The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “Actually, now you mention it, I do get shooting pains in my knees and ankles. Daddy says they’re just growing pains but they can be absolute agony,” she exaggerated. “Do you think I need an X-ray?”

  “Not at this stage, my dear. However, if the pain can be serious?”

  Harriet nodded.

  “And persistent?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then I would recommend what we call an analgesic.”

  Harriet cocked her head questioningly.

  “A pain killer. It’s called diamorphine and it comes, like your cough medicine, in a bottle. We have been prescribing it for years now. Very popular. Very effective. Follow the instructions on the label carefully,” he said, writing out a prescription. “Now, any other ailments while we’re about it?”

  “Well, I can get tired very easily. Perhaps I am overtaxing my strength? You know, exhausted, weary, burnt out.”

  “Ah, I see this a lot. Assuming you are getting sufficient nutrition…?” he looked for confirmation and Harriet nodded, “then we are confident that something called amphetamines can energise you again. They’ve been around for fifty years. Very popular in the USA. Perfectly safe. They can help pick you up, even improve your alertness and memory. And if you want to lose a little weight…?” he was remembering Harriet as a plump little child, “then Benzedrine is your man. Here’s an open prescription for both. When they start to run out just pop in to Miss Fountain on the desk and she’ll refresh it. Now, is that all?”

  *

  And so Harriet embarked on a drug regime that perfectly suited her shiftless life. She dutifully took the diamorphine solution and the Benzedrine pills twice a day. She had never felt so well. Lively, amusing, witty with a vigorous, if not impetuous dynamism. She considered Dr Cressall a genius and advised her friends to switch to him. Not only did she have inexhaustible vim and dash she also noticed that she was no longer hungry at all and that further weight was dropping off her already slender figure.

  Her girlfriends noticed her new sparkle and Harriet also attracted even more attention from men. She, in turn, restlessly energetic, felt an enhanced desire as a heady cocktail of drugs, hormones and male attention all combined in a froth for physical contact.

  At first there was little more than fumbling and kissing in the back seats of taxis and some heavy petting in dark corners of ancient halls at weekend parties. Eventually there was going to be the inevitable rite of passage. She met Reginald Green in a jazz club in Wardour Street. He was intelligent, offhand, bohemian, darkly handsome and aggressively working class.

  “You posh girls are all talk!”

  There was an instant attraction. At first Reginald was dismissive of her wealth and title although, amongst his friends, he boasted about her. Harriet, by now bored of the effete boys who made up her limited social circles, was ready for the challenge.

  Her father was almost constantly in Ireland so Harriet was the mistress of the house in London. After a session in a drinking club in a basement off Leicester Square, Harriet, emboldened by alcohol and drugs, invited Reginald back to her house in the early hours of a Sunday morning.

  “Come and see my place, working boy. Get a glimpse of the life you might aspire to but will never reach!”

  Reginald accepted the challenge and, with practised ease, had Harriet naked on the Aubusson before the coffee had cooled and relieved her of her virginity in short order.

  “Well it was getting tiresome anyway,” said Harriet with the faux-ennui characteristic of a certain class.

  However, it was pleasurable enough for Harriet to ask Reginald back. Before long, however, in her high-speed capricious way, Reginald was despatched and a succession of other men were invited back to the Villiers residence. Sometimes more than one a week.

  Mrs Phillips the housekeeper could not be openly critical at Harriet’s dissipation although a finely arched eyebrow as she brought in the morning tea tray said it all. By the early 1960s, Harriet, now a young woman of twenty-three, had a reputation as a good-time girl, flirt and was described as ‘free and easy’ in the gossip columns which had begun to take notice of her. Although a target for lechers and fortune-hunters, she lacked any guiding principles to light her way and point out that she was on the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire.

  By the summer of 1964, even Dr Cressall, hearing the rumours, had voiced his concerns about the possible addictive properties of certain medications, although these concerns were not sufficient to switch off the welcome medical fees.

  In truth Harriet was also becoming jaded by the superficiality of her world. Of her friends, only Georgia had stayed loyal and would offer advice or gentle admonishment as Harriet ricocheted between unsuitable liaisons. Harriet almost fell foul of the law, although charges of possessing cannabis and affray were quietly dropped when the Earl’s name came up.

  Despite her sometimes objectionable demeanour, frequent lack of communication and regular tantrums, Georgia remained her friend.

  “And don’t you be such a little goody-two-shoes, Georgia. I think you’re just jealous because I can get men and have a good time and you can’t.”

  Like a faithful Spaniel, Georgia would take the criticism, the silences and the wildness and be there when Harriet became tearful, angry or hysterical.

  “Just remember, Hats. Whatever happens in your life, I’m a shoulder here for you,” she said.

  A minor aristocrat herself, but with a close supportive family, Georgia had avoided the worst excesses of drink, drugs, nightclubs, promiscuity and eating disorders that afflicted Harriet. She witnessed her friend being prodigal and debauched and then excoriated in the press but resolved to be her confidante and protector whatever the provocation.

