew on his fingers as if they’d been scalded. ‘Bloody hell!’

  The sepia engraving filled the page and instead of the usual cherubs, we were indeed looking at a vision of a bloody hell. Torture, disembowelling, bodies swinging from the gallows, a figure drowning in turbulent waters, another being burnt at the stake. An extraordinary frontispiece – Bosch meets horror comic. You could almost hear the screams.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Robert. ‘They don’t come like that very often.’

  We all leaned forward for a closer look, ghoulishly intrigued.

  ‘The curator said the same thing,’ I told them. ‘You’d think a museum curator would be immune to getting the creeps, but she did seem glad to be rid of it.’

  ‘What I’m wondering,’ said Sophie, ‘is whether it’s a warning against going any further?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said, ‘but don’t let that put us off. Just think of the kudos! We get the chance to sing something nobody’s ever done before. The museum has no record of any performance, and the curator said their limited amount of research hadn’t found out anything about it. How fantastic is that?’

  Robert, ever the one for exactitude, interrupted. ‘I expect someone’s sung it before. Athough maybe not for what? Could be four hundred years.’

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, waving his comment away, ‘there’s another problem.’ They’d not noticed the Italian inscription. Madrigal a cinque voci. Five voices. Two sopranos, alto, tenor, bass.

  ‘Oh well, that’s us out then.’ Jon sat back.

  A muscle in my jaw twitched. ‘I did tell them we were a quartet.’

  ‘And?’ said Jon.

  ‘They thought we could get someone in?’

  ‘I hope you said no.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. It’s a good idea. Why can’t we?’

  ‘We never have before.’ He frowned and folded his arms across his chest with the sort of energy that said there’s nothing more to discuss.

  I was stunned. ‘What kind of a reason is that?’

  ‘Quite a good one, I would have thought.’

  Was this going to be an argument? I’d never heard Jon sound quite so truculent, but then, before I could reply, Robert leaned forward and flicked through the pages.

  ‘Good Lord, this isn’t easy. We’d have to get someone good enough to cope with all this awkward chromatic
ism. I might know a someone, she’s…’ he hesitated, frowning. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ I said.

  We all looked at him, waiting for the something to be revealed, but he shook his head and wouldn’t be drawn. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve given it more thought.’

  I picked up the Gesualdo manuscript and carefully stowed it back in my case between two fatter volumes. I shivered suddenly. A draught, I told myself, even while remembering that Sophie was very pleased with her new double-glazing.

  As I was getting dressed the following morning my phone pinged. A text: Sorry I was crotchety Jx

  Over breakfast, I thought of my reply: Only minimally :-) x

  I lied. Jon had been worse than crotchety. More like thoroughly negative. It wasn’t like him. The Jon I knew relished trying new stuff. What about all the times he’d had a friendly go at Robert for being too stuffy?

  When I arrived at work I found the shop door already open even though it was my turn to get in early. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘I’m on my way soon,’ said Robert. He was thumbing through the box where we kept the names of local musicians and teachers. ‘But I wanted to check something. She’s in here, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ I said, retrieving the cash float from behind the Beethoven Sonatas.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Robert picked out an index card. ‘Ah, here she is.’

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea if we can find someone suitable. What do we know about her?’

  He looked at me, card held mid-air, with a slight frown. Then having shaken away some flecks of dust he peered at it and read out loud: ‘Daniela Alfero. Grad. Conservatori di Milano 2006. LRSM Singing (soprano) London 2008.’ He glanced up. ‘Impressive enough?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ I said, clattering the coins into the till, ‘although we’ll have to get her past Jon. You said there was something about her? What sort of something?’

 

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