The Choir

by Joanna Trollope

  Sally Ashworth, coming into the cathedral beside him and thinking how touching it was that an Old King’s boy should wish to attend the service, found herself quite overwhelmed at the sight before her. She knew the cathedral perfectly well, could point out to visitors the massive splendour of the Norman columns with Early English clerestory arches above and then of course the Perpendicular chancel and cloisters, the glory of the place—but today, packed with people, banked with luminous pyramids of flowers, its huge holiness had such power and drama that it seemed quite unfamiliar, a new and marvellous place altogether. The afternoon sunlight was pouring, as the original builders had meant it to do, through the high south windows, raising the eye up and leading it along the great ribs of the roof to the tracery above the chancel. Everybody seemed to be looking up, from the orderly rows in the nave to those sitting on the stone steps below the font and along the ledges of tombs. The wandsmen were all wearing their medals and expressions of conspicuous responsibility and Leo, elevated in his loft, was playing a Bach fugue. Nicholas, struggling through the crowded aisles to reach his special seat—allotted to him by Alexander—below the choir screen, remembered his own organist saying before every piece of Bach he taught them, “Now, you will find this very moving.” Leo was playing beautifully. The faces all down the nave, row upon row, were reflecting, whether their owners meant them to or not, the effects of the building, the music, and the occasion, full of power and excitement and peace. Nicholas ducked down into his seat and looked upward. If a dove had suddenly appeared on one of those soft, full shafts of light up there, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised. The Bach ended, the congregation creaked uncertainly back to life for a moment, and then, to herald the opening of the service, Leo began triumphantly upon Widor’s Toccata from the Fifth Symphony.

  Halfway down the nave, Sally Ashworth, dressed in a new cream linen suit with big shoulders, wondered what he was playing. She thought he had been playing Bach, but she had no service sheet because they had run out after the first two hundred and fifty people, and the people on either side of her didn’t seem to have one either. Henry had a very small solo, and although of course she would know it was him when he began, she wanted to know when to anticipate his beginning. She had asked him over breakfast if he was nervous.

  “I am a bit now, but I won’t be then. You don’t think about it.” And then he had added, “I a bit wish Dad was here.”

  This had shaken Sally. They didn’t talk about Alan much, being so preoccupied with living their busy lives, so that Sally forgot to include him sometimes, even mentally, and then felt a mixture of guilt and defiance. Henry almost never mentioned him, except to refer occasionally to things they had done together that he had enjoyed, and Sally could not remember his ever wishing out loud that Alan was with them.

  “You could write and tell him,” she had said lamely.

  “That wouldn’t be the same.”

  “No.” She looked intently at him. “I’m sorry, Henry.”

  “It’s not your fault—”

  “That doesn’t stop me being sorry. For you, I mean.”

  “Other people’s fathers,” Henry said without particular resentment, “live at home and go to work here. They sometimes bring them to school and things.”

  “I suppose Dad feels he couldn’t get as good a job here. Not so interesting or so well paid—”

  “Hooper’s father’s a pilot and he comes home.”

  “Henry,” Sally said gently, “there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  He said nothing. She waited a moment and then he asked if he could take a Crunchie bar with him and thundered upstairs, leaving her with the guilty knowledge that she could have done something, if she had wanted to. Sitting in the cathedral now, the guilt was still there. She hadn’t even written to Alan for over a fortnight; he didn’t know Henry was to sing a solo, let alone be made a full chorister. She usually felt cross when she thought of Alan, which was manageable, but today she felt miserable, which wasn’t manageable at all. She tried to concentrate on the building. She could hear Henry’s voice chanting “Perp Perp Perp” to her after a lesson on the cathedral’s architecture, because, like all his classmates, he had been enchanted by the irreverent abbreviations of architectural terms. Perp but no Dec. She had an awful feeling she was going to cry.

