On wings of song

by Burchell, Mary

He breezed into the office, full of information about some successful contracts, but also, it seemed, very willing for further discussion about the evening in Warrender's studio when he had heard her sing.

  'My critical godmother is going to be very gratified when she hears you and realises she's backed a winner,' he informed her with a mischievous smile, and she suddenly wanted to hit him for continuing the masquerade with such gusto.

  'Do you think so?' Her tone was cool.

  'Yes. Don't you?'

  'I hope so—^naturally,' she replied indifferently, and went over to the filing cabinet so that she could turn her back on him.

  'What's the matter?' His voice changed suddenly. 'And don't say "Nothing",' he added irritably before she could.

  'What would you like me to say, then?' She had never spoken to him in that tone before, and

  she could feel the cloud of astonishment behind her.

  *Tum round and look at me,' he said quietly, and when she took no notice she heard him get up and cross the room. The next moment he had swung her round to face him and, shifting his grip, he held her by her upper arms so that she was almost against him.

  'What's this charade in aid of?' he asked, and for the first time she was surprisedly aware of a note of brutality in his voice.

  'I don't know what you're talking about!' and her voice shook with anger and pain as she tried, unavailingly, to escape from his grip. 'Let go of me, please. I don't like employers who take liberties.'

  'Liberties? Good God, girl, you don't know what the word means! But if you want to

  know ' and before she could stop him, he

  bent his head and kissed her hard on her angry mouth with a sort of brutal deliberation which made her gasp.

  *You—skunk! I suppose you think that spending a fortune on me without my knowledge entitles you to maul me?'

  He fell away from her as though she had literally struck him.

  'So that's the trouble? You've found out I'm paying for your training.'

  It was as good a way out as any, she supposed, with her heart like lead. She had so nearly betrayed her fury and misery over Lucille's conquest. Better a thousand times that he should think she resented his spending money on her and keeping her in ignorance of the fact.

  *You knew I would never have accepted if you'd been frank with me, didn't you? But in your arrogance you made this ridiculous plot with your godmother and took the decision out of my hands.'

  'Oh, stop being a melodramatic little fool!' he exclaimed impatiently. 'Can't a man make a generous gesture to his own secretary without being suspected of what used to be called base designs? You're in the wrong century, Caroline.'

  She said nothing, and after a moment he asked almost sullenly, 'How did you find out?'

  'It doesn't matter.' She spoke rather wearily, because suddenly the fire had gone out of her and the taste of ashes was in her mouth. 'You needn't

  blame anyone. Ken ' the familiar form of

  address slipped out without her noticing*—I did a bit of inspired guessing, and no one tried to deny that I'd arrived at the right conclusion. Even if you meant it all for the best, it's something which gives me no satisfaction. Please let's leave the subject now.'

  'At least let me apologise.' He thrust his hands into his pockets and frowned at the floor.

  'For forcing your money on me?'

  'No, of course not. I have no regrets about that. For kissing you the way I did.'

  'As though I were some cheap little office girl who might like it, you mean?'

  'I've said I'm sorry,' he exclaimed angrily.

  'I accept that. And now—forget it.' Caroline gave a slight shrug as though the whole incident were too distasteful to discuss further.

  He turned and went back to his desk without a word, and she thought, with a strange pain at her

  heart, that she had never before seen him robbed of his self-assurance.

  When she went back to her own office Dinah was typing with her usual speed and gusto. But she stopped at once and remarked, 'You've been a long time. Were you discussing the Carruthers business?'

  Caroline shook her head and said, unblush-ingly, that they had been discussing office matters.

  *And he didn't tell you about his engagement?' Dinah was obviously a little disappointed.

  'Of course not, Dinah! His private affairs are no concern of mine.'

  'Strictly speaking, no. But then you're good friends outside the office, aren't you? You can't go to all those performances together and not be on friendly out-of-office terms. So it wouldn't be unusual if he told you about anything as important as an engagement.' Caroline said nothing and Dinah went on, 'Perhaps he'll tell you this evening. You're going to the opera tonight, aren't you?'

