Pebbles from a Northern Shore

by Peter D Wilson

ON WINGS OF SONG

  It isn't quite true that I can't sing a note. I can, but never the right one, nor any remotely compatible with it. I was probably the only boy in the school's history asked to withdraw from the house choir in the annual music competition into which everyone with any sort of voice would be dragooned. Age hasn't improved matters, either, but then it rarely does. However, much more recently, the disability once again turned out to my advantage.

  The occasion followed a suggestion from a bright spark in local radio that organising a music festival "would put the town on the map", a task in which, as some pedant pointed out in a letter to the press, no one had previously suggested any negligence by the Ordnance Survey. It started a correspondence about the general lack of cultural opportunities in the area. In the course of it, a clergyman pointed out that before the advent of the motorway network allowing those who could afford it fairly easy access to theatres and concert-halls in the big cities, there had been quite a vigorous circle of music and dramatic societies, now alas mostly defunct or moribund; might it be possible to revive some of them for the benefit of people with more limited resources? The churches were supposed to be concerned with the welfare of the poor, and had already been making noises about the lack of innocent activities for youngsters, so perhaps they might make a start.

  The chairman of the district Churches Together group took up the idea, proposing to set up a committee, consider the possibilities and follow up any that looked promising. Despite the groans of "Not another committee!", the motion was passed comfortably. So was another to co-opt the originator of the Festival idea. Objections that the man had a history of appearing hostile towards organised religion were overruled - "Does it really matter in this instance?" - and he proved surprisingly agreeable. The result, a month or two later, was a circular to all the churches promoting a competition for church choirs.

  Inevitably, once Barbara Maxwell heard that St. Cyprian's was going to enter it, she determined that St. Cyril's also had to take part. Since her own school days, she and her opposite number in the other church had been fiercely jealous rivals in every field of activity they shared. In fact, if ever either of them was known to have taken up a new interest, the other felt compelled to follow suit, so that by the time in question the area of conflict had stretched to cover practically everything they did in public.

  Barbara was a great organiser. During the war her father had appointed himself commander of a Home Guard unit somewhere on the south coast, and she had evidently inherited much of his spirit. How poor old Fred Maxwell had attracted her matrimonial attentions, goodness only knew, but as he would say over many a commiseratory jar in the local pub, it took more pluck than he possessed to refuse or question anything that she had set her mind on doing. With her customary vigour she set about knocking the church choir into the sort of shape she thought suitable, regardless of anyone else's ideas.

  The challenge facing her was that St. Cyprian's choir was highly regarded, to the extent of being considered a year or so earlier to feature in 'Songs of Praise' although nothing came of it; apparently there was a clash of dates. St. Cyril's was, to put it kindly, less so, but we weren't sure how far behind at that time. Barbara wouldn't risk giving the game away by investigating the opposition herself, but sent one of her least conspicuous minions to their Harvest Festival. Unfortunately, for about the first time in her fifty-odd years, Mabel did attract some attention; the vicar buttonholed her, asked kindly if she was new to the district and hoped she might be seen there regularly. She was possibly the world's least convincing fibber, and I don't know how she got out of that one, but she apparently managed to escape without betraying herself. She duly reported that we should have a hard struggle to get anywhere near their standard and I thought for a moment that she was about to suggest dropping the idea, but if that was indeed in her mind the expression on Barbara's face quickly banished it.

  Quality wasn't the only deficiency at St. Cyril's; quantity was also lacking for the kind of repertoire to be performed, so Barbara launched an intensive recruiting drive. Excuses about "too many other commitments" were peremptorily overridden. Mercifully she was well aware of my vocal deficiencies, but they didn't get me quite off the hook; a proper organisation must be set up, someone had to do the admin, and despite all protests that my brain switched off at the first whiff of any financial matter, the job of secretary cum treasurer landed in my lap. As a bank manager's daughter she probably couldn't imagine the blind panic induced by a column of figures under a pound sign.

  Somehow she got together a fair number of sopranos, altos, tenors and what might just about pass as baritones or basses, and started a period of intensive training. It was uphill work, and a wag among the tenors once claimed to have seen a posse of the local tom-cats practising boot-throwing in the moonlight on his way home after the previous rehearsal. However, the results gradually became less painful, especially after a couple of the elderly ladies were tactfully advised that their most helpful contribution would be in preparing the refreshments. It wasn't Barbara herself with the tact, of course; she had the sense to delegate.

  For the actual competition, a coach was to be booked to transport everyone concerned, despite the plentiful private cars available and grumbles about the hire fee from some people who had expected to be given a free ride. As Barbara put it in dismissing objections, all were being treated alike, and in any case she wasn't going to risk anyone's getting lost or breaking down on the way. Quotations to provide the transport made my eyes water, but that from Johnnie's Jaunts was the least exorbitant and we plumped for that. I didn't know the firm and the frivolous trade name rather worried me, but no one I consulted had substantial criticisms while various people said it was "all right", although with a dubious intonation that reinforced my doubts.