  The organ was doing something heraldic and announcing. The huge congregation rose thunderously to its feet, and the cathedral procession headed by the great Cross of Aldminster attended by taperers and servers entered the nave. Behind the servers came the choristers and the men of the choir, called lay clerks, and the assistant organist and Alexander Troy and then a stream of clergy, honorary thises and residentiary thats, and then the verger and the dean, looking quite exalted, and then the chapter clerk and last the bishop, whose troubled conscience at the precise purpose of this service, so emphatically insisted upon by the dean, was writ large upon his face. Tears rolled down Sally’s cheeks, and at the sound of her sniffs, her neighbor, a kind-looking woman in a tidy frock and a beige cardigan, turned and handed her a perfectly laundered handkerchief.

  “My son is a chorister,” Sally said apologetically.

  The woman melted further.

  “Ah—”

  She whispered to her husband. He peered round her at Sally with kindly interest. Henry’s neat brown head bobbed through the choir screen and vanished. Through the loudspeaker system, the dean welcomed the congregation, and with a sound like a distant drumroll, they resumed their seats.

  “We thank You, Lord,” Hugh Cavendish said with the particular diction he kept for the cathedral, “for revealing Yourself to men and women, and for providing them with the great gift of music, with which they may celebrate and praise You.”

  Crouched by the choir screen, Nicholas Elliott felt joy and despair sweep over him in wonderful waves.

  “To You, O Lord,” the dean said, “we the people of Your Cathedral Church of Aldminster dedicate this organ, restored to all its original glory and rebuilt with all the skills of modern organ builders. With this great instrument, O Lord, may we demonstrate to You our undying zeal for the beauty of holiness.”

  In his stall, the bishop winced, very faintly. The beauty of holiness meant very different things, he feared, to Hugh Cavendish and to himself. Hugh Cavendish’s beauty rose wonderfully before him on the south side of the choir, its pipes rich and glowing, a tribute to man’s belief in the glory of God, no doubt about that, but to the bishop’s mind, a peripheral tribute, for all its splendour. For him, the beauty of holiness lay in the infinite possibilities of the human soul, constantly overlaid but never quite extinguished by the beastliness of human behavior. The bishop was capable of anger, but he was not capable of hate. The synod made him furious, with its selfish inclination towards the individual view rather than a pastoral desire to present a united and helpful front to its troubled flock. Divided all the way and almost proud of it. That was as wrong as to spend all these thousands on an organ, however historic, while the world dwelt in ignorance and want. He must not think of it now. He must think of the music. Across the aisle from him, an almost perfect boy’s voice began on an anthem. “Praise the Lord,” he sang, “Oh my soul. Praise the Lord.”

  “Henry!” Sally thought. It was an astonishing sound. All round her people had adopted that particular stillness of intent listening. Henry stopped and an alto took up the tune and then a second one. Nicholas Elliott put his head on his knees. He had been a treble. But that boy was better than he had ever been, and he was singing with a directness that was quite extraordinary and strangely dignified. Nicholas sat up. It was pathetic to feel envious nostalgia, pathetic. He made a resolution. After the service he would go round to the chapter house, where all the clergy and the choir were going to have tea, and he would find the boy and he would tell him he had been great.

  “What a success,” Alexander said to Leo later, in the chapter house.

  Leo looked slightly shifty.

 
; “Funny thing, all the music was sacred but the atmosphere was rather secular—”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It felt more like a concert than a service.”

  “It was brilliant. It was all the congregation could do not to applaud.”

  “That’s what I mean—”

  A boy appeared with a laden plate.

  “Sandwich, sir? Sir?”

  Leo peered.

  “What’s in them?”

  Hooper said, “Ham, I think. It’s sort of pink, anyway.”

  “You did so well,” Alexander said.

  Hooper looked self-conscious.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’d rather have cucumber, Hooper,” Leo said, “and I’d rather you finished notes as cleanly as you begin them.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’ll get Ashworth. He’s got the cucumber ones.”

  “Why are you so hard on them?” Alexander said when he had gone.

