CHAPTER FIVE
Millie stood by the frozen pond and pulled her shawl around her against the frosty morning. Away in the distance, low over London, a red smear of a winter sun hung low above the city, barely visible through the smoky dawn. She had escaped the household to visit their secret place and look on it one last time before she left for ever.
Her hands smoothed over her swelling belly.
“It’s not your fault. Your mother was just an innocent girl and now has to pay the price of her folly. You must always remember, whatever happens, that you were made by love. How can something be so wonderful yet so sad at the same time? And your father shall pay an even higher price, sent back as a slave. And I shall never see him again. If it weren’t for you, I should feel as if I am no longer for this world.”
Her breath came in mist clouds as she spoke. Then as she stood, reflective, strong arms encircled her. She knew from the rough wool, the smell and feel of him that it was Joshua. She turned in his arms, her face upturned, her eyes closed, tears on her cheeks.
“I knew you would be here,” he said softly. “The carriage is being loaded and we will leave for Liverpool at eight o’clock. I wanted to see you and hold you one last time.”
He touched her stomach gently as he spoke and looked at her searchingly, the better to remember her face.
“I know we were young. And I know that we did a bad thing. I understand little of what love means. I am just the son of a black man, a simple gardener, so I have no fine words. But you must always remember that I love you and the child and you will both stay in my heart until I go to the grave.”
Millie smiled and slowly nodded her assent. Joshua reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out the tiny violin.
“I have nothing to give you or the child but – look – I have carved our initials into the back of this violin. I want you to make sure the child has it and, whatever happens, this will be a keepsake for them. They may never know their father or mother but we will both always be with them through this token.”
The two hapless changelings clung together wordlessly for some time.
“I must go. My father will be looking for me,” he said, unstitching their embrace. “He has said not one angry word to me despite my folly and its impact on him. And he will never see his grandchild.
“He is a good man, strong of heart and slow to anger, but I see the sadness in his eyes that he is to be returned whence he came. I must be a dutiful son, resolute and helpful as I can.”
He paused.
“Millie, I must leave you now but my heart will always be with you and the child, wherever you are.”
And with a final embrace he left, his shoes making a parallel dark track on the frost-fixed grass leading back to the Big House.
*
In April 1740, Millie was delivered of a baby girl at the house in Scotch Lane, Brighton, designated by Lady Patience. The child was adjudged by the midwife, Bessie Fowler, to be a lovely, sturdy girl with plenty of shout about her and a fine colour like burnt sugar.
The unnamed child was spirited away from Millie at birth apart from regulated breast-feeding times.
“So as you won’t care about her and get yourself into a state.”
After four weeks, Millie was allowed to accompany the child and Bessie to the Foundling Hospital where Lady Patience, through her social contacts, had arranged for the child to be admitted.
The trio presented themselves before the governors and a clerk, all seated at a long table. They were charged by the rules established by Thomas Coram to interview the mothers and also to keep meticulous records of all admissions.
Mr Falaise, Chairman of the Governors, spoke kindly to Millie, who stood with the baby in her arms and her head bowed.
“Now, you know that this place is for children born in difficult circumstances. We will look after her, baptise her, clothe and feed her. She will be taught to read, write and do her numbers to fit her for the world outside. In due course she will leave the Foundling Hospital to enter service or to take up a trade – seamstress, cook, etc. Do you understand that in giving her to us we will be in loco parentis? That means that she is no longer your child but a Coram child and we will treat her as if she were our own. But that also means that once you give her over there is no going back.”
Millie nodded despairingly and took a final look at the tiny swaddled child who opened her eyes at that moment and fixed her gaze on her mother.
Mr Falaise continued.
“It’s for the best, my dear. You could not look after the child and her best chance in life now is as a Coram child. I know it is hard for you, but your short-term pain means a better life for your child. Now, Mr Makepeace, please record the following: this girl child was born on April 12th 1740 of Millicent Pilgrim in Brighton. Father, Joshua Underman as recorded. Child admitted to the Foundling Hospital 1st May 1740. No distinguishing features except that you should record the child as of a tan colour.
“Now, my dear, one final point is that many mothers wish to leave a token attached to the child’s belongings for their own understandable sentimental reasons. Some believe that, should their circumstances change, such a keepsake would be a means of identifying them and reuniting them with their child. As you know, legal responsibility does in fact pass to Coram’s, but we do not discourage this practice as it seems in some ways to soften the mother’s despair. Have you something you would like to leave?”
Millie reached inside her shawl and proffered the pochette.
“We wanted to leave this with her,” she whispered, “in the hope that some day, she may realise that we are with her in some small way although not present. Her father played…” No more words would come as her voice trailed off into wracking sobs.
Mr Falaise looked at Bessie and motioned that she should comfort Millie, which she did by putting her arm round her.
“Most unusual,” he said, “but we do encourage all of our charges to sing and learn an instrument. Perhaps this will encourage the little one. Mr Makepeace, make a note of that.
“Now,” Mr Falaise lowered his voice, addressing Millie directly. “You must say your final goodbye but rest safe in the knowledge that the child will be well cared for.”