  She said to her parents, who had worried that their daughter could be sucked into Harriet’s chaotic lifestyle, “Don’t forget, she lost her mother early. Her father doesn’t take much notice. I know she can be a complete pain but somebody has to look out for her. There’s a good person in there deep down.”

  *

  Then suddenly out of a clear blue Scottish sky came a severe jolt to Harriet’s comfortable world. While shooting pheasant on a cloudless day on the grouse moors of a fellow Earl, Charles Villiers was taken suddenly ill. By the time he had been moved to the small local hospital in Argyll he was dead of a heart attack. Although he had not, by any means, been a mainstay of Harriet’s life, this was the kicking away of one of the final main props of her existence. Life would, at least for a short time, become unpredictable.

  She could not help, though, once the funeral was over, stifle a certain elation and freedom. She was also privately excited to know what provision had been made for her, the only heir. Her mother had made quite a lot of money in her film career, which on her death had gone to the Earl. He had estates, houses and trusts and Harriet had expectations of living an opulent and very secure life.

  A few weeks after the funeral, she was called to see the family solicitor at Pinker and Hodge who had dealt with the Villiers’ estates for decades. Mr Hodge, grandson of the founder and senior partner, sat behind his partner’s desk with his hands steepled and his glasses perched on his nose in a suitably jurisprudential pose. He rifled through the extensive paperwork covering his desk, some of it bound with red and blue ribbons and with wax seals.

  “Well my dear, your father has taken great care in his obligations with the Villiers estates. First let me deal with the Clanricarde title. You may or may not be aware that the title is passed on through the male line under a system called primogeniture. That is,” he pontificated sagely, “that it passes to the eldest living male relative. Since there are no direct descendants we have to look to the nearest male. That turns out to be the Earl’s sister’s son, Roger Lyttleton, currently residing in his estate in Norfolk.

  “He will thus take possession of the title and – de jure – his seat i
n the House of Lords. He will also take possession of the Irish estate, which has been ‘entailed’ as we say for a number of centuries. A careful system of family trusts was set up, it seems, by a lawyer called Wortley who revised the arrangements back in the late eighteenth century. Very clever structure, avoids squabbles and, most importantly, death duties. Are you following me so far Harriet?”

  “Yes, I think so. I may have questions when you finish. I don’t know much about Roger Lyttleton except that he exists. Our side of the family have nothing to do with them.”

  “Good girl, good girl. And now we get to you. As was timely and proper, the Earl revised his will after the sad demise of your mother in 1953. Therefore, mutatis mutandis as we say, I am very pleased to advise you that the remainder of his estate, principally the house in Hampstead and a substantial amount of money in trust reverts to yourself as the sole beneficiary.

  “Upon your reaching the age of twenty-five, the trustees will dissolve the trust and you will be the owner of the property, cash deposits, policies, shares and so on. I do hope that when that day comes and I see that it is not far away, that you can come back to us and we will be more than ready to offer financial and legal advice including tax planning to achieve an optimum mix of security and income.”

  Harriet thanked him and left the office as an heiress. The press were already taking an interest. Where money and titles were concerned, coupled with a louche lifestyle there was always a vicarious drooling over the possibilities and outcomes.

  *

  Harriet summoned Georgia to drinks at Claridges.

  “Fizz, Georgie, fizz! It’s not every day you get given a mansion and a couple of mill!”

  “Didn’t you expect to be looked after? After all you are the only child.”

  “Well, you sort of hoped but Daddy was always very secretive and kept all that to himself. He just hinted that matters had been dealt with.”

  “So let’s drink a toast,” said Georgia, clinking glasses. “But promise me something, Hats?” she asked, looking serious for a moment.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you slow down. No more unsuitable men. Let’s get you off that medication and drink. Let’s get some flesh on those skinny bones. You have responsibilities now but more importantly you have a responsibility to yourself. Listen to your best friend.”

  “OK, OK. Sermon’s over now,” said Harriet. “Now let’s get another bottle!”

  *

  The euphoria lasted a few weeks. Harriet had now assumed a suitable gravitas in the Hampstead house, pointing out changes she required. At Coutts Bank she was flattered by the attention of her personal banker. She had new cards printed, of course retaining the ‘Honourable’ title as she was able to do and giving her residential address in Hampstead. She was considering a small soiree to launch herself further into London society. She discussed invitees with Georgia believing that, as well as their normal social circle, perhaps some celebrities might be persuaded to come?

  She was summoned back to Pinker and Hodge. Probably some boring signatures. These people couldn’t get enough of signatures!

  Mr Hodge solemnly asked her to be seated.

  “It seems that certain matters have surfaced which have illuminated, er, drafting errors in your father’s will.”

  “Well I’m sure it can’t be too serious?” said Harriet, with a note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Hodge. “Let me explain. In order to secure legal terminology against possible future variations we have to be very specific when designating potential beneficiaries. This means that a child may be described as being of the ‘whole blood’.

  “In that way, should there be further issues, let’s say after a divorce and a remarriage, then the legal drafter will give the testator the opportunity to revisit the wording of the will in order to ensure that his intentions are expressed unambiguously. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so,” said Harriet.

