A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1)

by Mary Burchell

  A Song Begins

  Mary Burchell

  © Mary Burchell 1965

  Mary Burchell Spencer has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1965 by Harlequin Books.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER I

  It was raining, but she was not aware of it. People passed her, but she did not see them. For, as she climbed the steep hill to the small house at the top where she lived, Anthea Benton walked in a world of her own.

  There had been nothing to tell her that this day would not be like any other day. She had gone to her singing lesson that afternoon expecting it to be like any other singing lesson. Absorbing, fascinating, challenging — but just a singing lesson.

  And then, at the end, Miss Sharon — her strict, somewhat waspish, utterly dedicated teacher — had said, “Sit down, Anthea. I have something serious to say to you.”

  She had sat down, impressed by Miss Sharon’s air, her heart beating suddenly lest she were going to be told that, on reflection, her teacher thought it a waste of time for her to go on with her studies. (From which it will be seen that Anthea had a nice sense of modesty and no delusions of grandeur.) Possibly it was because of this innate humility of Anthea’s that Miss Sharon — a cautious and critical woman — allowed herself to continue:

  “I have never said this to any pupil before, Anthea, and I doubt if I shall ever have reason to say it again. But of all those who have passed through my hands — and heaven knows they have been a motley lot,” she added acidly, “you are the only one to convince me that you are worthy of a professional career.”

  “Why — why, thank you.” Anthea gave a small gasp of pleasure and relief, for Miss Sharon had been sparing with her praise up to now. “But that’s always been my intention, you know. Not just to be a girl who takes singing lessons. I mean to be a singer.”

  Miss Sharon threw up her hands in what she believed to be a continental manner and emitted a short, contemptuous laugh.

  “So do they all,” she said. “So do they all. They come here full of confidence, twittering or bellowing, simpering or soulful, many unable to read a note of music, but all convinced that the world is waiting, open-mouthed, to hear them. And not one of them really has the talent, inspiration, dedication, grit, health or sheer guts to make the genuine article.”

  “And — you think I have?” Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

  “I know you have,” retorted Miss Sharon sharply. “But remember, we can take no credit for our gifts. It’s what we do with them that matters. And God gave you” — she made it sound almost like a personal matter — “the rarest of all singing gifts: a completely even scale and a natural placement.”

  “You mean it — it doesn’t often happen?”

  “Hardly ever. And nine out of ten of the people to whom it does happen waste the gift. Either because they haven’t the wit or the luck to recognise it, or they are too lazy to develop it, or they want to marry some young man or have a good time or one of the other half-dozen things that are fatal to a career. I hope” — Miss Sharon fixed her with a singularly stern glance — “that you don’t intend to fall into any of those errors. It would be wasting your talents in the biblical sense of the term.”

  “Yes, Miss Sharon. I mean — no, Miss Sharon.” Anthea had felt almost like a child before this intimidating view of her gifts. And she added fervently, “I promise to go on working hard with you – ”

  “No,” interrupted Miss Sharon. “That’s what I’m coming to, Anthea. Not with me. You are ready for wider horizons now.”

  “But, Miss Sharon, you’re such a good teacher!”

  “Yes. I’m a good, sound, drudging teacher,” agreed Miss Sharon, who was a realist. “I’ve taught you all I can. You needed singularly little except careful guidance in this early stage. But I can’t open the great professional world of musical art for you. No one in this small provincial town can do that. The next stage is not only a question of what you learn at your lessons, in the studio. You have to hear the great, and analyse what makes them great, you have to widen your musical experience, live your art as well as study it academically. The perfect diamond has many facets,” Miss Sharon explained, in a sudden flight of fancy. “It’s almost never that the same hand cuts them all. The time has come, much sooner than we ever imagined, for you to go to London.”

  Anthea looked grave.

  “There’s not much money in our household since my father’s illness,” she said frankly. “He’s only just back at work. And my brother’s still at school. I don’t think they could — ”

  “Go home and explain to them what I have told you,” interrupted Miss Sharon with a touch of ruthlessness. “They may have to make sacrifices now. The families of artists usually have to. But when you’re famous, they’ll think it was worth it.”

  When you’re famous! As she walked homeward, those incredible words rang in Anthea’s ears like a chime of bells. When you’re famous –

  With an extravagance beyond anything her teacher had expressed, suddenly Anthea’s imagination began to blossom. Concert halls loomed before her, opera houses took shape in front of her, audiences applauded her, managers sought her, conductors praised her.

  When you’re famous!

  “Mother, Mother – ”Anthea rushed into the house, and through to the large stone-flagged kitchen where Mrs. Benton was just taking a batch of bread from the oven.

  “What’s the matter?” Her mother looked up expectantly.

  “Mum,” — Anthea came and hugged her suddenly — “did you ever really think I might be famous?”

  “Of course,” replied her mother coolly, as she tested the crispness of a crusty loaf with an expert finger. “Just you work hard with Miss Sharon, and one of these days – ”

  “Mother,” said Anthea a little unsteadily, “it is one of these days — now. Miss Sharon says it’s time I went to London — that I need wider horizons.”