  I was therefore surprised when the vehicle that turned up had a recent registration, looked remarkably smart and bore a completely different name, but the driver explained that the bosses were friends and often helped each other out when one was stretched. Even so, I asked if he was sure of having come to the right place, and he indignantly waved a barely-legible note in which the name at least seemed to begin with a C. Unconvinced, I mentioned my doubts to Barbara, who was anxious to be off and too impatient to take much notice. "Stop fussing, Gerald. You're getting to be a proper old woman these days."

  That stung, as similar comments had recently come from much closer to home, so I didn't press the point but saw the party off and returned to mending a broken window in the church hall. Twenty minutes later there was a hammering at the door, where a scruffy-looking character apologised for being late but the bus had had a little problem with the brakes binding. Outside was a vehicle that looked as though it had been commandeered on the way to the scrap-yard; "Johnnie's Jaunts" was emblazoned in the only paint that might have seen less than twenty or thirty summers, and I strongly suspected that the brakes would be the least of its weaknesses. Nevertheless this was clearly the coach that we'd ordered, and the best I could do was to send the driver looking for a crowd of people waiting at St. Cyprian's, with an assurance that we'd see the bill was paid.

  I have to confess that I was rather looking forward to rubbing Barbara's nose in the mistake, until I remembered that "I told you so" is the surest possible way into anyone's black books, especially when it's true. Afterwards I was glad to have held my tongue, as on her return Barbara was anything but contrite, and in fact quite jubilant. St. Cyprian's hadn't turned up to the festival at all; half way through the proceedings Cynthia Graham had telephoned to say their bus had broken down decisively in the midst of nowhere and they were still waiting to be rescued. Another choir had also failed to appear, owing to illness apparently, but among the half-dozen or so that did compete, ours didn't disgrace itself. Reports in the host town's paper were encouraging, and we were moderately pleased with the outcome.

  Cynthia was of course furious that we'd used her coach, but despite some muttering about "dirty work at
the crossroads" she stopped short of suggesting that we'd somehow engineered the situation. To anyone else it was perfectly obvious that the mistake wasn't ours, and that there was no more we could possibly have done to correct it. When her hire invoice came in, she did try to pass it on to us, but it was for nearly twice the quotation we'd accepted and we weren't having that. In any case we'd already paid Johnnie's bill and Barbara told her, none too diplomatically, to sort it out with the coach firms. Cynthia said something about legal action, but it wasn't clear who she thought of suing, and according to the grapevine her husband pointed out that if she did try it on, the only people likely to gain anything from it would be the lawyers. Her best course would be simply to ignore her invoice and let the owners make an issue of it if they wanted to publicise their blunder. Naturally, her relations with Barbara were frostier than ever and there was no further communication between them about it, but as we heard no more of the matter it seemed she must have taken that advice.

  Meanwhile, Barbara's ambitions had expanded. Despite murmuring behind her back about delusions of grandeur, she now talked of opera, no less. Fortunately she didn't aspire to Verdi or Puccini, still less to Wagner ("Too pagan" was the reason given for disregarding a tongue-in-cheek suggestion of the 'Ring' cycle), but she thought that as 'Dido and Aeneas' had been written for a school it shouldn't be too demanding. Fred surprised everyone by daring to point out the fallacy in that argument: so was most of Vivaldi, and it was far from easy. Typically, Barbara brushed that aside. At least, to general relief, she wasn't going to risk a fully-staged version, so no one had to memorise a part completely.

  Accordingly auditions were held, in some secrecy since no one wanted St. Cyprian's to get wind of what was planned before we were ready. The first session went tolerably well, but quite clearly no one there was of anything like the calibre needed for the crucial role of Dido herself. Nothing daunted, Barbara canvassed people for another session the following week and had a special appeal, in more general terms, put in the parish notices.

  It evidently had some effect, and spirits rose as several fresh hopefuls turned up, only to sink again as one by one they were put through their paces. Then Joan Price arrived, apologised for being late and proved herself the only possible choice with her rendering of 'When I am laid in earth' despite a few catty remarks about its being about the only place she hadn't been. Actually I believe she was rather fastidious in such matters, but that's beside the point. Afterwards Audrey Gibbs asked for a private word and objected on moral grounds, but for once I almost applauded Barbara for telling her first to mind her own business, and then when she persisted producing a quotation that people who were hardest on the more generous sins tended to go in for the meaner ones. It must have struck home as we never saw Audrey again; she was no great loss and had caused trouble before, so if anything that was a relief.

  There wasn't much option for Aeneas, either. Herbert Smallman's stature matched his name, while a diffident manner and a pale toothbrush moustache added nothing to his dignity, but he had undoubtedly the best of our tenor voices and could use it well. His looking anything but a hero hardly mattered, Barbara insisted. She produced an old record sleeve with a sardonic note that Aeneas was a hero simply by profession; he didn't in fact have to do anything at all heroic in the plot, quite the reverse. The idea of so unimpressive a figure in a passionate love scene with the voluptuous Joan still boggled a few minds, but didn't Samuel Johnson define opera as "an irrational entertainment"? Anyway, it was the best we could do. For the rest, we had quite a decent Sorceress, a tolerable Belinda, and a more or less adequate chorus of witches and sailors.

  Half-way through rehearsals, Mabel Goodwin brought some disturbing news. The daughter of an old school friend had asked her to stand as godmother to her child, something she was delighted to do, but she was told only later that the christening was to be at St. Cyprian's. She could hardly escape notice on such an occasion, and the vicar did indeed remember her previous visit on reconnaissance, but his attention was of course mainly elsewhere.

