Singing the Sadness

by Reginald Hill

  ‘No. Any more than my friends at the Goat and Axle thought last night when they made those assumptions about you. Which, like I said, is one reason I have for approaching you now, to apologize on their behalf. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Joe, glad to be back on firm ground. ‘Look, they’ll be starting the “sets” soon, I don’t want to miss my lot. Or the others for that matter. I’m looking forward to hearing if this Welsh singing’s all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be disappointed, though it may not show in the “sets”,’ said Matthias. ‘It’s the feeling rather than the technicalities where we shine, Mr Sixsmith. And certain kinds of feeling too.’

  ‘Nationalistic, you mean?’ said Joe challengingly.

  ‘Oh yes. That. But I was thinking of things more properly Celtic, more to do with loss than triumph. That word Simon Sillcroft wrote, poor boy. Sadness. As a people we know a deal about sadness in all its many and sometimes horrifying forms. All kinds of ways to deal with such knowledge. Drink your way out of it, if that’s your fancy. Try to spend your way out of it, if you have the money. Politicize your way out of it, maybe, if you have the vote. We realized a long time ago there’s no real way out of it, so we sing it. I don’t mean sing our way out of it, more sing our way into it so we can make something different of it. Singing the sadness, that’s what most of our music is about.’

  ‘Singing the sadness,’ echoed Joe. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Not mine,’ smiled Matthias. ‘It’s the title of one of the poems the Reverend Davies won his bardic crown for.’

  ‘Thought it was called The Third Door,’ said Joe.

  ‘How clever of you to know that. But of course you’d have met him at dinner last night.’

  And how clever of you to know that, thought Joe.

  ‘Yeah, we met.’

  ‘And you thought he was a bit of a blow bag? Well, so he is. But he’s a poet too, and a very good one.’

  So this at least was one thing that Matthias and the High Master had in common. Joe, who’d never been in company before where being a poet excited anything but demands for a good mucky limerick, was curious to know why the Welsh placed so high a value on the talent.

  ‘So what’s this poem about, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose it’s about us, the Welsh, our origins, our soul,’ said Matthias seriously.

  That was one thing Joe had noticed about the Welsh which he liked. They could talk about themselves seriously without embarrassment, whereas back home in Luton, this seemed impossible without frequent apology or self-putting-down joke.

  Matthias continued, ‘The whole sequence was called The Third Door in reference to a story in The Mabinogion, that’s a collection of our folk tales. I won’t bore you with details, but seven heroes bearing the head of King Bran to London spend eighty years in an enchanted hall at Gwales in Pembrokeshire where they experience unalloyed happiness with no memory whatsoever of all the sorrows they have seen and suffered. There are three doors in the hall, one of which they are forbidden to open. Of course, one of them finally opens it and the moment he does so, every pain and distress they have ever suffered, all the loved ones they have lost, all the sadness which is at the heart of life in the real world, comes rushing back into their souls and minds, and they have to continue the quest. Sorry. I’m letting myself get carried away.’

  ‘No problem, man,’ said Joe, genuinely interested. ‘I loved stories like that when I was a kid. Still do. And this Singing the Sadness was part of this long poem about the third door. Nice title.’

  ‘Indeed. Sounds even better in the original. Pity you don’t speak any Welsh, Mr Sixsmith. A man who speaks from his heart like you needs a truly poetic language to speak in.’

  ‘Man like me is more interested in putting things right than making them sound pretty,’ said Joe, with a force that surprised himself.

  ‘Well, you did insist last night you were English,’ said Matthias, rising. ‘But don’t mistake me. Singing the Sadness doesn’t make us feel the pain any the less. Keeps it in our hearts, see, so that when the time comes for retribution, that comes out fiery hot too. We’ll talk again, I’m sure.’

  He offered his hand.

  Joe took it. No logic, but it didn’t feel like he was shaking the hand of a child molester.

  Chapter 12

  Outside the refreshment tent, the sun still shone as bright and the air was still as balmy, but Joe felt like there was some kind of web over the sun, casting a shadow across his mind.