Mille began to weep and Bessie extracted the child gently and handed her over to a middle-aged nurse in starched apron and cap.
“May the Lord be with you,” intoned Mr Falaise gently as a weeping Millie was led away, her child lost to her.
*
Within two days the child was baptised in the Foundling Hospital Chapel by the chaplain of the establishment. Names were usually chosen to reflect the nature of the child but often with some accompanying religious connotation.
She was named Faith Cross.
As with all newborn children, Faith was sent over to a wet nurse for the first three years of her life. She was lodged with a homely body in a village in Sussex and grew to be a quick, pretty and loving child with an open face and dark curls. All too soon that idyll ended and she was restored to the regime of the Foundling Hospital as required by the rules.
However, Mr Falaise was an enlightened and kindly governor and, whilst discipline was strict, the children were treated well and they flourished.
The day started at 7am with prayers and breakfast. Meals were taken in a communal dining room where the children were taught good table manners by uniformed mistresses. The diet was wholesome, though simple, and consisted of bread, eggs, cheese, meat and potatoes.
Morning lessons were held in the schoolroom and Faith showed a quick ability to do her work. A happy, if slightly mischievous child she was quick to laugh but slow to show any temper and she was popular with staff and children alike. She had inherited the prettiness of her mother and the liveliness of her father and her coffee-coloured skin made her stand out from her peers. All the children sang in the choir and
Faith’s pure, clear voice often reduced the choirmaster, Mr Haylock, to smiling admiration as he nodded encouragingly.
One afternoon the Governor, Mr Falaise, led a gaggle of dignitaries to witness the workings of the Hospital as a means of thanking them for their donations and of soliciting new benefactors. Among them on this day was Thomas Coram himself, who stopped the procession with a raised hand in order to listen to the children sing.
“Who is the pretty child with the strong voice?” he enquired once the piece had ended. “The little one over there with the darkish skin? Striking child.”
“Ah!” said Mr Falaise, “that is Faith, Faith Cross. She came to us seven or eight years ago. I distinctly remember her because of her colour. She is a model child and no trouble. A tribute to the care of the Foundling Hospital.”
Faith was summoned.
“It seems to me, Miss,” said Coram from on high to the small child, “that music may be your talent.”
He turned to his colleague.
“How may we best encourage that, Falaise?”
“Strangely enough,” said Falaise, “I remember her mother left a miniature violin with us. I believe the French call it a ‘pochette’. Apparently her father was an exponent. I remember this particularly as we usually get small tokens like an ale label or an acorn or such, but this was very unusual. I can, if you wish, arrange for Mr Chilvers to give her some lessons in music to see how we may ascertain and draw out any talent she may have.”
“Good man,” agreed Coram. “Perhaps we can send her out into the world, if not with the means to support herself at least with an attribute to nourish her soul.”
The procession moved on. Later, Falaise did as he was instructed and Faith began her introduction to an arcane world of staves, clefs, flats, minims and crotchets under the patient guidance of Mr Chilvers.
She took naturally to the instruction and flourished. Within a year she was proficient on the keyboard and on the strings of her pochette, which she played with precision and not a little skill.
From time to time, Mr Chilvers was taken up with other duties and he delegated his son Thomas to take the lesson with Faith. Thomas, a thin, sallow and pock-marked youth of around eighteen would often sit uncomfortably close to Faith as she practised her scales. He would touch the girl’s neck or knee as she played and would leave his clammy hand on her arm during the lesson. He would congratulate her after some exercise with an over-familiar unctuousness that Faith, even at the age of nine, found unpleasant and disconcerting.
Sometimes, he would even sit her on his knee and reach round her waist to the keys in order to demonstrate some technique. Faith found herself cringing from his touch. She hated the days when she entered the music room to find the oleaginous Thomas simpering and beckoning her over to the piano stool. It would have been unthinkable to complain to anyone in authority and, in any case, at her innocent age there was little substantive that she could have alleged. She was privately delighted one day when old Mr Chilvers advised her that Thomas had been found a position at a bank and would no longer be his deputy.
Often, Faith would be commissioned to play her pochette for the children at the end of Sunday school and once, she was invited into Mr Falaise’s drawing room on the occasion of his birthday in order to entertain a cluster of family and guests.
*
One day, in March 1750, just before her tenth birthday, Mr Falaise called Faith into his office. She stood, dutifully, with her hands clasped behind her back. Mr Falaise spoke from behind his desk.
“Child, we have a very important occasion soon to be held here at the Foundling Hospital. You may not have heard of Mr George Frederick Handel. He is the Master of the King’s Music and now also in the governing committee. He is to honour us on 1st May next when he will give a rendition of his holy oratorio The Messiah. This will take place in the chapel. Later many of the important people attending will be served dinner in the Great Hall. Some of the children will be serving the guests and I would like you to be one of them.
“You will serve at the table of Mr Maundy Cubitt who has been appointed first violin by Mr Handel. A very important and talented man. Additionally, I would like you to provide some musical entertainment, perhaps Mr Chilvers will help you learn some hymn tunes and light classical works. Now, Faith, can I rely on you to do your very best, politely and courteously on behalf of the Hospital?”
