Time Will Tell

by Donald Greig

  When the piece came to an end, Emma spoke first, pre-empting any discussion.

  ‘Right. Well, that was a waste of everyone’s time. We’ll now start from the top and I’ll have to ask the basses whether this time they’re going to take it seriously or not. If not, you can leave now; it’s your choice.’

  She hadn’t meant to make the threat so clear, but when she turned to look at them both were staring at her, a challenge enough in itself, made worse by their satisfied smirking. She would meet their immature challenge. Whatever the validity of their arguments – and she could see precious little – over the years she had always treated them with respect and now they were showing her none. If they walked out she really didn’t know what she would do. That, though, lay in the future and for now she awaited an answer.

  Neither Allie nor Ollie had expected a showdown. To them it was a game, one that they could stop at any time. As they saw it, Emma had overreacted, leaving them no way out. A private apology, such as Allie had made to Susan, was one thing: to do so publicly was humiliation.

  It was Ollie who responded first. He reached slowly into the back pocket of his jeans and drew something out. He placed an object on the back of his thumb and then flicked his thumb upwards. Nine pairs of eyes followed a coin as it spun upwards in an arc, hung in the air and then tumbled over itself, landing in his outstretched palm. He slapped it onto the back of his other hand and showed it to Allie, who nodded at Ollie.

  ‘Yes. We’ll sing it again,’ said Ollie, and they picked up their copies and readied themselves.

  The rest of the rehearsal was awkwardly tense. No one risked trying to lighten the mood with a quip, no one smiled. Emma felt suddenly weary and sad, weighed down by the responsibilities of musical and social leadership. The looks between the singers, the basis of the group’s immaculate ensemble, were absent, heads awkwardly buried in copies. She knew that the others weren’t angry with her; indeed, she believed she had spoken for them all, and was confident that she had made her stand on the unchallengeable grounds of professionalism. From the basses there was no visual communication at all, the leads she gave to them seemingly ignored, though she knew they were following her beat.

  She made her move as soon as the rehearsal was over.

  ‘I’d like to talk to both of you,’ she said to Allie and Ollie before they had a chance to speak. ‘Now, if you’re free. Can we meet in the Star and Garter?’ They nodded and she told them she’d join them in the pub soon. She wanted to give them time to talk to each other, to work out how – or if – they would climb down.

  The rest of the group realised what was happening and passed no comment as they gathered their things together, instead talking about the next trip, and organising the sharing of lifts to the airport. Eventually Emma was left on her own and she sat down to give herself a moment to think. She liked both Allie and Ollie, valued their talents, their uncanny partnership; she didn’t want to lose either of them. Ollie had been there right from the start and, although occasionally immature, he had proved a loyal and protective colleague. She realised that she felt particularly close to him; they were friends, she the woman in whom he would occasionally confide, he a vulnerable, sensitive man compromised by a sense of grievance that even he didn’t fully understand. Like Ollie, Allie could be touchy and she didn’t underestimate their fierce pride; she knew that self-justification might well already have cast her confrontation as an act of betrayal. The very real possibility existed that both might resign from the group and next week’s concert for which they were rehearsing would have to be cancelled. Yet it was also obvious that she couldn’t allow them to run the show, and that she would have to obtain from them assurances as to their attitude towards her and her authority.

  She walked into the dimly lit pub and saw the two of them sitting at the back, halfway through their first pint. She delayed the showdown a moment longer by offering them a drink and insisting that she bought her own; she had no desire to be left at the table making small-talk with one of them while the other was up at the bar. As she sat down on the high-backed bench, they pulled their bar stools closer to the table; she sensed that they wanted her to talk first but, with no sign of an imminent apology, she launched into her speech: their actions were childish and disruptive at best, unprofessional at worst; they sought to undermine not only her, but the identity and ideology of the group, the very things which had made it a success; on a personal level, they had also upset their colleagues; it was not up to them to determine how rehearsals were run. This meant the decision they had to make was simple: they could either surrender themselves to the requirements of working as part of the group, or leave.

  Only then did she let them know how important they were to her and the group. Having slapped their wrists, she could then speak from the heart, tell them how much she valued their abilities and their input, their company and their musical instincts, their camaraderie and concern for others – all the things, in fact, that had been missing that day.

  Ollie and Allie sat in neutral silence throughout, occasionally sipping on their beer, looking her in the eye or contemplatively over her shoulder with no sign of shame or any indication of what they were thinking. When she’d finished, she sat back to let them speak. Neither said anything. Allie turned to Ollie, and Ollie met his colleague’s gaze. Some exchange occurred, perhaps a faint smile or a flicker of the eyes, Emma couldn’t be sure, and then Allie reached into his back pocket. He withdrew a coin, placed it carefully on his bent thumb, and tossed it into the air. Catching it in his palm, he held it out to Ollie who, with exaggerated slowness, appropriately matched by the low-pitch of his speaking voice, said ‘Okay.’