  Why the shoot had he got mixed up with any of this? It was all down to Merv. If the big man had had a decent bus or even a decent map, they’d have got to their destination a lot earlier and instead of going around feeling low with his vocal cords filed rough by smoke, he’d have been looking forward to singing his first notes in the competition.

  And the woman in Copa Cottage would be a pile of ashes.

  ‘So you managed to get here. Good of you to make the effort.’

  It was Beryl’s voice. He turned to see her standing behind him, the look on her face matching the mild sarcasm of her tone. But her expression softened before the unrestrained warmth of Joe’s welcoming smile.

  ‘Beryl, great to see you. How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m OK. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ he said. ‘Seems ages. I got a lot to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah, thought you might have. Saw you going through the village last evening, being driven by your personal masseuse.’

  ‘She was taking me to dinner at the Lewises, I told you about that.’

  ‘I know. Lives next to the school. You taking the short cut, were you?’

  No mistaking. She was pissed off about something. But she’d come to his room that morning, left a note on the mirror.

  ‘We’d been out to this pub for a drink. Not us, I don’t mean. Me and her father. He wanted me to meet some people.’

  ‘One of the family, feet under the table already, Joe. You’re a fast worker.’

  ‘I wish. No, sorry, I don’t mean I wish … what I meant was, she’s a kid. Dropped me at the Lady House, ain’t seen her since.’

  Not strictly true. A picture of Bron with the old dressing gown flapping loose around her shapely body flashed across his mind and he blinked hard, as if the image might somehow show through his eyes.

  ‘No. You wearing that shirt last night?’

  Joe looked down at his black short-sleeved polo. He’d chosen the colour because it was supposed to be slimming. After the full Welsh breakfast, there were definite signs of strain around the belly.

  ‘No. Fresh on this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Which means these are fresh on this morning too, unless the great detective’s got some other explanation.’

  She reached over his shoulder and plucked three or four long strands of hair from his back.

  So this is what had caused the big freeze as she came up behind him.

  He said, ‘Hey, look, I got a lift here, no, not with Bron, with Wain Lewis, the High Master’s kid. Must’ve picked them up from the seat of his car.’

  Into which he’d been crushed so tight, it was a wonder he didn’t have the maker’s name stamped on his back.

  She was still regarding him doubtfully so he offered what felt like a clincher.

  ‘Anyway, they ain’t Bron’s. She’s blonde, these are bright ginger.’

  ‘Oh yes? Maybe this is the colour she was before she got at the bleach.’

  ‘Oh no. She’s …’

  He was going to say genuine blonde, only for once his mind jumped ahead to the next hurdle, which was explaining how he knew.

  Time to fall off and hope that Beryl’s vocational instinct would take over.

  He put his hand to his back and winced.

  It worked, if not quite the way he’d intended.

  Beryl laughed out loud and said, ‘Joe, you’re the easiest man to wind up, and the worst actor I ev
er met.’

  ‘Mean you’re not really jealous?’

  ‘Do I look green-eyed?’ she said, bringing her big brown eyes close to his.

  He felt a small pang of disappointment that he hadn’t caused her to feel jealous, but it was quickly swallowed by the big wave of pleasure at being back in her good books and at such close quarters too.

  ‘No. Just great, like always.’

  She stepped back from him and said, ‘You can get that look off your face, though. These are decent God-loving people and they won’t take kindly to public displays of unbridled passion.’

  ‘OK, bridle’s back on, but I can’t promise to keep it there. What time do you reckon you’ll be finished here?’

  ‘Well, we’re on second for the first “set”, but then they reverse the order for the second, so I can’t see us being done till three at the earliest.’

  ‘Meet you in the refreshment tent at half past,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can take that walk we talked about.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But you’re staying to listen to us, aren’t you?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep me away,’ he assured her. ‘You see a good-looking black guy being thrown out for applauding too loud, that’ll be me.’

  She gave him a quick kiss then headed away towards the choir marshalling area.

  He watched her go then turned away and ran straight into Big Merv.

