Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  Hilary had clearly registered the mention of Madeleine’s father, but she only said, ‘I’m assuming there was at least one of Toby Chance’s songs that night—if not, I think we’d have to cheat a bit and put one into our own programme. I found one quite recently for a TV thing—it’s called “All Because of Too Much Tipsy Cake”—and I don’t think it would be difficult to unearth one or two more. I keep calling them Toby’s songs, but correctly they were Chance and Douglas’s songs, weren’t they? That was the team: Toby wrote the lyrics and Douglas wrote the music.’

  ‘We’d certainly have to use one of their songs for the reopening,’ said Madeleine at once, ‘because he was my father.’

  Into the silence that suddenly fell, Hilary said, ‘Toby Chance was your father?’

  ‘What? No, my dear, I meant the other one. Toby’s music partner. Frank Douglas. He was my father. He was the one who imposed that long dark silence on the Tarleton.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘IT’S NO USE ASKING me why or how he ended up owning the Tarleton,’ said Madeleine, ‘because I don’t know and he never said. The curious thing, though, is that he wasn’t the kind of man you’d associate with owning property of any kind, in fact he was a bit of a rolling stone—even a touch irresponsible, although not where my mother and I were concerned. And I think my mother had a little money of her own.’

  Hilary said softly, ‘So all along, the mysterious owner was the man who wrote those songs with Toby Chance.’

  ‘We’ve speculated a bit about who the owner might be,’ said Shona. ‘Of course we have. But I don’t think Frank Douglas was ever a contender, was he, Hilary?’

  ‘No. I don’t know that we knew much about him other than his name on some old song sheets. I thought it would turn out to be Toby who put that restriction on the theatre.’

  ‘Toby Chance certainly owned the theatre for a number of years,’ said Madeleine. ‘And I always had the impression that my father acquired it from him after it was closed.’

  ‘In 1914,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Yes. It was ceded to him by Deed of Gift in October of that year,’ said Madeleine. ‘That’s one thing I do know, although I don’t know much more than that. A Deed of Gift means no money is actually paid over, of course.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a perfectly legal way of transferring a piece of property,’ said Shona, ‘although restrictive covenants can sometimes be written in, I think, and I’d guess that’s what happened with the Tarleton.’

  ‘It is. It’s all wrapped up in legal jargon, but the burden of the gift is that it wasn’t to be sold or used in any public way whatsoever until fifty years after my father’s death.’

  ‘That’s a very long time,’ said Shona. ‘And it’s extremely strange to leave such an inheritance to someone and then prevent it being beneficial.’

  ‘It’s almost as if he was handing you a—a task,’ said Hilary. ‘Trusting you to safeguard something.’

  ‘Without giving me any idea of what that something was,’ said Madeleine rather drily. ‘I’ve done what the will requested, but I’ve never known why the request was made in the first place.’

  ‘Didn’t your father ever talk about the Tarleton?’ asked Hilary. ‘Didn’t he say anything that might provide a clue?’

  ‘He hardly ever mentioned it,’ said Madeleine. ‘I wasn’t born until he was turned forty—1933 that was, in case you were wondering.’ She smiled. ‘I think he’d always been a bit of a rover: he’d hear of something he’d like to do or be involved in—usually some theatrical venture—and off he’d go. While my mother was alive she usually went with him: they were a good pair. I was at school and they always came back for the holidays, and it all seemed perfectly normal to me. Sometimes he’d have friends from his music-hall days to the house—I liked that. They used to have evenings round the piano, singing and laughing. Impromptu stuff, but they enjoyed it. I was generally sent to bed, but when I was a bit older I was allowed to join in sometimes.’ She suddenly looked very wistful, but then said, briskly, ‘They’re good memories I have of those years. But you see, my dears, it all meant I was never especially close to my father—not to either of my parents, really. And then when the war broke out my father was away a good deal, mostly with ENSA—they organized concert parties and plays for the troops and the allied forces.’ She said this with a slightly questioning air, as if unsure whether they would know what ENSA was.