  Emma had no time to consider the consequences of her response, and only later would she realise just how beautifully poised the moment was. All she experienced at first was a lurch in her stomach as her challenge was met; the coin toss was either an instance of confrontational immaturity or an ironic commentary on earlier events: only her reaction would determine which. Perhaps it was the hint of a smile on Allie’s face, or the gentle way Ollie had spoken and the slight suggestion of childlike remorse. Perhaps it was the studied seriousness with which Ollie placed the coin in front of her, a breviloquent memento of the day’s events, or maybe just half a glass of chardonnay and a release of tension. Whatever it was, Emma understood that Allie and Ollie were admitting that she deserved an apology. By the time she could speak again, her stomach hurt from laughing and the tears were drying on her face. Recovering her poise for a moment, she was set off again by the sight of Allie silently wheezing, his face locked in an expression of pain, and Ollie lying on the floor where he had fallen from his stool.

  From that day on, the basses turned from sceptical followers to committed disciples, defending Emma’s vision of concert-as-theatre against singers like themselves who would have preferred the easier option of merely reproducing of the notes on the page. Allie, in particular, championed her cause, on one occasion savagely taking to task an arrogant young tenor who had railed against the difficulties of memorising music and movement, even questioning Emma’s credentials as a conductor. Ollie, too, demonstrated his commitment to Emma, though more overtly: he and she had become lovers.

  In the pub, once they’d recovered from their fits of laughter, Emma bought a round of drinks and the three of them stood and clinked glasses. The next round they did the same, and then Allie, on Emma’s instructions, ordered food for them. It was a pub curry with raisins and coconut scattered on the top like a school-dinner garnish, and Emma ate hardly any. The rest of the evening was a blur, but she had apparently berated the barman for not having any jellied eels. She wasn’t even sure what a jellied eel was.

  They were the last to leave the pub, and Emma was incapable of getting herself home. Allie and Ollie agreed that they should get her a taxi, and then Allie suggested that Ollie should accompany her and put her to bed. Embarrassed that by now Emma had attached herself to him, and concerned for her safety,
Ollie flagged down a black cab.

  On the way back to Emma’s flat in Balham, she tried to kiss him several times. Flattered as he was, a relationship with Emma hadn’t really occurred to him before – and not just because, she being his employer, it represented a rather risky career move. He behaved like the perfect gentleman. In the kitchen he insisted that she drink water to prevent a hangover. She hit him, before sulkily obeying his advice. Then she threw up. She made it to the bathroom in time and was sober enough by then to want her privacy, but, later, after vomiting again, she’d asked Ollie to put her to bed. He took off her dress and put her under her duvet.

  He woke quite early the next morning after about four hours’ sleep during which the image of Emma in her underwear had flickered through his dreams. He had no hangover, possibly because he was still drunk, and he sat drinking tea until Emma staggered out of bed two hours later. Something rolled beneath his sternum as he heard her stepping uncertainly towards the kitchen. She was dressed in an oversize towelling gown, her hair uncombed, her skin horribly pale, her eyes dark. For all of her unkempt state, or perhaps because of it, she looked gorgeous.

  Over coffee they pieced together the previous night’s events, small details of which made her groan. When Ollie told her about her advances towards him she didn’t so much blush as simply become less pale. They looked across the table at each other. Something had changed. Whatever their relationship had been, today it was different. Though they hadn’t as yet even kissed, they now shared a new wordless intimacy.

  They spent the rest of the day together. A trip to the supermarket to buy milk turned into a walk in the park, which turned into a fry-up at a café to help the hangover. In the afternoon they dozed together on the sofa and then, without saying anything, moved to the bedroom. They fell asleep after they made love and woke to find the day darkening. Over dinner in a small Portuguese restaurant, Emma determinedly drank mineral water.

  Later, in bed, drifting off to sleep, Ollie kissed the back of her neck, and a buried sense of the person she reminded him of surfaced.

  ‘You look like Audrey Hepurn.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ asked Emma.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Memoirs of Geoffroy Chiron: Livre III ed. Francis Porter

  Frevier 22, 1524

  As a young man I wanted to compose music but, sadly, I was not blessed with such gifts; in the city where France’s greatest composer lived, I contented myself with a life as a singer and an administrator. What training in the musical arts I received was taken at the feet of the great Johannes Ockeghem and not at the university. I am a maître, but a maître in civil law, which befits my role as chambrier and procurator and, although I received payment throughout my life as a chapelain and understand fully the teachings of Boethius and Guido, I am not a musicus even though Jehan kindly introduced me as such to visiting dignitaries.

  Jehan believed strongly in the congregation of musicians. Unlike the silversmiths and other artisans, they had no guild through which they could serve an apprenticeship and receive training at the feet of other musici. There were limited opportunities for the great composers to discuss their art. Jehan himself was indebted to the composer Binchois whom he commemorated in his fine motet [Mort tu as navré de ton dart] and it was a debt he intended to repay by offering advice and guidance to anyone who sought it. Composers, he said, were like seeds that were blown by the winds across borders. Communication between them was thus often more by musical than verbal means, scattered as they were across many lands. When one composer used another’s chanson as the basis for a new composition, it was like a conversation they could not otherwise conduct given the distance that separated them.