  'Tonight?' Caroline sounded dismayed. 'I'd forgotten.'

  'You'd forgotten that you're going to "Eugene Onegin", with Nicholas Brenner singing Lensky? You don't deserve to have a free seat,' declared Dinah. 'Unless—oh, I suppose you're getting jumpy about the Carruthers Contest,' she added indulgently. 'Don't worry so much, Caroline. From all accounts you'll make a good showing, and no one is expecting you to carry off the top prize.'

  '/ am expecting myself to carry off the top

  prize,' replied Caroline huskily. 'And what do you mean when you say "from all accounts" I'll make a good showing? From whose account, for goodness' sake?'

  'Well, from Mr Marshall's account, to tell the truth,' Dinah admitted. 'He heard you the other evening, didn't he? He was telling me about it yesterday, and he said you were quite wonderful—that you actually brought a lump into his experienced throat. He was laughing, of course, but I think he half meant it.'

  'He likes to throw off remarks like that,' Caroline said curtly. 'They don't mean anything.'

  'Why, Caroline, I don't know what's got into you this morning!' Dinah was genuinely astonished. 'You've certainly got your knife into poor old K.M.' And she turned back to her work with a dismissive shrug.

  By the time Caroline met him that evening in the vestibule at Covent Garden she had determined that they must return to some sort of normal relationship. So she greeted him with a smile and said, 'Let me start by apologising for being so silly and unreasonable this morning— and then forget it, if you will.'

  He looked immensely relieved and replied, 'My opening exactly, if you hadn't got in first. It wasn't the best morning for either of us, was it?'

  She shook her head, and he went on, 'As for my—gaffe in trying to play generous patron without consulting you, I hope you will acquit me of any unworthy motives.'

  He said that half laughingly, but his eyes were serious. And when she replied, 'Forget it—^forget

  it/ he was not to know that it was pain and not impatience which sharpened her voice.

  In other circumstances he might have referred again to the impression her voice had made on him in Warrender's studio, but possibly he felt that would take them a little too near to the root cause of their difference that morning. At any rate, he made no further comment about her voice or his reaction to it.

  Instead, it was she who floated a provocative opening in the first interval, by saying casually, *I expect you know that Jeremy is going back to Germany almost immediately on a renewed contract.'

  *Yes, of course. I'm glad for him. He's a nice chap and a gifted one. If he works hard and has a bit of luck he should make the grade all right. I suppose he's feeling pretty good at the moment?'

  *Oh, he is. Even though,' she added deliberately, 'Lucille Duparc has given him the brush-off.'

  'It was inevitable,' he said, almost without interest. 'Lucille is not the woman to complicate her life and career with a struggling young tenor.'

  'You mean,' Caroline spoke coolly, 'that she was after bigger fish?'

  'Oh, definitely,' he said, laughed. But before she could react to that he said, 'Excuse me— there's Farraday. I want a word with him.' And he left her, sitting there feeling comfortless and troubled.

  Pres
ently, however, one of her fellow students from the Opera Studio joined her, bringing with her an evening paper containing a short article on the Camithers Contest. It contained also a list of

  the judges, and on this Caroline fastened with painful eagerness.

  'Keep Ae paper/ said her friend generously. *It's of more interest to you than to me, though we'll all be wishing you luck, of course.'

  *Thank you,' said Caroline and, glancing down at the article, she saw that Enid Mountjoy was among the judges.

  When Ken returned she had time to show him the article before the orchestra started coming back, and he said immediately, *Enid Mountjoy, I see. Good! She has our set of values. Hm—hm— Anthony Graveney—^marvellous instrumentalist but knows little about singing. Very prestigious in his own field, of course. I suppose that's why they invited him.'

  'And the others?' Caroline's voice was anxious.