  After the service, tea and biscuits were offered in the church hall, with something stronger for those who preferred it. Mabel clearly had to appear reasonably sociable but needed to keep her wits about her and steered clear of the alcohol. In the course of conversation, one of the parishioners asked where she came from and commented that someone had transferred from St. Cyril's quite recently, a Miss Audrey Gibbs; did Mabel know her? Of course she did, but disclaimed familiarity, and wondered what was coming. It seemed that Audrey had made a point of cultivating Cynthia Graham's acquaintance and become quite thick with her, causing a certain amount of resentment in the process; it was apparently on her suggestion that a public recital by their choir was to be given on a particular date, which as Mabel realised just happened to be the same as had long been planned for our production.

  The town might just about provide a decent audience for one such event, but not for two on the same night or even in the same month, so this was evidently a bit of deliberate sabotage on Audrey's part. We couldn't change our date, and there was obviously no point in Barbara's asking Cynthia to change theirs, so we were flummoxed until someone suggested that even if the principals to the dispute could never be brought to deal directly with each other, secondary figures might make some headway. After all, that was the way international business usually worked. But was there anyone with enough influence on Cynthia? And if we did find someone, who could make contact without immediately arousing suspicions?

  As it happened, Joan Price overheard this and came up with an idea: she worked in the same department as Cynthia's brother and had a slightly better than nodding acquaintance with him. He had been widowed a few months earlier after a reputedly happy marriage, still seemed down in the dumps, had noticeably lost weight, and she had occasionally passed him looking dismally through café menus; why shouldn't she invite him to come for a bit of decent home cooking, try to cheer him up and see if she could get anywhere that way?

  This seemed as good a scheme as any, especially (although no one actually said it) since Joan's figure suggested at least competence in the culinary art. However, after she had left, Mavis Bannister was doubtful about the ethics of the scheme. Barbara had had a frustrating day and was in no mood for scruples. "For goodness sake! We're not asking her to seduce him."

  "That isn't quite what I had in mind, but since you mention it, supposing she does? Wouldn't we be responsible, at least partly?"

  "Look, I may be my brother's keeper, but certainly not Cynthia's brother's. He's old enough to look after himself, and it's a kindly approach even if there is an ulterior motive. In any case, whatever she meant by trying to cheer him up, we don't actually know that Joan's such a man-eater; it's only rumour - wishful thinking more than anything, I dare say."

  Nevertheless there was a good deal of speculation on how things might turn out, and we waited eagerly for a report at the next rehearsal. Barbara tried to damp down expectations, especially among the more prurient ("We aren't likely to get a blow-by-blow account, whatever may or may not have happened") but that didn't stop a fair amount of increasingly elaborate fantasising until she came down like a ton of bricks on speculating openly; indiscretions outside the circle might endanger the whole plan, so far as any sort of plan existed.

  The intention had been to take Joan's report, supposing there was to be one, after the main business of the evening, but people's minds were clearly not on it so that after three or four fluffed openings, Barbara accepted the inevitable and asked Joan how her idea had worked out. Fairly well, it seemed: Gordon had shown some surprise at her invitation, but after a moment's hesitation accepted rather more readily than expected. He proved very much the gentleman, turning up on the dot with an acceptable bottle of wine, did full justice to the meal, complimented her on her cuisine and when the time came to depart said with every sign of sincerity how much he had enjoyed the evening.

  In fact he had invited her to dine wi
th him less than a week later at a restaurant, but Joan pointed out that none of those she knew was likely to produce a meal half as good as she could make at a fraction of the cost; not bragging, but realism. Gordon took the point, but was embarrassed by the arrangement's being so one-sided with Joan doing all the work. He himself had never learned to cook beyond boiling an egg or at a pinch frying sausages and bacon, but that gave Joan the perfect opening for an offer of tuition: "Just in cookery!" she emphasised to us with a twinkle when some eyebrows were raised. She was well aware of her reputation and rather enjoyed it, I thought; that was one reason why I doubted it.

  Nevertheless this development naturally gave rise to a good deal of banter, which Joan typically took in good part and handled deftly without giving very much away. "That's all very well," Barbara told her a couple of weeks later, "but we still don't know whether Gordon actually has any influence over Cynthia. And we haven't all that much time left."

  "He doesn't say a great deal about her, though there's no suggestion of anything less than normal family affection. But in any case you can't expect her to change her arrangements without a convincing reason, however close they may be."

  "Well, has anything come up that might suggest such a reason?"

  "Short of the hall's burning down there's nothing obvious." Even Barbara stopped short of contemplating arson, so it began to seem that successful as Joan's enterprise might have been socially, it hadn't taken us much further with our problem.

  However, while Joan was giving Gordon the next lesson, Cynthia happened to call and Joan was duly introduced as the tutor. "So you're getting him to look after himself a bit better? I hope it's healthy eating."

  "Well, reasonably. A fair amount of fruit or veg. and not too much in the way of chips and fried stuff."

  "Good." Then she turned to the reason for her visit. "Gordon, you'll have to do something about the parish council."

  "Why, what's the matter?"