  “I’m tremendously demanding. They understand that perfectly. Hooper knows when he’s fluffed something as well as I do.”

  Henry Ashworth appeared with a huge plate in his hands, and behind him a good-looking woman in cream with her hair to her shoulders, and Nicholas Elliott.

  “Sir!”

  “Cucumber and a deputation—”

  “Mrs. Ashworth,” Alexander said quickly, smiling, “I hope you are bursting with a very proper pride.”

  “Oh, I am”

  “He’s great,” Nicholas said to Leo, “really great. It sort of hit me—”

  “Hear that?” Leo said to Henry.

  Henry looked intently down into the sandwiches.

  “I’m pleased with you,” Leo said.

  Alexander put a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

  “Go and feed the canons, Ashworth. They are always ravenous, particularly the honorary ones. Old Canon Savile, who died last year, always came to chapter meetings on horseback and came stamping in shouting for sandwiches because his ride had made him so hungry. Would you excuse me?”

  “I owe you an apology,” Sally said, turning to Leo with the same directness that he had recognized in her son. “It was idiotic of me to telephone you the other night. If I had just had the patience to wait until today, I should have obtained the answer to my question.” She looked at Nicholas and gave a self-deprecating smile. “I telephoned Mr. Beckford late at night to ask if he thought Henry’s voice was just good or really good.”

  Nicholas, still full of the warmth of his determination to be generous, smiled back and said again, “He’s really great.”

  “He’s a nice chap, too,” Leo said. “Very straightforward. No trouble at all.”

  “He’s no trouble at home. Of course, he isn’t yet—”

  “Hello,” Ianthe Cavendish said. She was wearing her black cotton jacket and a long tube skirt made of striped T-shirt material and a single huge silver earring of twisted wire and black beads.

  Leo looked down at her with displeasure.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the dean’s daughter,” Ianthe said. The fingernails of one hand were painted plum colour. “Remember?” She turned to Sally. “Hello.”

  “I’m Sally Ashworth.”

  “And this,” Leo said, cutting in, “is Nicholas Elliott. I told you about him.”

  Ianthe eyed him.

  “Know anything about music?”

  “I did—”

  “Rock music?”

  “Well, I listen to it—”

  “I run a record company,” Ianthe said, “rock bands. We’ve signed up some amazing new people. Hey”—she turned to Sally again—“was that your kid? The one with the great voice?”

  “She doesn’t usually talk like this,” Leo said. “This is her streetwise accent for company. She can sound perfectly normal if she wants to.”

  “Tell you what,” Ianthe said to Sally, ignoring him, “wouldn’t mind signing up your kid. Course, he couldn’t sing that stuff for us—”

  “Go away,” Leo said, suddenly really cross. “Go away and show off to someone more impressionable. Nicholas, take her away. Tell her what you want in life and see if she can help you. See if she can actually be of use for once.”

  A gleam of pathos softened the bravado in Ianthe’s eye, but she quelled it. She took Nicholas by the arm.

  “Aren’t you a bit hard?” Sally said when they had gone. “She’s awfully young.”

  “She’s awfully silly. You are the second person to accuse me of hardness this afternoon. I must be getting cantankerous, living alone and thinking of nothing but sacred music and small boys. Heavens!” he said, breaking off and laughing. “That might have been better put—”

  “Isn’t it odd, that the dean’s children should all be so—so unorthodox?”

  “Don’t you think it’s inevitable?”

  “Do you mean because of the Church—”

  “Yes.”

  “You think that girl’s in love with you. That’s why you were so rude to her.”

  “She thinks she is too. I’m trying to be as unlovable as possible.”

  “But you make yourself very attractive if you are rude to her.”

  Leo looked at her.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lord. But if I’m nice, think what would happen.”

  “But only briefly. Very intense, but over quickly. Then she would get bored.”

  “With my being nice?”

  “Yes. Because it isn’t so glamorous. Moody and mean is much sexier.”

  Leo smiled broadly.