  He ran his finger down the list, commenting. 'That one represents money, of course, and fancies himself as a patron of the arts—oh, dear! we could have done without her. But let's hope someone intelligent like Enid sways her vote. Those three are quite good judges in a cautious way. As for the others—a pretty routine lot, Caroline. If Enid does her stuff and is sweetly authoritiative we should gather in some of the floating voters. A lot depends on her.'

  During the second act Caroline strove to concentrate on the performance and forget the newspaper article. This became instantly much easier when Nicholas Brenner was on the stage; and when, as the ardent but doomed Lensky, he sang his lovely farewell to life, it was quite impossible to think about the Carruthers Contest or anything else.

  *It's all SO Russian,^ commented someone sitting behind Caroline. 'Why on earth couldn't they have got together and had a little plain speaking? It would have saved such a lot of trouble.'

  'But lost us some superb music/ countered her annoyed escort very truly. Caroline found herself exchanging a smile with Ken, and for a moment it was as though their previous happy relationship were restored.

  She would not, however, allow him to escort her home. By good fortvme she ran into her friend from the Opera Studio again and, knowing she lived in much the same direction as herself, Caroline insisted on joining her.

  It seemed that everyone in the next few weeks spoke of little but the Carruthers Contest. Newspaper comment was continual, fellow students were loud in their generous good wishes. Aunt Hilda said it upset her nerves just to think of it, and Jeremy took himself off to Germany, his hopes for his own affairs high and his advice to his cousin both affectionate and cautious.

  'I should hate you to be cruelly disappointed,' he said sincerely. 'Even to make the semi-finals would be fine for anyone at your stage of

  development ' he had somehow not been able

  to make time to hear her or assess any progress she had made'—so be happy, Carrie dear, if you get a certificate of merit.'

  Caroline said she would, though she had no intention whatever of being satisfied with any old certificate of merit.

  As is usual in many contests, the competitors were divided into groups of six, and the winners

  of each group went on to compete with each other. From these, the twelve best would then progress to the semi-finals, where six would be weeded out. The remaining six then went forward to the finals.

  Unexpectedly, Caroline found herself petrified with fright at the very first *heat', and was genuinely surprised when she was unhesitatingly chosen as the winner of her group.

  *I thought I should die,' she told Aunt Hilda, who replied,

  *I thought I should too, sitting here alone at home, wondering what was happening. Thank goodness this early trial wasn't televised. I'm glad you won, dear, but I don't know what I'm going to do if you go on to further stages.'

  *I don't know what I'm going to do if I don'tV replied Caroline, with a laugh.

  *Well, don't be too self-confident,' said Aunt Hilda. 'And you might just go and turn out the oven. I think I smell something burning.'

  It was not until the next round—what might be called the quarter finals—that it was obvious how stiff the competition was going to be. At this point the judging was taken over by the distinguished panel who would continue to the end. This was therefore the first time Caroline saw Enid Mountjoy, and immediately her hopes rose.

  Not by the slightest sign, of course, did the distinguished elderly lady at the end of the row indicate any sort of preference. But, by that indefinable, almost psychic wave which can pass between two people, Caroline knew she had made her mark.

  At the end she found herself among the twelve

  who were to go forward to the semi-finals. She also found herself for the first time in her life being interviewed by an enthusiastic journalist who said emphatically, * You're a winner!'

  She felt splendid, until she overheard him saying the same thing to another competitor, so that when she came to be photographed she was looking very solemn indeed.

  *It doesn't flatter you,' Aimt Hilda said disparagingly as she regarded the rather smudgy result. 'Remember to smile if you get as far as being televised.'

  Caroline, who felt she would never smile again, had no further comment to make.

  There was a gap of a week before the semifinals, during which Caroline—and presumably the other contestants too—went through a veritable hell of conflicting hopes and fears.

  'There's no need to panic at this stage,' Oscar Warrender told her in a disagreeable but oddly bracing way. 'People who succumb to nerves on the third rung of the ladder seldom reach the top—which is where your talents should take you eventually, even if you win nothing in this wretched contest.'

  'I can't bear it if I win nothing,' cried Caroline.