  Shona knew quite well what ENSA was because of her years with the Harlequin, but she was grateful to Hilary for saying with unmistakable sincerity, ‘I’ve always loved reading about ENSA.’

  ‘There are some photos from those years along with the other stuff in the attic,’ said Madeleine. ‘My father toured a lot of the camps. But you do see,’ she said, ‘that I didn’t really spend very much time with him and I certainly didn’t know a great deal about his early life. I knew he was on the halls and I knew he wrote quite a lot of music—songs in the main, mostly in collaboration with Toby Chance. And he stayed in touch with some of the people from his earlier life—there was a disreputable old comic called Bunstable, I remember. He’d turn up from time to time. And Rinaldi who was stage manager at the Tarleton—I liked Rinaldi. Everyone did. And there were one or two dancers from the old days—my mother said they were probably no better than they should be. But she laughed when she said it, and she always gave them a meal or a bed for the night if they needed it.’

  Shona glanced at Hilary and saw she was listening with absorption.

  ‘My mother died at the end of the war,’ said Madeleine. ‘I was twelve. But it wasn’t until my father died, ten years afterwards, that I discovered he was the actual owner of the Tarleton. It was quite a shock, although I’d have to say the discovery of the restraint was an even bigger shock.’

  ‘It’s a remarkable restriction,’ said Shona.

  ‘The will is very strongly worded,’ said Madeleine. ‘I remember asking the solicitor how legally binding the clause was and he said it couldn’t actually be enforced, but that if I sold the theatre or opened it to the public he thought I might stand in danger of forfeiting the rest of the inheritance. The executors were the bank—the one you’ve dealt with—together with the solicitor’s own firm. If I chose to ignore that clause, the bank were required to report to the probate authorities. The solicitor did admit he’d never come across anything quite like it—he had no idea which way a decision might go; he said it would be a test case.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Hilary. ‘So you decided to comply with it.’

  ‘I sort of got swept along by various events,’ she said. ‘My father didn’t leave me a lot of money, and I think what he did leave had originally been my mother’s. I was rather badly off in those days—we all have difficult patches in our lives, don’t we, and that was one of mine. So the money I did get was a bird in the hand as far as I was concerned. There wasn’t anything like enough to start putting on performances, and I had no idea how to go about finding a backer or anything like that. I’d never lived in London and I wouldn’t have known where to begin. And also—’ She stopped and Shona waited.

  ‘Also,’ said Madeleine, and Shona had the impression she was choosing her words with care, ‘the Tarleton was already regarded as a bit of a mystery—I knew that if I didn’t know anything else. If I had contested the will, it could have caused quite a stir. And even ignoring the will and just opening the place up would have attracted some publicity. I didn’t want that.’ She broke off, one hand going to the left side of her chest, a white look appearing round her mouth.

  Shona was aware of Hilary making an involuntary movement forward, and she thought: there’s something Madeleine Ferrelyn isn’t telling us. Whatever it is, it’s distressed her to remember it. Her heart’s clearly quite frail. Do we pretend nothing’s happened, I wonder? Yes, I think we do. But why on earth didn’t she fight that clause in her father’s will all those years ago? Surely, given a choice, anyone would opt for the Tarleton? Its open-
market value, even then, would have far outweighed whatever Frank Douglas left—and it doesn’t sound as if he left all that much.

  Madeleine seemed to have recovered from that momentary spasm of pain or distress. She was saying television had put a lot of theatres out of business in the 1950s and early 1960s. ‘And the Tarleton was already old-fashioned. Even I could see that a lot of money would have to be spent on it to make it even halfway viable.’

  ‘So you decided to honour the requirement in the will?’ said Hilary.

  ‘Anything else seemed such a gamble, you see. So I thought I’d stay with the safe option for a few years at least—there was the small trust fund to keep the place maintained so it wouldn’t become derelict. And then, as the years went by, I began to look on the place as a sort of investment. Almost as a pension fund.’

  ‘People do that more and more with property these days,’ said Hilary and Madeleine sent her a grateful look, ‘specially since all those pension fund crashes.’