  "They're turning stroppy about our rehearsal times in the hall."

  "I'd have thought they'd be glad to have the rent."

  "That's the point. We're actually paying only for our usual two sessions a week. We had an informal arrangement that so long as no one else needed the hall and we didn't have the heating on, the hall committee would look the other way, but Donald Ferguson heard about it and put his foot down. He's very sorry but the parish can't afford to be so generous."

  "Well, I suppose you'll just have to pay up, then."

  "But we can't afford it, either. The scores cost far more than we'd expected, and you know there's been a crack-down on copying. Can't you tackle Donald and get him to change his mind?"

  "Well, I'll have a word, but don't build up any hopes."

  After she had gone, Joan wondered why the church choir needed to pay rent at all to the church, but Gordon explained that it had been formally reconstituted as a choral society a few years back to qualify for some funds on offer at the time, and the parish church council had insisted reasonably enough that they couldn't have it both ways, at least when putting on a secular event. They would normally rehearse in the church, but a long-overdue programme of structural repairs had at last been started now that the builder found a slot to fit it in, and the place was constantly smothered in dust; hence the need to use the hall.

  Joan duly reported this interesting intelligence the next time we met, and it struck me that if we were worried about the prospect of a competing event, St. Cyprian's had at least as much cause for alarm about the loss of revenue due to a clash, and there would be mutual benefit in avoiding it. Obviously Barbara could never raise the question with them, and it would be best not to risk blowing Joan's cover such as it was, so it was settled that I should approach Cynthia and put the situation to her. A discreet enquiry showed that their hall rental was significantly higher than ours, so I suggested that as an olive branch after the business with the coach hire, we should offer the use of our hall when it wasn't otherwise occupied. Barbara of course demurred, but Fred told her not to be so silly - the worm really was showing signs of turning - and with much less trouble than I'd expected, it was agreed.

  I'd never actually met Cynthia in person and wondered what to expect. She turned out to be a small, wiry and clearly very determined lady with whom it would be unwise to trifle, and would have been sure to see through any flannel, so I came straight out with our anxiety about the coincidence of dates and she took the point immediately. Which of us should move was the question, and I thought it best to haggle over that for a little while before playing what I hoped would be our trump card.

  That was followed by a full twenty seconds of complete silence. I could almost hear the cogs whirring. She then asked whether the offer depended on a postponement of her concert, as I confirmed, and she nodded quietly. After a shorter interval she said "Right. To be honest, we could do with another month's preparation. We've had a lot of trouble with illness, and trying to catch up with extra rehearsals in the same week doesn't suit everyone. It's a bit awkward in some ways, but on the whole I think putting it back will be best all round." We shook hands and parted quite amicably.

  After this, Barbara expected Joan to be relieved that the purpose of her ruse had been achieved and she could drop it, but instead the reaction was of shocked indignation. "What sort of woman do you take me for? To go back on a promise because I don't need to make use of him any more? I shouldn't dream of it!"

  I'd never seen her so angry, nor Barbara so taken aback. "W-well, if that's the way you look at it ..."

  "Yes, it damn well is. Now can we get on with the rehearsal?"

  Interesting, I thought. Joan certainly went up a notch or two in my estimation, and the expressions on a few other faces seemed to register approval. Barbara was still a bit wobbly by the time for a break, and actually asked me whether she'd put her foot in something.

  "Maybe, but don't worry. Joan's got it off her chest -" (a rather unfortunate anatomical reference, it later struck me) "- and I don't think she's one for grudges. That's probably the end of it." Even so, I wondered whether more was going on than we realised.

  Evidently there was. Joan actually brought Gordon along to the next rehearsal and introduced him. He seemed, as she had said, very much the gentleman, paying close attention and sitting quietly, apart from a little gentle applause now and then. At the break he came up and commented that he understood I'd had dealings with his sister; how had I got on with her? "Pretty well, I think. She wasn't giving anything away unnecessarily, of course, but she struck me as quite straightforward."

  "Good. She said something of the sort about you, too. But I believe there's a long-standing feud of some sort with Barbara; do you know what that's all about?"

  "Only that it's something hanging over from their school days. I don't suppose you know any more?"

  "No, I've always thought it best not to ask. Discretion the better part of valour, and all that. But I do wish it could be cleared up." I wondered what his interest might be, and he explained that he'd heard a great deal about Cynthia's choir from her, and latterly a fair amount about ours from Joan; it seemed a pity that two organisations doing much the same kind of thing in the same town should be at loggerheads when they might do much better by co-operating. "I'm sure you realise that your lot aren't as good as Cynthia's, but you're not bad, and you've got ambitions which is more than I could say of hers. Think of what you might do together."

  Actually, I couldn't, and pointed out that in any case the chances of getting Barbara and Cynthia into the same team were negligible; there'd be constant bickering over who was to be in charge.

  Gordon nodded understanding and paused for a moment. I wondered what was coming. "Of course," he said, "there is one person trusted and respected by both parties."

  I wondered who that might be. "Why, you, of course."

  I was flabbergasted. "You're not suggesting that I should run this ... this ..."

  "That's precisely what I am sugg
esting." But the break was over. "Think about it," he urged, as we went back to our places. We had no further opportunity to talk that evening.