Faith, although a little overawed at the magnitude of the responsibility, managed to respond.
“Yes, sir. I will do my very best.”
CHAPTER SIX
A few weeks after commissioning his new violin, Maundy Cubitt looked in at John Johnson’s workshop in Cheapside.
“Now Master Luthier, how goes the instrument?” he smilingly enquired.
Johnson, who could be a trifle short-tempered, furrowed his brow.
“This is not just a snuff box. If you want everyman’s violin you may go and spend your shillings down the road. But if you want me to make a fiddle with Italian resonance please allow me to do it in my own good time,” he griped.
They made an interesting pair – Johnson short, round and choleric and Cubitt, tall, elegant, permanently suave and smiling and a full head taller than the craftsman.
“Of course, of course my good fellow,” said Maundy with a soothing smile. “My purpose in coming to see you was not to hasten your hand but to admire the craftsmanship and see how a master luthier blends his materials and his talents. This is my child in the making and I see that you have set the heart a-beating. I would dearly wish to know how you assemble the body and bring this person into the world.”
Mollified by Cubitt’s words, Johnson agreed that each instrument had a personality but he hoped that this violin would be unique and, encouraged by Cubitt, he described the new techniques and differences he was employing.
“You see,” said Johnson, his hot temper subsiding as he warmed to his narrative, “once I heard the Italian play, I wanted to know what it was in the construction of the violin that astonished the hearer, awoke his emotions and gave a soul to sound. How the strings can be sonorous and of steady beauty at the lower register and can thrill the listener with a clear and passionate sound in the upper.”
Johnson described his trip to Cremona. There, he declared, he had found the wellspring of violin making. Instruments by Amati, Guarneri and Stradivarius had made the little town famous across Europe. Kings, queens and musical maestros had competed to own one of the precious instruments. He had learnt some of the secrets of manufacture which imbued the magic and had secured a book by an Italian called Collognitti which described how from an assemblage of wood, varnish and infinite precision could emerge a sound to captivate an audience.
“You see, my friend,” declared Johnson. “It starts with the wood. The back of the violin must be hard wood to reflect the sound. The Italians use maple – but not any piece of maple. The piece must be quarter-cut, like a wedge. They say that the maple in Lombardy is of a particular purity and density because of the dry summers there these last fifty years.
“And do you know…” he lowered his voice slightly, “I have secured a good block which I brought back to London. You see the back of your violin?” He turned over the instrument and pointed it towards the window light. “There! They are the stripes of a tiger!” he glowed.
“As for her belly, she must be able to vibrate in sympathy with the strings so you will see that I have employed a single piece of spruce. The ribs are bent under heat over days and join the belly and back. As for the other elements of this mixture of art and science – the soundholes, the post, the purflings and so on – well it would take a lifetime to teach you. But I will tell you that one of the Italians’ secrets is to treat the wood with vernice bianca. This varnish seals and secures the purity of sound and will make it sing like your throstle!”
These last words were delivered with a jocu
lar knowing emphasis. Cubitt smiled at the reference.
“Master Luthier, I am indebted to you for your expertise, skill and labour. Here is another ten pounds for your work. It is almost April now and I have a rehearsal with Mr Handel in two weeks’ time. We are to play at the Foundling Hospital on 1st May to mark the presentation of the organ to the chapel and to raise funds for the foundlings. Will the baby be ready to take its first steps?”
Johnson did a frowning mental calculation that enumerated the steps needed to complete his work.
“Soundholes, finger board, neck, peg box, soundpost, nuts, scrolls, bridge, end button, inlays… perfection is a creature that cannot be rushed. You must allow me the time I need.
“Rehearsal, no. But you will have her for your concert.”
And with that Cubitt left after a cordial handshake and a courteous bow.
*
Later, Maundy recounted the progress to Verity. Pale, her health had deteriorated although she kept the extent of her decline from him in order to spare his anxiety. She would rest most of the day in order to save her strength for his return. A little rouge on the cheeks and a draught of coffee enabled her to appear alert and attentive. Maundy enthused about his embryo violin and rehearsals whilst Verity smiled and made encouraging rejoinders.
“He says that he has never made the like of it before… that he is investing all the techniques of the Italians into this one piece. Do you know, my dear, he has a piece of Lombardy maple from which he cuts a precise slice and that is the backbone? Spruce is the breastbone and belly, the soundholes the lungs, the post is the beating heart and the brain and nerves to the whole body are the pegs and strings, all of which are brought to life by the player. It is really like bringing a new child into the world.”
Verity smiled as Maundy moved enthusiastically on to the rehearsal he had attended that day.
“Mr Handel is a hard taskmaster but a fair one. He expects his musicians to present themselves having mastered the music so I have worked assiduously to study his Messiah. I have to say that although the public have seemed indifferent to it I believe it is the finest work I have ever played. Never before have I experienced such a fine blend of voice, instrument, music and words.”
The Violin Page 4