  ‘Unexpected parts of London were coming back into fashion,’ said Madeleine. ‘Notting Hill and Docklands and so on. I thought Bankside might do the same.’

  ‘As, indeed, it has.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why my father made that clause,’ she said, ‘but he was no fool for all his roving Irish blood, and he must have had good reason. After I married, the Tarleton, in cash terms, didn’t seem so important. My husband wasn’t a millionaire but he was quite comfortably off. My life was here—in Somerset—in this house. And as the years went along, when I thought about the Tarleton I found I rather liked the idea that I was doing what my father had wanted. It gave me a feeling of connection with him.’ She studied them. ‘Now you’ll think I’m a hopeless romantic.’

  ‘If you’re a hopeless romantic, so am I,’ said Hilary. ‘Anyway, think of the fun we’d have missed. Think of the myths and legends that have grown up round that place, and how you’ve been at the heart of them. Adding to a little piece of theatre history.’

  ‘What a nice way of seeing it. And you’re quite right, Hilary.’ She made another of the brisk determined movements, as if putting the past firmly in its place. ‘Now, it’s already getting on for seven o’clock and you’ll be ready for some supper, I daresay? It’s only very simple—a girl from the village comes in a couple of times a week to help with a bit of cleaning and gardening and shopping—that wretched stroke on top of the heart problems slowed me down a bit. But she’s made a chicken casserole and there’s an apple pie with my own apples from the orchard here. Oh, and we can make inroads on your delicious cheese as well. All right?’

  ‘A feast,’ said Shona. ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Can we help with any of it?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘It’s all set out, and the casserole only needs heating through. And I never think it’s right to expect guests to help out,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘We aren’t guests really, though,’ said Hilary. ‘At least—we’re not the kind that need to be waited on.’

  ‘In that case, I’d be grateful if one of you could carry the casserole to the table when it’s ready. No need for anything more. But we’ll be civilized and have a glass of that Madeira you brought before we eat, shall we?’

  After the meal, Shona asked Madeleine if she would mind if they entered the substance of their talk onto the laptop right away.

  ‘It would be quicker for us than writing sheaves of notes and then entering them,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to get it all down while it’s fresh in my mind.’

  ‘Of course you must,’ said Madeleine at once. ‘And if you’re intending to do that, perhaps you won’t think I’m discourteous if I leave you to it. I know it’s only just on ten, but I’m used to early nights these days. The coffee pot’s still half full and there’re drinks and glasses in that cupboard. Help yourselves to whatever you want.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ said Shona, smiling at her.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it immensely and I’m looking forward to the actual reopening. Goodnight to you both. Will breakfast around eight be all right?’

  ‘Yes, but we can forage for ourselves perfectly well,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Not a bit of it. My girl from the village is coming in, and she’ll do scrambled eggs and toast for you.’

  ‘That would be lovely. Goodnight, Madeleine.’

  Shona went upstairs with Madeleine to get the laptop from her case, and then she and Hilary spent another absorbed hour, pulling their discussion and all the ideas into a workable outline.

  ‘It’ll all be marvellous,’ said Hilary, finally leaning back in the deep comfortable armchair. ‘If we can bring this off, it’ll be such a night.’ She paused, then said, ‘Did you think there was something—some memory—that upset Madeleine earlier on? When she was talking about not wanting publicity if the Tarleton were reopened? Just for a moment or two I thought she was going to have an attack of some kind—heart or something. Did you notice it?’

  ‘There was something,’ said Shona slowly. ‘But whatever it was, it passed. Probably it was just remembering the past—her father and so on—that upset her. Whatever it was, I shouldn’t think it’s relevant to us.’

  ‘No. What’s relevant,’ said Hilary, ‘is that astonishing clause her father made in his will. It explains why the place has been closed all these years, but it doesn’t explain what was behind it in the first place. We thought we were going to find out the truth about it all, but it sets up more questions than it answers, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does rather. But I don’t think we can pry into any of it very deeply.’