  And thus, despite his dislike of travel, Jehan would often visit other towns and cities when singers and composers were gathered together in one place as part of the retinue of dukes and kings, or when a particular choirmaster or composer organised a celebration or commemoration. Many stories were told of these gatherings, most of them, according to Jehan, with only some basis in fact, exaggerated by the course of time and countless re-telling. He attended such meetings not only to offer his services to the younger composers, but also to make the acquaintance of the talent that our country nurtured, so that France’s chapels might be filled with the finest musicians. And when he couldn’t – as was the case when he was detained by a dispute with the widow, Jourdain, and prevented from travelling to Cambrai for the convention of the French Court Chapel, the choir of Cambrai Cathedral, and the Burgundian court chapel [1468], he was greatly sad. He was not the only one: drunk at one of the several parties, Guillaume Dufay, the composer who had done more for Cambrai’s musical reputation than any other, announced that they should repeat the exercise, ‘but this time with my friend Ockeghem’.

  When Dufay wanted something done, there were plenty of people willing to realise his wishes. Jean Hémart, the newly-appointed master of the choirboys at Cambrai Cathedral (an ambitious young man) organised the event himself and so, two years later, the finest singers and composers in Christendom, including Jehan, gathered in Cambrai. Many had brought new chansons, some had simply brought local wine, and, over three days, old friendships were renewed and new acquaintances were made. The singing was of the highest standard and it afforded them all the opportunity for many serious (and not-so-serious) discussions about music.

  The main event of this later gathering was the first performance of Compère’s motet written in honour of the Virgin, the patron saint of singers [Omnium bonorum plena – 1470]. Its text featured the names of those who formed the choir. Top of the list was, of course, Dufay and, standing by his side, was Jehan, his good colleague, whom Dufay respected deeply and to whom he owed a debt of thanks (and not just for putting him to bed once). Then followed Antoine Busnois, the former master of the choirboys at St Martin, renowned in France and Burgundy, another of Jehan’s loyal friends. Also present were Jehan du Sart, Firminus Caron, Georget de Brelles, Johannes Tinctoris, Josquin Desprez, Jean Courbet, Guillaume Faugues, Jean Molinet, and Hémart himself.

  The rehearsal time was, as ever, too short and, though they all could read the manuscript and give a convincing version of it at sight, Jehan was of the opinion that the piece would have sounded much better had not so many of them been drunk the night before. A festive dinner followed the commemorative service and passed in suitably sober fashion, but afterwards it was to Dufay’s own house that everyone retired for the party, which eclipsed all others before and since. Dufay, as Jehan put it, owed a debt to Orpheus but paid it to Bacchus, and thus, as at any celebration at the maître’s house, the wine flowed freely. There are many stories about Dufay and, though I cannot swear to the veracity of them, it is surely no coincidence that all of them feature wine in one way or another. (Jehan once pointed me towards the lines of a beautiful chanson by the Cambrai composer, Adieu ces bons vins de Lannoys, which spoke of his regret at leaving behind the wine, women and people of his country. ‘Take note of the order,’ said Jehan with a smile, ‘and remember that in a rondeau the refrain is sung thrice.’)

  Compère’s motet had been warmly received by all present, praised by Dufay and Jehan, enjoyed by the singers and composers named therein. And, of course, it was the talk of the party. Dufay insisted that they sing it again and he sent Hémart to get the copy. Jehan, however, who knew Dufay better than Dufay knew himself, was convinced that the idea would soon be forgotten and told Hémart not to bother: walk a little way and then return, he told him. Jehan believed that sacred music should properly only be sung in church and not at a drunken party. More than this, he understood that the solemnity of the music would disturb the mood of celebration. Indeed, the party was noisy enough already. The neighbours complained about the shouting and singing, and some singers played haut instruments so loudly that someone commented that the noise would be heard as far away as Metz.

  Johannes Tinctoris, usually a rather staid man given more to criticism than encouragement, had, it was reported,
been particularly drunk. Afterwards it was rumoured that a high-ranking cleric (which everyone took to mean Dufay himself) had assured the young man that the strong taste of the local beer was the effect not of alcohol, but of medicinal herbs that were ‘good for the digestion’. Whether born of inspiration or inebriation, Tinctoris locked all the doors and demonstrated a theory of mensural proportion by dancing, his right foot hitting the ground nine times whilst his left foot struck eight times.

  The party was significant in one other respect: it was the first meeting between Jehan and Desprez. I say the first meeting between them for I am aware, nearly thirty years after Jehan’s death, that a modern chronicler, wishing to add further to Desprez’s reputation, might prefer to suggest that this was the first time that Ockeghem met Josquin (as the latter is familiarly called today). I consider that it was the day on which Desprez was fortunate enough first to make the acquaintance of the maître of Tours: Johannes Ockeghem. Time is the ultimate judge and I hope that in another thirty years the importance of Ockeghem to his pupils will be fully appreciated. What is certain is that this was the first time the two spoke to each other and not, as Desprez would have it, the earlier meeting in Cambrai when Jehan was absent. (I suspect that Desprez preferred his version, for it in no way referenced Compère and his motet.)