  'You may have no choice,' was the chilling reply. 'In our profession we have to learn to bear a lot of things. Endurance is an essential part of becoming an artist. Remember that.'

  'I'll try, I'll try,' Caroline promised. 'And I think Enid Mountjoy is in my favour.'

  'What makes you think that?' enquired Warrender with interest.

  'Something—indefinable,' Caroline admitted.

  *She didn't smile—at least no more than politely, as she did to all of us. But there's something about her sheer presence which reassures me.'

  *Then sing specially for her,' Warrender said not unkindly.

  So during the semi-finals Caroline sang specially for Enid Mountjoy. And at the end she dazedly heard her name among the six chosen to go forward to the finals, which were to take place in public before a large audience, with full TV coverage.

  'Now I shall have to watch,' lamented Aimt Hilda. *I don't know how I can!'

  Caroline suggested that it was more harrowing for the contestants, but Aunt Hilda would not have that.

  'Oh, I don't know. At least all six of you will get something for your ordeal, I suppose.'

  'A copper bowl and a certificate,' said Caroline crossly and ungratefully, but Aunt Hilda said how nice a copper bowl would look on the sideboard.

  The finals were to take place on Friday, in the splendid hall of St Cecilia's Music College, famous for its superb acoustics and the fact that it could seat over a thousand people. Then on Wednesday the most extraordinary thing happened. Aimt Hilda presented Caroline with a hundred pounds and told her to go and buy a pretty dress for the occasion.

  'Aimt Hilda!' Caroline was touched almost to tears. 'You darlingl You shouldn't have—^but oh, I'm so glad that you did! I didn't really want to wear my old white one.'

  'Certainly not! White looks wishy-washy on

  the screen. I couldn't have that. I waited to see if your mysterious patron was going to provide you with a dress for the occasion, but it appears not.'

  'Oh, he couldn't, you know!'

  ^He?' Aunt Hilda looked outraged. *You always said it was a she. Do you mean you've been taking money from some strange man all this time?'

  *No, no! Not exactly that.'

  *How old is he?' asked Aimt Hilda in
exorably.

  And Caroline, crossing her fingers and hoping the Recording Angel was looking the other way, said he was seventy-two,

  'Oh, well ' Aunt Hilda was mollified and

  the moment of crisis passed. But it seemed that the Recording Angel had not been looking the other way, because retribution followed as swift as thought.

  'Here's a bit more about the contest,' observed Aimt Hilda, glancing at the evening paper which had just arrived. 'There's a change in the panel of judges. One of them is ill and has to be replaced.'

  'Which one?' Caroline almost snatched the paper, and then gave a gasp of dismay. 'It's Enid Mountjoy.—Oh, it can't be! She—she won't be there. Oh, what shall I do?'

  'Don't be silly.' Her aunt took back the paper into her own keeping. 'It will be someone else just as good. It says so here. "She will be replaced by a judge of equal distinction".'

  'It's not the same thing!' Caroline's voice registered complete tragedy, and suddenly she did something she would never have contemplated in any other circumstances. She went to the telephone and dialled the Warrenders' number.

  It was the housekeeper who answered and she said, 'They're both out, Miss Caroline. They won't be home until late.'

  *Thank you.' Slowly Caroline replaced the receiver. Then after a pause she picked it up again even more slowly and dialled another number. Almost immediately Kennedy Marshall's voice replied.

  *Ken! It's Caroline. Have you seen the evening paper?'

  'Yes. But I knew about Enid Moimtjoy's illness earlier in the day. Don't worry too much, Caroline. They're boimd to get someone very '

  'But she is the one I was counting on. She liked me—I know she did. She gave me confidence in a way I can't describe. It may sound silly, but I felt we—^understood each other. You need someone like that when your courage is slipping.'

  He made no reply to that, and after a moment, she asked, 'How did you know earlier in the day?'

  'They applied to me—I suppose they tried other agents too—to see if I could suggest anyone on my books.'