  Hodge continued.

  “Well it seems that Mr Roger Lyttleton and his legal team have somehow uncovered an issue which was unknown to me when I redrafted this will,” he gestured to a bound document on the desk, “by your father back in 1953.”

  “When you say ‘uncovered an issue’, what precisely does that mean?”

  “I’m afraid young lady, and there is no easy way to say this, you are not of the whole blood, half-blood, or any blood at all!”

  “I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Harriet.

  “In short, it turns out that you were adopted, almost at birth. I have a copy of the adoption papers. You were born of an unmarried mother aged seventeen and apparently some Canadian airman or other. Your true grandparents are a farmer and his wife in Sussex, whose identity is protected.

  “They, in the absence of a legally competent mother and an extant father, signed you over to the Earl and your mother Lady Villiers. My guess is that they wished there to be no embarrassment to Lady Villiers, or, later in life, to yourself and that you were a ‘bedpan baby’ spirited out of the public eye until it was safe to introduce you after a year or two, as a full and legitimate child of the family.”

  For several minutes, Harriet could not speak and found it difficult to breathe.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Ruth called at Welford’s music shop for the balance of her money. After so many years and all the vicissitudes of her life, she could hardly believe that she was now parted from her beloved violin never to see it again. It was almost a bereavement.

  Welford made a show of pretending that he had done her a favour.

  “Yes, took it up to M.E. Hill’s in New Bond Street and made a little turn on it. Course if you take in my expenses it wasn’t exactly a golden goose if you know what I mean. But here you are, Miss Frankel,” he said as he counted out a further £250 of large blue five pound notes as big as paper handkerchiefs. “That’s us all settled up now. Just the paperwork to complete if you wouldn’t mind. Record of the sale, agreed price, signature as receipt in full and final settlement, there at the bottom. And we’re all done. Nice doing business with you.”

  After a brief handshake and a forlorn backward glance, Ruth left. Welford congratulated himself on a smart bit of business.

  He had taken a taxi up to Hill’s and asked to see the man himself, the latest in the line of respected and knowledgeable proprietors. When he produced the Italianate from its case, Mr Hill had given a long slow whistle of recognition.

  “Ah yes. I know this one by repute. My father and grandfather kept very detailed notes and photographs of particular violins that are either valuable or have a bit of history attached to them and I remember hearing about this one. The construction and the tiger stripes are as known to me as if I had seen it before.”

  This excited Welford. Rather like Harry Farquharson with Emil Hermann, and John Handyside with a previous incarnation of a Hill, their blood rose in tandem with their asking price.

  “Yes, and see here,” said Welford, pulling out the letters from the lining, “it’s got real history. Look, something about a violinist called Renard, a note from yourselves showing it to be authentic and,” he flourished the crinkled and yellowing note from a young Mozart, “I’m sure this is genuine but this makes it valuable, doesn’t it?”

  Mr Hill agreed that there would be some bearing on worth. He asked Welford how he had come across this instrument and took a careful note of the circumstances. Ruth had described the purchase from Emil Hermann’s shop at which point the dealer nodded slowly and sagely.

  “Ah yes, Mr Hermann. A good and reliable dealer. He will have kept a careful record so we can safely authenticate it. So, no doubt about it. We would be very interested in acquiring it from you. I assume you will be able to produce a suitable record of the sale? Can I ask you how you came upon it?”

  Welford described his transactio
n with Ruth, omitting any price details, and gave a potted history of what he knew.

  “Yes, one of my customers. Refugee she is. I haven’t got all the details but it seems she is a Jewess and was in one of those death camps in the war. Survived – obviously – but seems to have managed to keep this little fellow with her throughout, and then later when she came over here. Fallen on hard times now so I’ve given her a good price. Needs the cash.”

  Mr Hill took a careful longhand account.

  “Thank you. I will add that to the ledger. We like to keep track of old friends and of course it helps our reputation if we can ensure provenance, and a little bit of a colourful history does no harm at all. Now, what sort of figure did you have in mind?”

  Welford paused. Pitching his bid was akin to being blindfolded and trying to stick a tail on the donkey. Too high and he would be laughed out of the shop. Too low and he would lose out.

  “Say… five thousand?” he enquired cautiously. If accepted that would represent a tenfold increase on his price to Ruth and see his shop very nicely for a few years.

  Mr Hill balanced his head to and fro to indicate that he was thinking. He looked again at the violin, the bow, the letters.

  “Very well then,” he finally pronounced. “We have an agreement. I will draw up a contract – our standard terms and conditions and we will arrange a banker’s draft made out to yourself. Now, are we agreed?”

  Welford tried to stifle his excitement. The details were completed and he travelled back to his flat above the shop in Soho promising himself a nice piece of beef and a gallon of beer at The Lamb and Flag that evening. Maybe he should have asked for more? Well he had made a stunning profit in any case.

  *

  Ruth, in the meantime, although with a tiny amount of capital lodged safely in the Post Office, was certainly in reduced circumstances. From the relative respectability of being a teacher and residing in private lodgings near St James’s Park, her horizons had been lowered.