  “I haven’t had a conversation like this for ages. I’d forgotten what it was like. Would you like some more chapter house tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why did you ring me, honestly, the other night?”

  Sally said without hesitation, “Loneliness.”

  “But Henry was in the house and he presumably has a father—”

  “He’s in Saudi Arabia. And Henry is a boy and is separate and he is a true musician, and I am not, and that makes him more separate. I am not complaining, I am absolutely sick with pride and pleasure, but I have noticed. And since you asked me, I am telling you.”

  “I never thought about mothers before.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. That’s because you are a professional—”

  The dean appeared, radiant.

  “Ah! The two people I most wanted to see. I can’t congratulate you enough, Beckford. It was an absolute triumph. The cathedral hasn’t heard such music in years, if ever. And Mrs. Ashworth, my dear Mrs. Ashworth. What a voice! We knew he was good but today he surpassed himself. Why just that solo, Beckford? Why did we not hear more?”

  “Because, Dean, talented though he is, he is still only a probationer and other choristers are more experienced—”

  “We are swamped with praise,” the dean said, not noticing. “Mrs. Knatchbull from Croxton Manor brought, quite unbeknown to me, an expert on musical instruments from the V. and A. who is quite bowled over by the organ itself, never mind the restoration, and countless people, my dear Beckford, countless, have said to me that they can’t name another organist with your gifts of phrasing and rhythm. The chancel is absolutely thronged with visitors looking at the organ, thronged. I only wish the lighting were better. I can’t thank you enough, Beckford, or congratulate both of you sufficiently. This is a great day for Aldminster, a great day—”

  When he had swirled off into the crowd, Sally said, “I mustn’t keep you. And I’ll do everything I can in future to be the right sort of trouble-free mother.”

  “Then,” Leo said, surprising himself, “I shall be rather disappointed. Come to a rehearsal if you like. I mean it.”

  She shook her head.

  “I won’t do that. And I must go.” She held her hand out. “Goodbye. And congratulations.”

  He pulled a face. “Don’t you start,” he said but he held her hand warmly and he smiled when he spoke.

  She and
Henry walked home together down the Lyng, and bought oven-ready chicken Kiev on the way, for supper, as a treat to celebrate, and a tub of chocolate-chip ice cream for Henry. When they got back, Mozart was full of complaints that his supper was late, and after they had fed him, they got their own supper ready, and ate it at one end of the pine table with the television balanced at the other end, and watched an awful game whose main purpose appeared to be the humiliation of the participants, which they both enjoyed a lot. Then Henry had two helpings of ice cream, and Sally had a cup of black coffee, and they played Trivial Pursuit, and then Henry was driven up to have a bath, and Sally read him the first terrifying chapter of Moonfleet with the Mohune coffins bobbing and crashing about in the darkness of the flooded vault. When she had turned his light out, she had a bath herself and went to bed for a luxurious read, not of her usual by-women-for-women clever fiction, but poetry. This was a good sign. She only ever wanted to read poetry when she was happy. She climbed into bed and picked up Brian Patten, and Mozart came in and, after a few conversational remarks, settled himself down weightily beside her and purred himself into silent sleep.

  Two streets nearer the close, up the Lyng, Ianthe and Nicholas shared a pizza and a bottle of Orvieto. Ianthe said she would treat Nicholas because he must be sick of school food, and Nicholas, though he didn’t fancy her at all, was pleased to be out with a girl again and relieved not to have to talk carefully and politely for a while. Actually, Ianthe did most of the talking while Nicholas ate most of the pizza, so that by the end of the evening, he knew that her elder brother was brilliant, but brilliant, and her sister was a weirdo, and her little brother was a real pain, and that Ikon had a really great future and that she’d like to kill Leo Beckford. She had to talk very loudly to be heard over the music of the pizza place—“Dire Straits, I ask you. Can you believe they can play crap like this?”—so most of the people at the adjoining tables knew about her too, and as they were very young, they became rather interested when she said, “Soon we’ll be able to pay ourselves around a grand a month—”