  The more I thought the less I liked it, so when he phoned a couple of days later I explained that Barbara might trust me as a fairly reliable dogsbody, but would never contemplate me as a manager. "Don't call it management, then. How about 'liaison'?"

  "I don't see that that would help all that much. In any case, why are you so keen on the idea?"

  "Better not explain over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?"

  I wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by this suggestion of plotting, but after a moment's thought suggested a pub likely to be noisy enough to prevent casual eavesdropping. Gordon insisted on buying the drinks and found a place in a relatively quiet corner by the outer wall. "Why all the mystery?" I asked.

  "Well, it's rather silly really, but I've been particularly enjoined not to let cats out of bags too early. The point is that our firm has linked up with another in the States, and the boss is in a tizzy of keeping up with the transatlantic Joneses - not that anyone involved is called that, so far as I know. When he went across to clinch the deal, their big man treated him to a concert given by a chamber orchestra that they support, and seemed to take it for granted that we'd have some similar arrangement. Of course, he couldn't bear to lose face by simply admitting that we haven't, and he seems to have dug himself into a hole too deep to get out of, so now we're scratching around looking for something that might serve. And we haven't found it."

  I wondered where all this was leading. "I'm coming to that, please let me do it in my own way. Now, I was quite impressed by what I saw of your 'Dido' the other night, but it's a bit amateurish - no offence, I hope."

  "None taken. That's an understatement."

  "Right. Cynthia's bunch is much more polished, but unadventurous. Put them together, and we might really have something. Something that Watsons could be proud to sponsor."

  That really was food for thought, but we needed specifics. "Just what would that involve?"

  "It would have to be worked out by agreement, of course. On your part, a certain number of appearances per year - not more than half a dozen, I should think, maybe less. On ours, the obvious things are to provide matching costumes - some professional coaching perhaps - subsidised travel ..."

  "Travel?"

  "Oh, yes, you'd have to go about a bit. Get yourselves noticed more widely. Otherwise there'd be no point."

  "Don't forget we have other responsibilities - jobs to do, families to look after ..."

  "Yes, yes, of course all that would have to be taken into consideration. But there's no sense in getting ahead of ourselves; what do you think of the general idea?"

  "Hmm. Well, I can certainly see it appealing to Barbara; I'm not sure of the others. Probably mixed feelings. How does Cynthia react?"

  "I haven't mentioned it to her - wanted your reaction first. Can I take it that you don't completely rule out the idea?"

  "Yes, I suppose that's fair enough, but my influence really doesn't amount to much; hardly anything, in fact, so for goodness sake don't exaggerate it. This is just a possibility that we'll have to consider."

  "That's fine." He finished his glass and asked if I fancied another, but I was driving and declined. He produced his card, scribbled a private number on the back, and asked me to get in touch when I had something to report. "Discreetly, of course," he emphasised.

  All this obviously had to be discussed straight away with Barbara herself, in confidence; there'd be ructions if she found out that anything of this sort had been going on behind her back. As expected, her first thought was of who would be in charge of combined operations, and it seemed unwise to mention Gordon's proposed solution, at least at this stage. Instead I suggested that she and Cynthia could alternate, which might work as a provisional arrangement until we saw how things went. That was where we left it. Meanwhile we had our own production to get up to scratch, and we concentrated on that for the next few weeks.

  The St. Cyprian's people turned up as arranged and were grateful to find that I'd negotiated on their behalf a serial booking at a slight discount on the normal rate for casuals. As a further touch I suggested that our two tea-ladies might do the honours for them; at one time or another they had both commented on having rather limited social opportunities, so as expected they agreed readily and seemed to enjoy mixing with a new crowd. One week when the schedule had to be rearranged, by some oversight a few of St. Cyprian's were not notified, arrived on our evening and stayed as guests, making themselves quite agreeable. All in all, the prospects for joint activities were beginning to look rather promising.

  In the event, 'Dido' went off pretty well despite an outbreak of first-night nerves that put a few fluffs, and perhaps a bit of extra zing, into that performance. We had good support from St. Cyprian's, greatly appreciated. I'd sent a complimentary ticket to Cynthia, not expecting her to use it but it seemed a worthwhile gesture; she could always give it away. In fact she turned up in person, although very slyly at the last minute and slipping into a back seat with a signal to keep mum about it. She even sent a note of thanks afterwards with more generous comments than I thought really deserved, again just for my own attention.

  It was therefore no great surprise when a ticket to her concert came for Barbara. I'm afraid she was rather nasty about it in private, but I persuaded her to be at least civil and she deputed the long-suffering Fred to represent her. It wasn't his line at all, but he endured it with at least a pretence of interest; enthusiasm was too much to expect. I went under my own steam and was pleased to see Joan and Gordon arrive together.

  After all this, the idea of joining forces on occasion seemed much less far-fetched than I had first thought possible, and discussions started in earnest. When proposed by Gordon I reluctantly accepted, purely for procedural purposes, the post as chairman of the managing committee. Watsons asked for ideas on the kind of uniform to be used for appearances under their sponsorship, causing a flurry of interest among the ladies and impatience in the men. Because of other commitments, the line-up was likely to vary substantially from time to time, so it would be wasteful to have fitted costumes for all, and we settled on a simple tabard to be worn over the ladies' own white blouse and dark skirt, or the equivalent for men.