  ‘Been watching you,’ grinned the driver. ‘You’d better be careful. Back in Luton, you can’t go to jail for what you’re thinking, but out here it may be different.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Another thing. Ain’t never seen you look so attractive from behind before. Should take more care, Joe, going around tempting folk.’

  Was he going to go on about hairs on his shirt too? wondered Joe. But the big man reached round to his rear pocket and brought his hand back into sight clutching the bunch of banknotes Wain Lewis had given him.

  ‘Oh, shoot. Forgot about those. Got to give them back,’ said Joe.

  ‘Give them back? What’s that mean? You so rich you’re giving refunds?’

  ‘No, it’s complicated.’

  ‘I’m good at complicated,’ said Merv. ‘Also, as your partner, sort of, I got a right to know what you’re into that involves giving money back.’

  Joe regarded him doubtfully. The sort of partners they were had no sort of legal basis. It was like the sort of friends they were, outspokenly critical and unspokenly loyal. Merv felt Joe was an innocent abroad in the murky world of investigation, and Joe knew that letting Merv in on a case was like getting into his cab – unless you were very strong-willed or threatened him with a gun, you took his route with scant regard for speed limits or traffic restrictions.

  So back home, Joe treated Merv’s claims to a business relationship with great caution. Here in the wilds, however, it felt good to have a friend.

  He told Merv about his unexpected queue of clients.

  ‘Jeez!’ said the driver with admiration. ‘That’s like me taking three passengers to the airport in the same run and charging them all full whack. Where’s your problem?’

  ‘Called professional ethics,’ said Joe solemnly. ‘Can’t see no way of doing a proper job for one of them, let alone all three.’

  ‘Since when did you do no-result no-fee jobs, Joe? You say they all paid?’

  ‘Yeah. Cash from two, cheque from the lady.’

  ‘Then the only problem you got is getting the cheque cleared before she changes her mind. Hop in the bus and I’ll run you somewhere they got a bank.’

  ‘Thanks, Merv. You’re right about one thing. I could do with some wheels, but I’m not sure that battleship of yours is the best thing for cruising these so-called roads.’

  Which was both true and a polite way of saying he didn’t care to be at the mercy of either Merv’s driving or the unreliability of his coach.

  Plus the main reason he wanted transport wasn’t to get to a bank but to do enough poking around to justify hanging on to at least one of his advances. Merv’s coach was about as anonymous as a chariot of fire in a WI car park.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Merv. ‘But no sweat. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Hi there, Nye, my man, you so sure of losing, you’ve come to pay my winnings in advance?’

  The greeting was aimed at Nye Garage who was getting out of his air-polluting van a few yards away.

  He looked blankly at Merv, then nodded slowly and said, ‘A joke, is it? I like a laugh.’

  Merv winked at Joe and said, ‘You remember Nye who came galloping to our aid day before yesterday.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe. ‘Nice to meet you again, Nye.’

  The Welshman said, ‘And you. Heard what happened. You OK now?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Good. I’m pleased.’

  It wasn’t much but it came across more sincere than a much more fulsome congratulation.

  Merv, very sensitive to atmosphere in a bargaining situation, said, ‘Yes, and Joe’s being very brave about it, but as he can’t sing on account of he now sounds even more like a dying frog, he’d like to see a bit more of your lovely countryside. Walking’s a bit hard, with his injuries and all, so he needs some wheels and it strikes me a man in your line of business might know where he could borrow a car.’

  ‘Hire,’ said Joe firmly. He had more scruples than Merv about turning the compassion screw. Also it would be a legitimate expense for one of his clients.

  ‘Easy sorted,’ said Nye.

  He got back into the van, a process rather like sliding a substantial piece into a three-dimensional puzzle, and pressed buttons on his car phone. Merv gave Joe a wink and a thumbs-up. Joe, embarrassed, looked the other way.

  ‘All fixed,’ said Nye after a brief conversation in Welsh. ‘My boy will bring it over.’

  ‘Great. Settle up then, right?’

  Nye nodded.