  ‘No, of course not. And all families have secrets, anyway,’ said Hilary. She stood up and stretched her arms. ‘Shona, if you don’t mind, I think I’m for bed. I know you did all the driving, but I’m absolutely zonked.’

  ‘I sometimes think it’s more tiring to be a passenger on a long car journey than it is to be the driver. You go on up, Hilary. Goodnight.’

  ‘Are you coming up?’

  ‘Not just yet. I’d like to get out a few draft costings for all this while it’s still fresh in my mind.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take the coffee things out to the kitchen on my way. Don’t burn too much midnight oil,’ said Hilary, and went out.

  All families have secrets. The words lingered after Hilary had gone, and the past stirred uneasily in Shona’s mind again. Secrets… Secrets were dangerous things, they were better kept in dark places—walled up if necessary. But the Tarleton’s secrets, whatever they might be, wherever they might be hidden, were nothing to do with Shona. That underground wall in the Tarleton was nothing to do with Grith’s underground wall, or with what had stood behind it…

  So there was no need for this faint sick uneasiness: the Tarleton could perfectly safely be reopened. It would be wonderful publicity for the Harlequin Society; it would not, in fact, do Shona any harm personally, either.

  There was a faint clatter of crockery from the kitchen—it sounded as if Hilary was washing up the coffee cups. Shona listened, and after a few moments heard the soft creak of the stairs, and then the sound of taps running in the bathroom. The floor joists overhead creaked softly again and the bedroom door closed. The house sank into silence except for the occasional crackle of the logs burning in the grate.

  What secrets might there be in Madeleine Ferrelyn’s past? There had been that brief spasm of pain in her face earlier on—had that been caused by remembering her father, or had it been for some other reason?

  Secrets… There had been so many secrets at Grith House.

  Shona had not been looking for secrets on the day just before her eighteenth birthday, and if it had not been for Cousin Elspeth she would not have gone up to the attic that afternoon or any other afternoon. But the sentimental old fool had thought it would be nice to take a few photographs to mark Shona’s birthday, and had spent most of the morning fussing and flapping about, trying to find photograph albums. In the end, Shona had said exasperatedly that the albums were pr
obably in the attic and if it meant so much to Elspeth she would go and find them.

  ‘Would you? I’d come up with you, but your mother hasn’t been so well today.’

  This was a euphemism for Mother being soddenly drunk yet again. Shona supposed they should be grateful that when her mother did become drunk (which was six days out of seven), she did it quietly and unobtrusively, falling asleep in her chair, occasionally crying over the harsh way life had treated her. The Cheesewrights probably knew about Mother’s drinking because they knew most things, but they were reasonably discreet and loyal. Shona did not much care if they broadcast on national television that Margaret Seymour was getting through two bottles of vodka a day and three at weekends.

  Occasionally her mother made determined assaults on the kitchen, declaring she would cook them all a meal—it was high time she pulled herself together; she had been feeling a little under the weather lately, but that was all over. A good strengthening stew, that was what she would make.

  She normally got as far as cutting up the chicken or the beef before discovering Elspeth had moved everything round in the larder making it impossible to find so much as a stock cube. After this she declared they were all in league against her, hiding stock cubes and chopping boards, and then headed for wherever she had hidden the most recent of her bottles, leaving the kitchen in chaos. Several times Shona put the case to Elspeth for proper professional help for her mother, but Elspeth said they did not need folks poking into their private affairs; poor Margaret was just a bit low and there was nothing wrong in a little drink to cheer her up. Shona wondered what planet Elspeth was living on, because most days her mother was incoherent by lunchtime, although she was no trouble and could usually be safely left to sleep and brood in her chair by the fire.

  It was anybody’s guess if she would make any kind of effort for Shona’s birthday or even remember it, but it did not much matter because the day would be much like all other days and all other birthdays. ‘A small family celebration,’ Elspeth had said, bustling about the kitchen, baking a lavish cake that nobody at Grith really wanted and would probably end in being given to the Cheesewrights.