  The choice of blazon for the tabard posed some difficulty; "Watson Tonight?", suggested I believe by Harry Roberts who had reported the boot-throwing cats, was quickly dismissed as frivolous, but more constructive thoughts were sparse. Eventually we plumped for a simple "WATSONIA" as both design and name for the combined group. Especially for Harry's benefit I emphasised that the stress should be on the second syllable, not to make it sound like "What's on 'ere?"

  Eventually we got round to more substantial matters, such as ideas for an inaugural concert. To save arguments it was agreed that it should be in two parts, respectively conducted, and the content chosen, by Barbara and Cynthia. The crucial question, of course, was who should come first. There was a certain amount of indecisive manoeuvring around it until someone suggested alphabetical order, but that would depend on whether based on Christian or surname. After about ten minutes of this nonsense Fred lost patience and told them for goodness sake to stop messing about and toss a coin for it, and so it was done.

  Afterwards I couldn't resist commenting quietly that this was the third time I'd noticed him getting involved in Barbara's arguments, to increasing effect it seemed. He rather sheepishly said that he'd read somewhere (best not to ask where, I thought) that women really liked to be dominated, and while he couldn't hope to do that it was worth trying to be less of a doormat. "And does she like it?" I wondered.

  "Well, she hasn't complained yet."

  Bill Watson himself naturally wanted to see what his sponsorship was achieving, and Barbara belatedly realised that it might be a good idea to inquire about his tastes. According to Gordon, he was practically tone deaf and wouldn't
know Billy Budd from Buddy Holly, but his wife was fairly knowledgeable and it would be diplomatic to involve her. Accordingly a programme committee was set up (groans all round), naturally including Barbara and Cynthia, and Elizabeth was invited to join it. Barbara was a bit prickly at first, but in time grudgingly admitted that her contributions were quite helpful.

  The next question was where to hold the concert. Obviously it had to be on neutral territory, but of the immediately local possibilities, the town hall was far too large and expensive, while the others were inconveniently small. I started to look into the likelihood of being able to get a reduced rate for a special occasion from whoever might be responsible for managing town properties, but felt I was being passed around like a Chinese parcel and was thoroughly fed up with it when the answer came out of the blue.

  A Russian businessman, finding things a shade too hot for him back home, had bought a dilapidated Georgian house a few miles away and spent what to us would be a substantial fortune, but to him was probably peanuts or whatever the Russian equivalent might be, on restoring it to its original glory augmented by a full complement of mod cons. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the local community, or at least its more prominent members, and had cultivated acquaintance with all those he thought particularly influential, including Bill and Elizabeth Watson. To help matters along he had thought it advisable to change his rather jaw-wrenching name by deed poll to Stephen Norris, which bore some faint resemblance to the original.

  His particular pride among the renovations was in the music room, and he had thought of having a house-warming party on midsummer's eve for his new-found cronies in the form of a concert. The idea at first was to get some well-known ensemble such as the King's Singers or the Northern Sinfonia, but of course they were all booked up for years ahead and he had to lower his sights. On some convivial occasion he was bemoaning the difficulty to Bill, who promptly offered the services of Watsonia, without mentioning that it hadn't yet actually performed publicly. Norris, naturally, jumped at it.

  This news was received with mixed feelings. At least we had a venue, and practically everyone was eager to see what had been done with the Manor. On the other hand, it was a very different kind of occasion from what had been contemplated, so that families could hardly expect to be invited. Moreover, it meant a late night further away from home than some of the members relished. Then Mavis Bannister pointed out that Norris's past business practices were strongly rumoured to have left rather a lot to be desired, and should a church group really be associated with such a person? Barbara would have referred her to a biblical text but couldn't for the moment think of the right one, so simply told her not to be so finicky. In any case, like it or not, we were committed.

  Norris had arranged a coach to take us out to the Manor, and when it turned up something about it struck me as familiar. It took a few minutes to dawn on me: of course, it was the same one as we had inadvertently taken over from St. Cyprian's, and the same driver, too. While we were waiting for one or two stragglers I wondered if there had been any repercussions. He had been called in to explain the mistake (more likely to get a rocket, I thought), but in view of my query had fortunately still kept his instructions which all concerned eventually had to agree were practically illegible and he had been right to follow the verbal directions he had been given. There was a great deal of amusement about it at the depot, but the boss had been furious and insisted on stricter procedures however great the haste; as it was his writing that had caused the confusion in the first place there was little more he could do about it.

  We wondered on the way on whether the musicians would be consigned in traditional fashion to the servants' hall or allowed to mix with the nobs. We needn't have worried; the supper was a buffet and all were invited to tuck in. Then there was a short break before the concert, and after that Barbara came up to me in an agitated state to ask if I'd seen Joan, whom she had left talking to Norris. He was not visible either, but Mabel thought she had seen them heading for the garden.

  Despite bright moonlight, I could see no one out there apart from a bear-like security guard who appeared apparently from nowhere and simply grunted when questioned, probably not understanding. However, a sort of gazebo a hundred yards or so from the house looked a likely spot, confirmed as I approached by a murmur of conversation followed by a very definite "No!" from Joan. It seemed best not to notice the slight disarray of her costume but simply to apologise for the intrusion and say she was needed for the performance; nor was there any obvious need to mention the circumstances to anyone else.