  “Wider horizons?” Mrs. Benton repeated the words in an odd, uncertain tone. The tone of one who believes in miracles but also knows the ruthless demands of daily life. “That’s going to mean a lot of money, isn’t it?”

  Anthea nodded, wordlessly.

  “Your father’s back at work now, of course.” The words came out slowly, consideringly.

  “And I might get a part-time job in London – ”

  “And Roland’s in his last year at school – ”

  “And I wouldn’t mind how frugally I lived – ”

  They were tossing the bright ball of hope backwards and forwards between them, and they looked curiously alike, mother and daughter, as they stood either side of the kitchen table, with the loaves of delicious-smelling bread between them.

  In a strange way, they were like the bread. Basic, wholesome, intensely real. Both were tall and straight, both had the same wide brown eyes and the same fine, up-springing fair hair, though the older woman’s had some grey in it now. But, above all, they both had that indefinable glow of inner warmth and vitality at which the less fortunate will always seek to warm their hands.

  “We’ll manage somehow,” Mrs. Benton said resolutely. “There’s always a way. Go and see who that is, dear,” as a ring at the front door bell interrupted their conversation.

  “Do you reall
y mean, Mother – ”

  Anthea paused and looked back eagerly from the doorway.

  “I mean that, short of some disaster, I’ll get you to London,” replied her mother, setting her lips in a firm line. “Answer the door, Anthea,” as the ring was repeated with some urgency.

  It was strange how certain phrases seemed to start up in Anthea’s consciousness that afternoon, with a meaning out of all proportion to their natural context.

  “Short of some disaster – ” The words gave her a queer premonitory chill, so that her heart began to beat fast, as though with some pre-knowledge, even before she snatched open the front door.

  And then she knew, immediately, when she saw who was standing outside. It was Neil Prentiss, the younger of the two brothers who owned the mills where her father was a floor manager, and his good-looking face was grave and concerned.

  “Miss Benton, is your mother in?”

  “Yes,” said Anthea. “What is it? It’s — Father, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. But it may not be too serious.” He made a quick gesture of reassurance. “He collapsed at work half an hour ago, and we’ve had to get him into hospital again. Tell your mother I have the car here and – ”

  But Mrs. Benton was already at the door, white but calm.

  “All right, Mr. Prentiss.” She was untying her apron and smoothing her hair. “Come in, will you? I’ll get a coat.”

  He came in and through to the kitchen, because Anthea was too dazed to take him anywhere else. But, although she offered him a seat, he chose to stand, his tall figure throwing a long shadow in the firelight.

  She tried to make some sort of conversation, but few words came. And he — perhaps equally at a loss — said:

  “I’m glad you were home. It makes it easier for your mother. Had you just come in from work?”

  She shook her head.

  “From my singing lesson,” she said heavily.

  “Oh, you sing?” He seemed interested, or at least contrived to sound as though he were. “Yes, you look as though you might.”

  “How do you know?” She still forced herself to make perfunctory conversation. “Do you sing yourself?”

  “No.” He laughed. “Not a note. But I’m passionately interested. That’s why Prentiss’s are one of the local firms backing this T.V. competition.”

  “Oh,” said Anthea politely. And then her mother came back, and she and Neil Prentiss went off together and Anthea was alone.

  It is hard to be alone when one’s hopes are at zero. It would not have been so hard, Anthea thought, if she had not just been beguiled by the most dazzling, golden dreams.

  When you’re famous –

  But those words were futile now. One must pull one’s weight in a household threatened by disaster. Why should she, of them all, expect good fortune on a silver plate? All that talk about the families of artists having to make sacrifices! Her father was ill, her mother anxious, her brother too young to share the burden.

  If any sacrifices were to be made, it was she who would have to make them. The sacrifice of those glorious illusions which had irradiated one single hour.

  Presently her brother, Roland, came in. He was a hardworking, uninhibited boy, with a near-genius for maths which never failed to astound his sister, to whom figures were a mystery and a menace.

  She told him, as unsensationally as possible, about their father’s collapse, and was glad that he took it quietly.

  “Poor Mum! It’s so worrying for her,” he exclaimed. “How I wish I were a year or two older. It’s tough on her having to shoulder all the worry. Did you know they actually had to raise a bit on Dad’s life insurance during his recent illness?”

  “No!” Anthea was aghast. “How do you know?”

  “Dad told me himself. I don’t think he quite meant to. But it was when Mr. Carew said I had a good chance of a scholarship to London University. Dad was terribly pleased, but said he ought to warn me that they wouldn’t be able to supplement things much, as he’d even had to raise something on his life insurance.”

  “I wish they’d told me!” Anthea said.

  “I suppose they didn’t want you to start worrying until your training was complete. After all” — Roland grinned at her — “you’re the white hope of this family, aren’t you? When you’re pulling in the crowds at Covent Garden, we’ll all be on velvet.”