  ‘See the goods first, then pay, always the best policy. Looks like they’re getting the show on the road. Only half an hour late. Not bad.’

  Joe followed his gaze. The festival site consisted of several fields, with car-parking nearest the road, then the commercial tents, next the administration tents, and finally, furthest from the road and its threat of noise, the competition area proper. This was a rising meadow at the foot of a small hill. At its lower end under a high canvas awning, a platform had been raised about five feet off the ground on a framework of scaffolding, which was concealed at the front by a row of large earthenware tubs crammed with spring shrubs and flowers. Behind, a backcloth was provided by a small copse of new-budding trees. In the bright morning sunlight, it was, thought Joe, as pretty as a picture. What it would be like if it rained didn’t bear thinking of.

  In front of the stage were two rows of moderately comfortable- looking chairs. Judges and VIPs, Joe guessed. Behind them, banked up by the rise of the hill, were a couple of dozen rows of backless wooden benches for the mob, with quite a lot of the mob already in position.

  As Joe and his two companions moved forward, a procession of men and women with the selfconsciously important look of those trying to look unselfconscious about their importance were ushered into the front rows of chairs by the Reverend David Davies. The noble grey head of Leon Lewis was not among them. Maybe he had better things to do. But there were some familiar faces, if not among the VIPs, certainly on the benches. Danny Edwards he spotted, and one or two more he was sure he’d seen in the Goat last night. He felt quite touched. They really loved their music, these Welsh. Even though these men were almost certainly allied with Glyn Matthias in the anti-festival faction, and some of them were probably actively involved in the niggling sabotage attempts which had taken place, this didn’t prevent them from coming along like Matthias himself to hear the singing.

  ‘Not going to sit down?’ Joe said to Nye Garage, who’d come to a halt at the entrance to the competition field.

  ‘No. Need to keep an eye open for my boy with your wheels,’ explain
ed the man. ‘Can hear just as well here, if they’re any good.’

  ‘Oh, these are good, believe me,’ said Merv.

  The first choir were mounting the platform. From the green feather they all wore at their breasts or in their buttonholes, Joe guessed this was the Donegal contingent, a judgement confirmed when Merv led the applause and pressed forward to get a better view.

  They quickly got under way. The first set piece was arranged to put each section of a choir on show in turn. The sopranos had a lovely tone. Joe tried to guess which one it was that had taken Merv’s fancy. One slim fresh-faced girl with an explosion of bright red hair came closest to the big man’s description, but when it came to objects of desire, Merv was a notoriously unreliable witness. But she was certainly very pretty. Good job Beryl wasn’t close to catch a hint of his admiration, Joe thought, else she might have started having serious suspicions about the origins of those ginger hairs on his shirt!

  The baritones were OK, but the tenors had problems. One guy with John McCormack pretensions towing along the rest. He glanced at Nye and caught the hint of a smile. Knows that Merv’s money’s safe in his pocket, thought Joe.

  The Irish finished. The applause was polite rather than overwhelming from the majority of the audience, but one pair of hands kept it going a good ten seconds after everyone else had stopped.

  It was, of course, Merv, who’d either forgotten the brother and the fiancé, or was trying to applaud up his investment.

  Nye, who’d turned his attention backwards to the car park, said, ‘Your transport’s here.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ said Joe, his eyes fixed forward. ‘This is my lot.’

  The Boyling Corner Chapel Choir were approaching the stage. They looked a little nervous, thought Joe. They’d sung before bigger audiences, but out of doors in a strange country was always going to be a test.

  He could see Mirabelle giving last-minute instructions. Word was that way back Rev. Pot had once tried to shut her up, but had rapidly realized that the old lady’s voice had become such a part of the pre-match build-up, the others lost their rhythm without it.

  Now they were off. He saw Beryl’s face, a mask of concentration as she watched the Rev.’s waving baton. His heart stirred but he wasn’t absolutely sure what the stirring signified. She was great, yeah, no problem with that. And he really enjoyed being with her. And as for desire, or lust, or whatever you liked to call it, oh yes, he felt the stirrings even now, just looking and thinking.