  Our show went down pretty well, but Norris had not returned after the interval and even by the end had not reappeared. His wife tried to apologise for him, but her English was not up to it. Very soon a smooth young man relieved her of the task, explaining that his master was unavoidably detained but would want him to thank them for coming and wish them a good journey home. He was just coming to the end of this when the guard rushed in, obviously distraught, and jabbered something in Russian. The young secretary questioned him about it, then apologised to the gathering for some bad news: Norris had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, the police would obviously have to be brought in, and until they gave permission he was very sorry but no one could be allowed to leave.

  The police duly appeared, in fact with a good deal more than their usual alacrity, quickly established that practically everyone had multiple alibis from people with no evident reason to lie, and allowed them to go home. The exceptions, of course, were the guard, Joan and myself. Rodney Cartwright, the secretary, vouched for the guard's being loyal to the point of self-sacrifice if necessary, but that was no help to us; the officer in charge apologised but we would have to stay until a more senior colleague arrived in the morning. Cartwright quickly arranged rooms for us (to my amusement he asked discreetly whether one or two; someone later joked that I'd missed a trick there) and promised to have us driven home the next day unless the police made other arrangements. I didn't like the sound of that but of course he simply meant on transport.

  It was rather pleasant to spend a night in utter luxury, although on the whole I should have preferred my own bed, but at breakfast Joan said she had hardly slept. She had been worried in case events in the gazebo should cast suspicion on her, and presumably on me as a possible accomplice, so would it be best to keep quiet about them? I assured her that that would be the worst possible thing to do, as the guard was almost certain to have heard as much as I had and drawn the same obvious conclusion. It was far better to tell the truth, that Norris had made a pass at her, been rebuffed but accepted the refusal with a tolerably good grace. We both knew that he seemed perfectly fit when we left him, although he could easily have had a sudden heart attack or something of the sort afterwards. The idea of anything more sinister seemed at the time too far-fetched to contemplate seriously.

  When Inspector Williams arrived, with more apologies for having to keep us overnight, I therefore asked what were the suspicious circumstances that required it. "The little matter of a knife in his back," was the rather convincing answer that promptly took the wind out of our sails. We gave our accounts in a more subdued mood. Both were compatible with each other, and although that was only to be expected given the ample opportunity for collusion, the guard had seen us leave the gazebo to return directly to the house. As the body had been found some distance away, and the time of death was most probably later, Williams said we seemed to be in the clear but should leave our contact details in case of need.

  The local paper naturally splashed "MIDSUMMER MURDER" as a banner headline on the front page of its next issue, while some of the nationals did the same less prominently and not always with the correct spelling, but the excitement quickly faded. The crime was never solved, so far as I know; the general assumption was that Norris's past had caught up with him. Svetlana Norris reverted to her patronymic, sold up to a merchant banker and returned to her family in St. Petersburg. After another three m
onths the whole business had faded into the background.

  There was however a postscript: spring-cleaning at the Manor turned up some evidently valuable property very personal to Svetlana, presumably overlooked in the move. The banker took it to have been included with the house and would have sold it, had his wife not insisted that it ought to be restored to its original owner. How that might be done was the problem, but the maid who had come across the stuff happened to know Rodney Cartwright's address and suggested that he might have ideas. He had indeed been in correspondence with Svetlana's family over outstanding business and duly reported the find. The property was considered too precious to be entrusted to a commercial carrier, so he was asked to deliver it in person. He never returned. Two and two could be put together in various ways, but one widely accepted implied that the connections between the individuals concerned were a good deal less coincidental than had appeared at first sight.

  The business at the Manor had brought Watsonia very much to public attention and it received several requests to perform at various events, although Cynthia as a good businesswoman was at pains to point out that we couldn't guarantee the violent death of the organiser, neatly turning any superstitious anxiety on that score. To one of these occasions Bill Watson brought along his American counterpart, Cyrus B. Wallace III, who turned out to be much less pompous than his dynastic moniker and was clearly impressed.

  A few weeks later he mentioned to Bill that his silver wedding anniversary was coming up in that year, his wife was an opera fan, and he would like to put on for her sake a performance in which Watsonia would join forces with his chamber orchestra. Barbara thought the idea decidedly over-ambitious, but Cynthia pointed out that "Dido" had come off quite well with only limited resources and piano accompaniment, so with their combined forces and Wallace's band they should be able to do something quite elaborate. She had in mind a reduced form of "Un ballo in maschera", naturally in translation, and in the version adapted to escape censorship. She was obviously thinking of its being set in America as a compliment to our host, but I'm sure that at the back of her mind if not more prominently was a sense of familiarity in the story of a cuckolded husband killed by the wife's paramour who happens to be his secretary. So it was that we came to do Verdi after all.