  “Oh, Rollie in her distress, the old, childish name slipped out — “that’s just a dream! I don’t think any of us ever realised what the training of a professional singer means in money and time. Miss Sharon told me only today” — her voice shook slightly — “that it was time I went to London. What do you suppose that would cost? And how could I take it, even if the parents offered me money?” There was a long silence, during which Roland cleared his throat sympathetically once or twice. Then suddenly he said,

  “Why don’t you go in for this T.V. competition they’re organising at the Town Hall?”

  “What competition?”

  “Something that’s being financed partly by the new T.V. station in this area, and partly by some of the big local firms – Prentiss’s among them, I believe.”

  “Why,” exclaimed Anthea, “he said something about it, and I was too — Rollie, where did you hear about this?”

  “There’s quite a lot about it in tonight’s Chronicle. One of the chaps had it on the bus coming home. Hasn’t ours come yet?”

  “I think I heard someone put it through the letter-box five minutes ago.” Anthea jumped up.

  “They’re giving away a hundred pounds or something,” observed Roland, which served to hasten her footsteps.

  He heard the rustle as she picked up the paper from the mat, and then she came back, much more slowly, into the room, staring at the front page of the Cromerdale Chronicle so fixedly that she nearly fell over a chair in her path.

  “It’s a thousand pounds,” she said hoarsely. “The Chronicle are backing it too. And it says the competition’s open to all types of singer, from vaudeville to operatic.”

  “Crumbs! There’ll be a stampede!”

  “No. It’s limited to those who have made at least one professional appearance,” explained Anthea, reading rapidly down the column. “Oh,” — she looked up — “do you suppose a Masonic Dinner counts?”

  “Since you were paid for it — yes,” declared Roland confidently.

  “It was only two pounds,” Anthea said humbly.

  “That was all you were worth at the time,” was the candid reply.

  “Oh, Rollie,” — she stopped and looked solemn — “it’s as though it were meant to be. Like — Fate.”

  “It is, rather,” agreed Roland, pleased to have been the forerunner of Fate, as it were.

  “If only Miss Sharon will let me! She’s dead against any competitions or engagements or anything like that in these early days. And it says here that the winner will be offered T.V. appearances.”

  She looked so anxious that Roland said:

  “Cheer up. You haven’t won it yet. Though I bet there’s not another voice in this town to compare with yours. It’s the chance of a lifetime, An! You must talk the Rose of Sharon round. Don’t tell me that a few T.V. appearances are going to do you real harm. And once you’ve collected your thousand and fulfilled your obligations, you can start in on the serious studying.”

  “Who’s talking before I’ve won it now?” retorted Anthea. At which they both laughed. And, on this cheering sound, their mother returned.

  The news about Mr. Benton was better than they had hoped. At least he had rallied well, though the doctor had been severe about his having gone back to work too soon, and emphatic that he must now stay out for a long time.

  “But Mr. Prentiss was so kind!” Mrs. Benton exclaimed. “He told your father in front of me that his job would be waiting for him whenever he came back. And he said he would be on full pay for three months longer, and half-pay indefinitely after that. Considering all the sick-leave Dad’s had
already, I think it was handsome. But” — she paused and looked anxiously at her daughter — “I’m sorry, dear. This isn’t going to be any help over what we were discussing.”

  “That’s all right, Mother! Don’t even think about that at the moment,” Anthea replied earnestly. “Wait until Dad’s well.”

  Then she saw that Roland was bursting with information about the competition, and she kicked him smartly under the table and just mouthed the word, “Surprise!”

  And, with the most enormous effort, he contained himself.

  It was hard for Anthea during the next few days to keep her hopes to herself. For, with the resilience of youth, she was now almost as elated and hopeful as she had once been depressed. Even the grudging quality of Miss Sharon’s consent could not dash her.

  “It isn’t at all the kind of thing I would have wanted for you,” Miss Sharon said. “But I do see that, with your father ill and money short – ”

  She took the newspaper announcement and studied it.

  “Rather a mixed panel of judges, I notice,” she observed disparagingly. “Many of them what I would call Show people” — she had a very special way of looking down her nose as she said this — “rather than serious musicians.”

  “They say they hope to have a famous conductor there,” Anthea pointed out defensively.

  “Probably someone who will send his regrets at the last minute, and well they know it,” retorted Miss Sharon. “That’s why they don’t venture to give a name. However, just in case someone worthwhile turns up, we must see that you sing something worthy.”

  “Something reasonably popular, too,” Anthea countered quickly. “It’s a very general sort of contest, Miss Sharon.”

  “Handel perhaps — or Gluck,” went on Miss Sharon, without taking much notice of the interruption. “Or Haydn’s ‘With Verdure Clad’.”

  There was a slight silence. Then Anthea said, diffidently,

  “You don’t think something a little more dramatic? — something operatic?”

  “You mean a popular Puccini air, of course,” replied Miss Sharon drily. “I have a great respect for Puccini, and despise those who do not know that Boheme is a masterpiece. But that is not the right thing for a young beginner to try to put before the public.”