  The great advantage of singers over most other musicians when travelling is that the carrier can't lose their instruments. It can however lose their material luggage, and of course it had to be Barbara's that went missing. Fortunately we had a couple of days for rehearsals with the band; exchanging recordings over the preceding weeks had been useful and necessary, but no substitute for physical presence in the final stages. Thus Barbara, with much help from the Wallaces, was able between sessions to shop around for replacements to fill the immediate need. She couldn't however find a dress that satisfied her, until Gwyneth Wallace pointed out that they were of very similar size and build, and Barbara would be more than welcome to borrow one of hers.

  Gwyneth's wardrobe was substantial and the choice was obviously going to take some time. The two women started chatting about other things, and Barbara commented that Gwyneth didn't really sound American. Quite right; it seemed she had been born in Britain, but brought to America by her foster-mother when in her teens. Foster mother? Yes, she was one of twins born to a mother who had emotional difficulties and could only cope with one, as had somehow slipped out despite instructions that she was never to be told anything of her origins.

  Barbara of course wanted to know what Gwyneth intended to wear for the occasion, and was duly shown. Don't ask me the details; to me a dress is simply a dress, and I'm usually more interested in the wearer. Barbara however thought it very special, but needing a little something in the way of extra adornment. Gwyneth agreed, producing a curiously designed brooch that she always wore with it and provided exactly the right additional touch.

  Barbara nevertheless detected, or imagined, a certain sheepishness in Gwyneth's manner at this point and wondered why, then apologised if she had put her foot in something delicate. "Ah, well," Gwyneth said, "confession is supposed to be good for the soul, isn't it?"

  "Confession?"

  "Yes. It isn't really mine at all."

  "Come on, you can't leave it at that! Not now you've aroused my curiosity."

  It seemed that the foster-mother had not entirely lost touch with the real parent, and heard that the other twin was at a boarding school near a resort that they visited occasionally. During one such break, Gwyneth was left for a few hours to her own devices and wandered over to have a look at the place. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and a door had been left open. The temptation to investigate was too great to resist, especially as the area seemed deserted, and she was particularly interested to see what the bedrooms were like. In one of them she noticed a newly-opened box and in it a most unusual brooch. She was engrossed in examining it when a girl of about her own age came in, so without thinking she pocketed the brooch and jumped out of the window. Only later did she find the object in her pocket, knew that she ought to return it but couldn't think how. Barbara wondered that she could bring herself to wear it. "Two reasons. It's beautiful, and it reminds me that I've done something dreadful when I'm tempted to criticise anyone else."

  The two women eventually agreed on a dress for Barbara, who then had to dash off for the next rehearsal. All went smoothly after that, and I have to admit that at the party after the show, Gwyneth looked stunning. I was telling her so when Cynthia came up with her own compliments, but then noticed the brooch and asked if she might have a closer look. That surprised me, as she didn't usually take much interest in such things, and she explained that she had once had one very similar, supposedly of unique design. "What happened to it?"

  "I lost it long ago. But excuse me, I must go and have a word with Barbara."

  At least they were now on speaking terms, but then I saw that their conversation appeared quite uncharacteristically friendly, and the look of astonishment on Barbara's face was one I'd never seen before and haven't since. I couldn't resist commenting, and she explained that a puzzle of ancient history had just been resolved. She and Cynthia had once been friends; their feud stemmed from an occasion when a particularly valuable piece of jewellery had been stolen and Cynthia claimed to have seen her escaping after taking it. Barbara couldn't understand how such an accusation could be made, while Cynthia couldn't forgive the apparent betrayal of friendship, still less tolerate the denial of what seemed plain fact.

  It took a little while for the implications to sink in, and then of course Cyrus had to be told. I must say that once over his initial shock, he handled the situation beautifully. At a suitable point in the proceedings he banged a spoon on the table for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not one for long speeches as you know, so I shan't take much of your time. On behalf of Gwyneth as well as myself, thank you all for coming here and making our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary such a memorable occasion. Thanks particularly to Watsonia for coming over the pond to entertain us, and to our own band of musicians for joining up with them. Of course you expected me to say all that, but now there's something else completely unexpected. It turned up only a few minutes ago. I shan't go into the ins and outs of the story, at least not this evening, but we have just now found out that Barbara Maxwell of Watsonia and my wife are almost certainly sisters, separated since early childhood. Yes, we're as staggered as you are. So now, please get on with enjoying yourselves while we try to get used to the new situation."

  Gwyneth was naturally anxious to return the brooch at last to Cynthia, who wouldn't however hear of it. "No, no, my dear, it's just right on you, and on me it would be very much de trop. Keep it with my good wishes."

  "But you must have something to make amends!"

  "Well, all right, if you insist."

  "I surely do. Let's go out tomorrow and find it; there should be time before your flight."

  So after that, as the prisoner said to the judge, everything was hunk
y-dory. Even Barbara's missing luggage turned up just as we were about to leave. There obviously wasn't time for a proper family reunion on that visit, but Barbara arranged with the Wallaces to make plans for a real slap-up occasion later.

  Back home, this familial revelation was the talk of the town, with the paper eager to publish some of the party snaps, and it probably boosted Watsonia's audience for the next performance quite a bit. That was last autumn. Now we have another piece of excitement, more conventional though none the less happy for that, coming up next month. Joan and Gordon are getting married and have asked me to give the bride away. Cynthia is to be Matron of Honour. I'm rather looking forward to it - so long as no one expects me to sing.

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